Things My Mother Taught Me

It’s generally acknowledged that motherhood is a challenge. Not only are you tasked with the every day, keeping the house running smoothly tasks, you are expected to go above and beyond to teach your children essential life skills. If you are blessed with a large family, as Mom was, the challenge can be overwhelming and when a certain young daughter asks to learn how to knit, (technically a non essential life skill) it must be just about the last thing you want to do. But, after a bit of nagging on my part, and probably some serious soul searching on her part, Mom bravely gathered needles and wool and we leapt into the unknown.

A Stitch in Time

At the risk of sounding full of myself, I like to think that I am an awesome knitter….well, pretty good anyway….okay, competent at best. Actually my skill level doesn’t matter because I love to knit (socks and baby sweaters are my specialty). I find it soothing, at times challenging, and once a project is finished, very satisfying.

There is, however, a caveat. There have also been many frustrating episodes that have resulted in my abandoning a project or at least walking away for a while to regain my composure. In fact, my initial foray into this addictive world was not the most auspicious.

As a child, I didn’t realize that Mom could knit. She was always busy running a house hold full of noisy, rambunctious kids and a husband who liked things “just so.” When she unexpectedly revealed that she knew how to knit, I asked if she would teach me and to my surprise she agreed. The challenge of course was in finding the time, but one afternoon when the baby was sleeping and my other two siblings were getting into trouble somewhere in the neighborhood, we sat down to begin “the lesson.”

My recollection is somewhat vague but I certainly remember that it ultimately ended in frustration for both of us. It was grounded in the fact that Mom was right handed and I am left handed….not a great basis for learning such a complicated manual skill. Everything she showed me felt awkward and unwieldy. The needles were slippery, the stitches kept coming off and the wool was eventually all tangled up. Try as I might, it was hopeless and I remember a few tears falling. In the end, Mom gave up and decided that after such a disappointing experience, she needed a nap. I was left to my own devices.

I remember feeling abandoned and for a while, I wallowed in self pity (it’s one of my stronger skills) and vowed to never pick up a pair of needles again. Fortunately, with maturity comes wisdom and as a testament to my determined, focused personality, I decided many years later to revisit and conquer my knitting demons. The rest, as they say, is history.

To Everything There is a Season

Recently, my young grandson expressed an interest in learning to knit. As we sat down together, slowly working through the basics, memories of my traumatic childhood experience flooded back and I had an out of body experience….just kidding! But I certainly realize now how Mom must have felt. I was much too young to learn such a difficult skill and she was much too busy to spend time with a “dominant hand challenged” young girl. Given the circumstances, it’s to her credit that she even tried, and I love her for it.

There is a happy ending here. Not long before she passed, Mom mentioned that her feet were always cold at night, so I came to the rescue with a pair of my much coveted and world famous knitted socks. She was both surprised and grateful and I know she wore them to bed every night. We had come full circle.