Kindergarten D was really sick with some sort of stomach virus again last week. I will spare you the gruesome details, but Saturday at noon, about the time our clinic closes, I began to panic that he should have gone to the doctor. Fortunately, just as I was struggling with the idea of taking him to the emergency room, he started to turn around. By Sunday morning he was eating like he’d never eaten before. And really, it had been several days.
Today was my first day out of the house since Wednesday night. Naturally, there is a blizzard warning again. I didn’t care. I went to the grocery store with a stop — of all places — the craft store. If you are a long-time reader-friend, you know that I am not terribly good at finishing crafts. Remember the mitten?? Remember the apron?? Well, it’s a been a while, and I started to think I should do a little something while I am watching those old movies on TCM. I thought, perhaps, crochet.
You see, my other grandma (not Gigi) crocheted all kids of fabulous things like knobby afghans and lacey tablecloths and bedroom slippers and rugs made out of bread bags and such. Yes, I would learn to crochet. I would make tiny baby hats and lovely cashmere-like berets and rug made out of bread bags.
I got to the store and I looked at all those patterns with their mysterious codes and I knew . . . I just knew. I would start a crochet project and get as far as a pot holder maybe . . . if I was lucky.
In all fairness, Grandma did teach me how to crochet, but all we did was a chain. I suppose I didn’t realize I would be 43 one day looking for a bread bag rug.