Hot Pink Yarn

One day, I shall have a digital camera, and I shall display pictures, but alas, no time soon.

Until then, let me talk about hot pink yarn, or, more to the point, the four year old that picked out the hot pink yarn.

Yesterday, my friend Izzy (four years old) and I went to buy all the things that you need to make a sweater. A sweater for Izzy. And, since Izzy is four, I figured she should have maximum control over said sweater, because, uh...if she didn't, she wouldn't ever wear the fucking thing.

So, Izzy and discussed color over the phone. "Pink. Or, Pink and Green. With a cat and a Rainbow?" I told Izzy that maybe the cat and rainbow are beyond my skill level. Okay, what I really said was, "We need to work from a pattern. Do you know what a pattern is? "

"No."

"It's the instructions. Like the rules to Candyland."

"I don't like rules."

"I know, honey. That's why you cheat."

She giggled. "I know. I cheat."

If we all had that much self-awareness, we'd be better off as a species.

So, Izzy and I went off to the yarn store. Izzy was perfectly well-behaved, and sweet, as she always is with me. I've got 'special friend clout', which means, for the most part, Izzy doesn't ever really misbehave around me. It's something that, if I were a parent, would really piss me off. But, I digress.

So, we looked at patterns. One thing I noticed is that Izzy would choose patterns based on the little kids in the pictures. She picked the ones that looked happy, or were doing something "fun." She didn't really choose based on color of sweater (which surprised me...I thought we'd have to talk about how "we can make the sweater in any color, hot stuff, 'cuz that's different".

Instead, we talked out how the kids in the pictures looked rich, and how it's good to have lots of money. (A concept which, btw, fucking horrified me).

I, of course, said that the kids in the pictures looked happy, not rich. And while having enough money to pay the rent and keep yourself in macaroni and cheese is good, being rich is not necessarily a good thing. How lots of rich people are unhappy, and lots of rich kids don't have mommy and daddy who spend time with them, and how Izzy is really lucky to have parents who love her and spend time with her, and how that's way more important than being rich.

"And you."

"What, honey?"

"You spend time with me too, so that means that I'm lucky, right. Cause I have friends, like Dave, and you, who spend time with me?"

Amen.

So, we picked a turtleneck sweater, which is done on number nine needles in a 1x1 rib, which might drive me insane. There might be some tiny changes made to that pattern. I'm just sayin'.

Then, we picked the yarn.

That kid has awsome taste in fiber. She breezed right past the Cascade 22o (an inexpensive wool yarn), and headed right towards the 'good stuff'. She's a yarn snob in the making. God, I don't know if I'll ever feel prouder of her.

She fondled the yarn like a pro. Picked it up, and rubbed her little cheek against it, and said "This is really soft."

I could have cried. In her hands was my favorite yarn. Malibrigio. 100 percent merino wool, soft as a baby's ass, and lovely to knit with. No machine washable yarn for this kid. No acrylics.
Sure, the name is "Barbie Rose", and to me, it's fucking pink. Too pink, but what the fuck, she's four, and aren't we all allowed to love pink at four?

We went back to Izzy's house after lunch. I taught her the knitting poem.

Open the door.

Put on a scarf

Take the cat out

Before the cat barfs.

And she wrapped the yarn over my needles at the appropriate time.

The kid's a natural.


In many ways, the best time I've had in a long time.