I've decided I want to learn to knit.
No, this is not the first time. Nor, sigh, do I think it will be the last.
I've knitted before. A scarf for my mum that had to be knit on large needles so it was supposed to look "holey". A scarf to bring baby Stu home from the hospital - it was sweet but completely uneven. It irked my need for symmetry in the world.
Now I am going to start a doll for Julia. Which, according to my son, will be followed by a teddy bear sweater for him. As in teddies in 3 colours who are dancing the cha-cha while sipping Chinese tea and scuba diving.
No, the bears aren't really doing that, but they might as well be for all the chance they have of being knit resembling bears at all.
Bless his little heart for believing that Mummy can.
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First I admit I am not awesome with dogs; now I have to own up to my utter lack of knitting skills.
I'm so ashamed.
(I didn't bite any inlaws, but I did put a stop to the crazy, as much as I can. I didn't want Zack to grow more afraid of dogs.)
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