If you had told me when I was younger that I would be obsessive about crochet, I’d have told you, in no uncertain terms, you were a moron.
Admittedly not when I was very young, like around 6 or 7, because my Nana Fergi was either an avid crocheter, or had an avid crocheting friend. So, every time we visited her house, she had one of those Barbie doll toilet roll holders - where some cheap version of a Barbie doll had to go through the indignity of wearing some garish crocheted dress where the skirt was basically covering a toilet roll.
I loved it and wanted us to have one in our own house, but from my mother, it was a hard no. I couldn’t understand why not, as I thought it was brilliant that a doll could have a giant toilet roll dress. Then, by the time I became a moody adolescent, I considered it an apt metaphor for life, which seemed to be that as a woman, you had to constantly be prepared to mop up other people’s shit.
Anyway, back to crochet, it was never my thing, until a couple of years ago when I picked up a crochet needle and wondered to myself how it would work. And, to my surprise, I found it strangely relaxing.
You see, I’m one of those people who is most at peace when I’m doing more than one thing at a time. So when I’m watching TV, or listening to music, or just even thinking something through, I have to also be doing something else. And crochet is such an easy thing to do.
So before long, and without much thought, I’d made baskets for the boys’ rooms. I then made a shawl and then a poncho (I know, I can’t believe it either, I actually crocheted a fucking poncho - who even am I?), both of which I managed to palm off on my friend Katie, who looks good in just about anything, and also is not a stranger to a poncho.
Then, when I was scouring through the internet trying to look for a crochet pattern that didn’t involve a poncho or a plant holder, I discovered freeform crochet, which is basically just that you crochet what you like. Aficionados claim that freeform crochet is like painting but with yarn, but I wasn’t going to let that shit put me off. Even if I’m not much of a painter, there’s only a certain amount of ponchos any Scottish human should be allowed to make.
So, I started making odd freeform circles and shapes, not really caring what I was making, and pulling them together to see what emerged. And that is where my problem began.
You see, before long, it was evident I was making a ‘something,’ except it was not at all clear what that something was. But it just kept growing, and as it started to become noticeable (and also completely weird), Mark and the kids would refer to it as ‘The Creature.’
One day, out of the blue, Mark asked me what the creature was for, and I victoriously declared it was a tablecloth. (Helpful crafting tip here: you can basically call any piece of fabric a tablecloth, because there are all sorts of sizes of table and none of them will fall over if you put a piece of fabric on top of them. No matter how bizarre the fabric. You may find that useful in case you’re in the process of making some kind of creature yourself.)
Since then, it has been very generally accepted that The Creature is a tablecloth, and at some point we will use it as such. This has become much more evident as it is, in fact, so big now that the only way I can really work on it, is when it is laid out on the dining room table.
Though it’s meant I can’t watch TV when working on it, I do still listen to music and take time to work out my thoughts. But also, as the dining room is right in the middle of our house, it’s also now where people come to chat.
Of late, it has mostly been Lachlan. He’s found it both liberating and unnerving that kids have started back at school and that for the first time in his living memory, he is not one of them. He does know what his next steps are, but that involves a bit of waiting and a degree of uncertainty, so periodically he’ll check in to see if I’m ok with what his choices are. And generally, I am.
Mostly he’ll come into the kitchen, refresh his water bottle and then potter into the dining room and plonk himself down on a chair, observing me as I grow The Creature. Sometimes we talk about stuff on the news, other times he tells me what his friends are up to, sometimes he mentions something he’s thinking about, and wonders what my thoughts on it are.
Often we laugh because the challenges for his generation are so very different from my own at his age. Other times we smile, because some challenges and insecurities are ridiculously the same.
Like I told him about when I left school, and how I really had no idea what I was planning to do. I knew I had to do something, and Rachel, my bestie at the time, was going to drama school, so it seemed like it might be a good idea to go there too. But then, even when I finished drama school, I came out and wasn’t sure. And then I started doing a double act with someone who’d been on my course. And so it went on with literally every move I’ve taken being the opposite of strategic.
