I got the ends run in on project A, project B, got a few sweaters washed and slowly drying for my flying to a colder climate, trying to get ready to go to celebrate my parents’ 60th.
Looking for something else after dinner, I stumbled across the utterly forgotten sheared-mink baby sweater. I so wanted to give this to my namesake great-niece. I so wanted it already finished. It’s going to be so nice when it is. The front was done, the back was done, lots and lots of dangly ends to weave in (oh fun), seams to sew, edges to add.
But deadlines are wonderful things and I should finally be getting to meet that sweet baby this weekend. After all this time and anticipation, I can’t leave this one to the last second, I just can’t (any more than I already have.)
I glanced at the clock. It was after 8:30. Ends and seams were now done, it’s all peachy from here. I was picking up the stitches for the first set of ruffly lace around the arm of the jumper. (It’ll fit longer if there are no sleeves.)
Two rows. Five rows. Eight rows, glancing at the clock repeatedly, feeling I must really be in the zone because I’m getting this done in record time with the hand barely moving on that clock.
And another row, and I looked up again.
Waaaaait… (took me long enough.) “Richard, what time is it?”
“Nine forty-five.”
With the exquisite timing of a stand-up comedian, the battery on my wall clock had slowed and at last stopped while I was knitting. Trying to help me get this thing done–“We’re not STOPPPPPPPPPPPPPingggggggggggggg, Mommmmmmmmm………….â€