Unraveled

I had plans for this month.


This one month vacation from work was meant for spending a lot of time together in the kitchen, swimming every afternoon, reading for as long as we wanted to (because there was nowhere we had to get to on time), and maybe learning a little something new for math.


And I had plans to paint more, to sew and knit without feeling like my creative time was crushed into little pockets of stolen time, to get through closets and collections that have been ignored for the last year in order to simplify by just having less stuff...


But then last week happened and we hit a wall of too many days sitting in a hospital room, trying to walk the halls quietly, little boys being shuffled off to friends and family one too many times.


And even just getting to the every day things seemed like a miracle all week long. Laundry done, cleared kitchen counters, empty trash cans... amazing.


And I found myself overwhelmed all week long by what is happening in that hospital, by what is happening in my home as we show up here pretty much just for a quick meal, a shower and some sleep, by what is happening in my head as I hear that insidious alarm screeching: "This is not in the plans for this week, and now you have so much to catch up on..."


My husband gave me and the boys that gift of "normal time" on Friday afternoon and all day Saturday. (And I did the same for him and the boys on Sunday.) We caught up on the barest necessities of housework (namely clean underwear for all) and then took off to the pool. And even though my brain was pounding with an ever growing list of things that should have been done, I gathered my boys and we talked and cuddled in bed in the middle of the afternoon reading together and watching favorite shows and playing board games and just being silly together. And while we talked and cuddled and built lego towers I did something that just needed to be done:

It was a perfectly fine sweater, no mistakes, no reason that it sat within 2 rows of being finished for over a year except for the fact that I'd knit it before I knew much about fitting a garment to my actual self (not my imagined self) and it was two sizes too big.


I can't explain it really except that I had the overwhelming sense that ripping out that sweater while drinking hot chocolate and reading The Six Wives of Henry VIII would restore some balance to me.


I know. It makes no sense, but it was indeed true.


My husband came home after a long day at the hospital to boys tucked quietly in bed and me on the couch ripping a nearly complete sweater down to two skeins of yarn. He took it all in and said,

"Should I ask what happened here?"

And I told him, "All you need to know is that I feel much better now."

And it is definitely being re-knit.