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.
My grandmother would be proud: I am a knitter now. I say that with unabashed confidence.
No sweater pattern is too challenging. I can look away from my stockinette stitch and trust that my fingers will take care of it. A tricky stitch count with a few paired decreases and increases? No need to pause the movie, I’m on it.
Even if I have started to develop an embarrassingly persistent tendency for rowing out, I will still proudly proclaim my knitter status.
But when, exactly, did that switch happen? When did I go from lowly muggle to too-cool-for-school knitter? Was it the thirtieth dropped stitch fixed? Or the thirty-first? Was it when I casually corrected my stitch count without agonizing and ripping back ten rows, knowing full well that my little fix would be virtually invisible?
And why -given that I’ve played guitar for far longer than I’ve knit- can I not call myself a guitar player!
At some point in the not so distant past, armed with my swift and ball winder and needle gauge, I graduated. Rainy day sweaters, in my favourite shade of unflattering non-colour, are like bread and butter now. Quick, easy and filling. Yum.
This sweater was worked in tandem with Mama Wool&Potato as her first foray into non-sock knitting. We knit each section at the same time, although I would sometimes sprint ahead to the end of a line while she chugged along, mouthing each individual “k1, p1, m1r…..”
Her sweater is a beautiful jujube-red version with rolled cuffs, lots of swing and nary a purl out of place. (Well, maybe just one.) I am immensely proud of her effort and I know she is too.
Looking for a cheap thrill? Get knitting on that sweater of yours. Make sure you’ve ordered just enough yarn for your size. Make a couple changes, as you do, to accommodate your long torso. Hell, add a couple inches at least. And a wide garter band at the hem. Don’t forget those monkey arms of yours: you’ll want extra length there too.
Knit, knit, knit away. Yarn, after all, is a renewable resource. There’s always more growing somewhere. Knit picks will surely have a ball of gloss in your colour and dye lot should you need it. You’re a valued customer and your preferred colourways are always stocked. Yes, exactly. Knit on that lengthened sweater like your yarn basket is infinitely deep and generous. Feels free and oh so good, don’t it?
Well, it all came down to the wire. A frantic posting on ravelry; a call out to the knitting ether, to the hoarding types, those willing to rifle through SABLE (def. 2) and post a lonely ball to a desperate, (tall) and sweater-less comrade. I almost hit the paypal button for a very expensive solution to an amateur mistake.
But I didn’t. Instead, I ripped back my two gauge swatches. I weighed, measured, compared, tried on, furrowed my brow. I very nearly cannibalized the hem, but luckily found just enough yarn in the long ends waiting to be woven in.
I knit the crap out of that yarn. To the Very. Last. Inch.
In the immortal words of the Road Warriors: What a rush
