I’ve been secretly working on a blanket for my daughter since March. When I say ‘secretly’, I’ve actually been working on it right next to her on the couch each evening but because I’m her mother, she hasn’t shown any interest whatsoever in what I’m doing.
Having dedicated three-quarters of my life to the creation (and ongoing maintenance) of the queen-sized Forever Blanket, I thought a single blanket would be easy-peasy, something I could knock together in a couple of afternoons.
I thought wrong.
After five months, I’m only halfway through the blanket with seven weeks remaining until my daughter’s thirteenth birthday. I’ve decided that only possible way to finish it in time is by giving up work and sleep. Also showering, as it’s surprisingly difficult to crochet whilst under running water.
But listen, the looming deadline is not the biggest problem here. The biggest problem is that the girl I started making the blanket for last March, the girl I chose the colours and pattern for, is now a different girl altogether. Now, she’s a girl with a boyfriend and an attitude, a girl who would rather write in her journal in her room than sit next to me on the couch. A girl who is becoming a woman. This new girl is more likely to cloak herself in mystery and clothing from Dangerfield than a blue and yellow afghan flower blanket made by her mother.
Of course, I love this new girl. I love her sass and her strength and her fierce independence. I even love her Instagram stories, even though I can’t pretend I understand them.
But seriously, could she stop growing up until I’ve finished this goddam blanket?