I picked this pattern in a previous life: way back when little man was in utero and my body measurements were in constant flux.
I figured if I finished the sweater quickly I could still wear it with a big belly. If it only got finished later, it would be breastfeeding friendly.
What they don’t tell you beforehand of course, is that babies -like cats- are born with tiny, razor-sharp claws and a penchant for scratching. and pulling. and biting. and general (discovery through) destruction.
I think this sweater will have to live in a closet for a while. At least until such time as my clothing has ceased to double as a plaything/napkin.
Pieced together with a cantaloupe-sized belly.
Sandwiched with a (very) ripe pumpkin gut.
And finally, machine quilted and hand bound with a deflated midsection (during a few moments of grandparents sponsored solitude).
Little man approves.
I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve come to a decidedly unfeminist conclusion:
Pregnancy makes you stupid.
Once your body starts the all-important, all-consuming, beautifully miraculous task of cooking up a human being, it figures you’ll have no more use for that brain of yours.
My math skills went early. By the end of the first trimester I had to pull out a calculator to subtract 2 from 39.5. I figured I could probably do it, but I just didn’t trust myself with that pesky little .5 at the end.
Next, went my words. Through the second and third trimesters I found myself searching for common nouns, pointing at objects to fill in the blanks in my sentence, mixing up family members’ names and sounding more and more like my mother.
My brain hit peak dumbness after baby boy arrived. Shrouded in the thick fog of sleep deprivation, I could barely manage my email password. My linguistic output was limited to parroted oohs, aahs, gurgles and heehees. It had been many weeks since I’d attempted to knit anything: the very notion of having to read and interpret a knitting pattern felt like advanced calculus.
But at about four weeks postpartum my fingers started jonesing for some wool. Any knitter deprived of knitting for long enough can relate to that yarny itch. I had started this sweater a while back and figured the miles of stockinette stitch would be a reasonable choice for a sleepy half-wit. Boy was I wrong.
It had felt so good to be knitting again. Like that first bike ride in spring after a winter of lumbering around in clunky boots: I was flying! Row after row, speeding past! A blur of fingers! A knitting ninja!
Except, when it came time to join the pieces at the underarm, something was off. I spread the knitting out flat, I spun it around, I turned it inside out, I folded it one way then the other. Yes, after having grown and birthed a baby I had experienced some remarkable anatomical transformations, but none that warranted replacing a neck hole with an armscye! None that would have me fitting into the strange moebius strip of fabric I had produced.
Somewhere along the way I had attached one part of the sweater to another part that had no business being anywhere near the first part. It was less sweater and more “art piece”.
There was no saving it. I was done for. Mind = gone.
But at least the consolation prize is pretty good. And cute to boot.
