“I wish you’d just sit down and knit something!” Those words were a long time in coming. My son was only 3, but he had suddenly realized that when I was in a fractured state of mind, nothing could help as well as some time knitting. What happened to the fabric I was making also happened to the way I held myself in the world.
It hadn’t always been quite so delightful. There was the time when he had just learned to use scissors, and was angry because I was dealing with his new sister, my job, (not housework), cooking, and whatever. He took the cone of Bartlett yarn I was using and neatly snipped it up from bottom to top, through at least two layers of wound yarn, and left the whole thing in place. I found the first cut, made my graft, and then knit about 8 stitches before discovering the extent of the damage he had done.
Knitting worked for me then, and now.