I used to love to knit. My husband has always teased me about it, since I've been knitting since I was a teenager. I've always found it relaxing.
Then my baby girl arrived.
My latest project is a never ending stocking. Everyone in my family has the same knit stocking, and it seemed appropriate that little Icelynne should have the same one as well. With a know-it-all, can-do-everything attitude which I can't help but laugh at now, I decided last year that I would make her a stocking in time for Christmas. It didn't happen. Little did I know how much attention a newborn required.
Nearly one year later, I'm almost finished the stocking. There are a few holes from where a baby's cry distracted me and I dropped a stitch. The stitches are uneven from time spent knitting in the dark and constantly starting and stopping. My original thought was to use it this year and then redo the stocking, but now I'm growing attached.
I hope she uses it and loves it as a child as I did mine. But even more, I hope she cherishes it as an adult. I hope she sees the rough stitches and holes as evidence of the moments her mother tended to her. I hope she sees the flaws for what they are, the times I decided she was more important. I hope she learns to see the perfection in imperfection.