My very first knitting post

My mother has been after me for a while to add some creativity to my life.  Over the years she has sent me cross stitch packages, a lap quilt kit, embroidery books and the list goes on.  I have had very noble plans for all of these motherly gifts.  My mother, after all, is a power house of creativity.  She has a certificate in haute couture from the Richard Robinson Fashion Academy and spent much of my childhood sewing us clothes as well as operating a dressmaking business out of our teensy tiny living room.  I remember many days and nights watching my mom sewing candy-floss pink bridesmaid dresses and dying lace in old tea to try to match the off-white wedding gown that she was sewing for a customer.  Our Christmas tree was, and is, covered in beautiful homemade ornaments and our stockings were never just socks.  I remember craft sales hosted in our living room when we lived in Ottawa; tables laden with crocheted shawls and velveteen hearts to be hung on the tree.

I don't know if she has any idea how much I have admired and appreciated her creativity and, what I consider, amazing abilities.  I have often wondered why I don't just do the same.  Similarly, I have  thought that I could, simply by virtue of being her daughter.  Part of it, I think, is that she sews so well that I never felt that I could start as my attempts would fall miserably flat in comparison to hers.  

However, with the birth of Sarah, my mom began to encourage me to knit.  She had recently rediscovered the needles and yarn and had brought two beautiful blankets for Sarah when she arrived from Halifax in June.  My maternal grandmother was also a prolific knitter.  By prolific I mean that the needles were never far from her reach and she could knit almost anything that she put her mind to.  In fact, her hands (as far as I remember) only held two things:  knitting needles and cigarettes.  We benefitted far more from the former.  Most of the Lynch grandchildren have "Gran" afghans as testimony to her abilities.  My Aunt Sandy jokes that Lynches are conceived and die under afghans.  Gran knit, a lot.   

Perhaps it was inevitable:  knitting is written into my soul;)  (Only to be discovered in my mid-thirties with a house full of children and a need to make something a little more lasting than a bed.)  So, the other day, when I lamented to Dave that I needed to create something other than supper, I finally took my mother up on her knitting suggestion.  I began to knit and, unlike any other endeavour before, I am hooked.  Here are my second and third projects.  Look forward to more.  (Pardon my wistful look:  the wind was blowing and I was trying to keep the ever-present children out of the shot.)