“I think I know what I’m doing,” he says, “But then some adult will ask me what I’m doing, and when I tell them, they want to know if I’ve thought about it.”
“In which case answer, ‘Yes, I’ve thought about it’,” I reply.
“But maybe I haven’t thought about it enough. I mean, how much am I meant to be thinking about it? Am I meant to be thinking about it all the time? Am I meant to not be able to sleep for thinking about it? Do I think about it, then make a decision, and then think about it some more?”
“Does your decision feel right in your gut?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies.
“And do you have a fallback plan?”
“Yes,” he replies.
“Then you’ve thought about it enough. Some people have a big-picture plan. Others go from one step to the next. Even though you know where you want to get to, you’re just taking your first couple of steps. You’re learning to be your own person, and in doing so, learning that not everyone would run their life the way you do. Also, in my experience, people who look worried when you tell them what your career plans are, aren’t actually thinking about your life, they’re reflecting on their own.’
He smiles, then he sips on his water and watches as I crochet. “The Creature looks like it’s just about finished,” he says.
“It is, I think. Or at least, I hope it is. If it’s not, we’re going to have to get a bigger table. Just think,” I say, “One day, this creature will be all yours. It shall be my legacy.”
Laughing, he chokes on his water. “No thanks,” he splutters, “When you go, that’s going with you.”
I laugh out loud.
“When do you think we’ll first use it?” he asks.
“Probably Thanksgiving,” I say.
“That sounds about right,” he nods, “Probably best if we use it when there’s people round who know us for who we are. If there were new people coming round, well, that tablecloth could scare them. They’d look at that Creature and think that the workings of your mind must contain weird, inexplicable territories. Or you’re on LSD.”
‘I’ve never taken LSD,” I say.
“So the weird, inexplicable territories it is then,” he replies.
“Like mother, like son,” I say.
And I would tell you that we shared a moment of great wisdom and understanding, but then Mark appeared and excitedly said he had two last-minute cinema tickets for the new Matthew McConaughhoney movie, which was all about beekeeping. He wanted to know if Lachlan or I wanted to go with him.
I, very quickly, explained that was working on The Creature so wouldn’t be able to make it, leaving Lachlan to state that popcorn and a slushie had to be included in the deal. Mark conceded.
And, while Lachlan fetched his shoes and jacket, Mark stood, observing The Creature.
“Is it nearly finished?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said. “It’s a bit crazy?”
“True,” he said, “But you know, a doll in a crochet dress hiding a toilet roll is also crazy. At least this is our flavor of crazy.”
Lachlan reappeared, and they left. And I sat at the dining table with Arthur snoring in his dog basket alongside me, and the creature lying on the table.
In all parts of my life, I have struggled to follow a pattern, and looking back, I see so many risks I’ve taken and the close calls. I remember heartbreaks and disappointments, and moments I will keep forever, and moments I would wish to repair. Seeing them all in front of me, I would do anything to stop my son from journeying as chaotically as I did. And yet, most of all, I wish for him to have life, his life on his terms, and he cannot do that if he does not experience the highs and lows. He will never get to celebrate the joys of success if he is never allowed to navigate through the periods of doubt.
So I accept my job is to focus on each little bit as it comes, and go with what in my gut feels to be right, in order that he feels strong enough to always be able to go with his. And maybe when I look back at my job as a parent, it will seem as unruly and daft and yet as fitting, as the large unwieldy piece of crochet I laughingly call a tablecloth.
Because here is what I do know: When I was a kid, and we’d go to my Nana Fergi’s, and I so admired her toilet roll holder, I really believed that adults had everything all planned out. Now, I understand that everyone’s just stitching it together piece by piece, little by little, hoping and trusting it will all just work out.
Xo
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