Bumpy crochet

Yesterday, Zebra-girl and Dinosaur-boy returned to school. The night before, I had gone into the understairs cupboard to retrieve Zebra-girl's school shoes for polishing and was struck by how quickly the last two-weeks had passed. It seemed like only a few days ago that I had gleefully hurled the shoes into the darkness, a symbolic act, representing long-lazy days, freedom and perfect happiness...while conversely, getting them back out again seems to sink my spirit slightly.

So I was really pleased to have something wonderful planned to distract me from that awful first day back (unfortunately there was no such distraction for my little Zebra, although thankfully I think I miss her far more than she misses me). I had booked myself and Ian's mother onto a all-day beginners crochet course. I have previously invested in relevant books, watched and re-watched videos of crochet manoeuvres on U-tube, sent crisis emails to Joanne (she of the lime-coloured crochet) calling for assistance, but despite all this specialist help, still I was unable to create anything other than a foundation chain. It seems to me to be something that needs to be taught in person. However, twenty minutes into the course, with my yarn wrapped around my fingers and my hook creating knots seemingly all by itself, I was suddenly overcome with a sense of absolute panic: a realisation that this may be something that I was not going to be capable of doing and a very real feeling of wanting to run from the room. It made me realise that as adults we are very much in control of choosing whether we expose ourselves to challenge, and also reminded me of the sense of powerlessness, that so often overwhelmed me as a child, at being required to do things that I simply did not feel capable of doing, either on the playing fields or in the mathematics lessons.

Luckily, as an adult, I managed to stay sitting on my seat and somehow crocheted my way through my feelings of panic, to eventually be rewarded by the production of a wonky, bumpy, but hard-earned motif! Horay! By the end of the day I was absolutely amazed to have partially mastered slip stitches, double crochet, half-treble and treble crochet, and to have the skills to vaguely follow a pattern to such a degree as to produce a tangible 'thing'. Once the children were tucked up in bed (Grandmama had kindly looked after them for the day)I decided that I would add to the motif and make it into a round cushion for Dinosaur-boy's room and so began to add another shade of blue to its circular self.

The picture above is taken from this amazing book that Mr Teacakes mother bought: 200 Crochet Blocks, it is full of inspirational little blocks like this one and the patterns look clear and well-written...even though I'm not sure that I personally would be capable of following them! She also purchased the yarn at the top of this post and shared them out so that we had half a ball of each colour - what kindness.

On a completely unrelated and uncrafty tangent, I saw something in the JoJo Maman Bebe catalogue a while ago...and somehow I haven't been able to get it out of my head. It has disturbed me. Its name is seemingly innocuous: a Time Out Pad, but as I read the description for it I found myself waiting to get to the bit where it reveals that this bizarre little invention is also capable of administering electric shocks should the offender move from the pad (don't worry, thankfully it doesn't). At first I couldn't put my finger on why I found the sale of this (from a company whose children's clothing I adore) so offensive and worrying, so when Ian came home I discussed it with him, and we both thought that it is fundamentally flawed on many levels, for using this seems to represent a conscious decision to hand your role as a parent over to a machine and takes away any element of parental trust in your child's ability to do what you've asked (and building this trust is surely the eventual aim of a child taking a moment out of a situation?), but more than either of these aspects, I felt really anxious that some poor child might happen to shuffle around during his 'time-out', or may sit on just the wrong side of the sensor, or may even be the victim of a malfunctioning machine, all of which would result in the screeching of a false alarm, mistakenly telling the parents that the child had dared to move. I cannot imagine being a child living in an age where rather than just a momentarily spiteful older sibling, you actually have machines that can 'tell' on you. This seems sad.

Anyway, I shall now hold back from making any more weird observations on discipline devices and instead say that it has been so lovely to hear all your favourite words - I can't tell you how much I have been delighted by reading through them! If you still haven't entered my very small giveaway, and want to, it's in the post below...I will probably draw a pair of winners a little later in the week.