So. He was going to let me knit him some socks! I interrogated him about what he wanted in a sock. Nay, what he needed in a sock. What color, how high, how tight, how thick… I’m pretty sure he began to regret humoring me with this sock request.
Number one on the list was machine washable. Obviously. I bought some nice charcoal gray Cascade 220 Superwash (having been warned what constitutes suitably masculine color) and consulted one of the best sock books ever, Sensational Knitted Socks. I measured and re-measured the feet in question (once even pausing the teevee to do it, much to the annoyance of Someone). I even – get this – swatched.
I was so excited. Before I even cast on a single stitch I was having ridiculous fantasies of how much he would love the socks … He would start waxing poetic about the joys of a wool sock. I would have to go and buy tons of manly sock yarn. I would make boatloads more socks (a pair a month! – no, a pair a month each for him and the kids! and me!) behind closed doors and present them to him next Christmas….
Then I was shocked out of my reverie by the kids fighting over one. single. Lego. And that strange burny smell the fridge makes when I put too much hot food in it. And the fact that I can’t sit in front of my fireplace knitting like I am in a chapter of Little Women because if I take my eyes off these tiny people for a damn minute there will be a mutiny.