originally posted in my life journal
Yesterday Blake & I went shopping for Scherezade’s present at the local Chapters, which is inconveniently close to a big ol’ Wal-mart. The demise of the local Fabricland has meant that I don’t have a source for embroidery thread any more, and so every once in awhile I have to swallow my disgust and navigate the aisles of the W-m. Inevitably Blake is with me, and I have to remind him several times that he is not to enjoy his stay here. “We’re in the house of our enemy,” I admonish, “and if your mommy were not so lazy that she was willing to drive 25 minutes for 33 cent thread, we wouldn’t be here.”
We ended up by the yarn, and Blake tried to identify the products. “Cotton yarn.”
”No, sweetie, that’s acrylic. It’s like plastic, only flexible.” But he insisted, so I searched out the cotton to give him a real example. “This is cotton yarn.” It was worsted weight, Delft blue, the kind of yarn that the Boy bought before giving up on knitting. Blake carried it around while he explored, and refused to put it back when I was done.
”We should buy this yarn,” he said firmly.
”And what will you do with it?” I asked, half wondering what he would say and half trying to instil some sort of stash responsibility. He ducked the question, insisting again that we should buy it. “Well, it’s less than two bucks,” I said, weakening in the face of his yarny desire, “and we could buy it for your Daddy. He likes blue.”
”We can buy it for me,” Blake pronounced, and I was swept away in a tide of love. Somehow I have managed to raise a child who wants yarn for no good reason, wants it not for a project or a gift for another knitter, but just wants it for himself. It’s like an airborne virus, this stash desire. I couldn’t be more proud.
The contents of this site, unless
otherwise noted, are copyright Rocketbride 1997-2009.
Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*