When AirForceGuy is home, I tend to spoil him. It’s nice to have him around and he’s very conscientious about fixing things and taking over parent duties to give me some down time.
He also appreciates the little things, like the fact that I make his lunch and put little Hershey’s Kisses in there for him. He tells everyone his lunch is made "with love".
But now he has a new idea – that in addition to lunches "made with love" he must now have socks "made with love," too. Yes, that is right. My husband wants me to learn to knit so I can make him socks. At least he’s sweet about it. He says, "I have to go to ugly places. When I’m in ugly places, it would be wonderful if I had socks made with LOVE on my feet."
Luckily, the lovely and talented Sarah is SpouseBUZZ’s resident knitter extraordinaire and we planned to learn while we were at Fort Bragg for SpouseBUZZ Live 3. However, we were having so much fun giggling and making fun of my mother-in-law that we didn’t get around to learning to knit.
When I came home, AirForceGuy was devastated. He has become obsessed with this whole "socks made with love" thing. And while I can crochet, have you ever seen crocheted socks? My husband is a sexy 32 year old man, not an 87 year old woman in a nursing home.
Luckily, there are books on knitting for kids and cd-roms. I bought one of each, some ten foot long size 8 needles (which were the only ones left in the store, and apparently you can NOT learn to knit on any other size according to the hysterical notations in every book I found) and some cheapo Red Heart yarn (yes, I went there) and sat down to learn.
The first attempt was bad. Very bad. It was like that Amish Friendship Bread dough, the yarn just kept multiplying and I had no where to put it. I was obviously doing something wrong.
As I untangled yarn, some very choice salty language was issuing from my mouth. My husband happened to hear this and shouted down the stairs, "That doesn’t sound like it’s being made with LOVE!"
I have no idea what happened to that man’s sense of self preservation, but I’m willing to bet that he was closer to death that night than he ever was in Iraq or Afghanistan.
Attempt number two was better. I turned it into a Barbie blanket for my evil blond daughter because I can’t bear to throw things away. Now I’ve figured out how to purl, too, and I’m about eight inches into a piece of pink something. Maybe it will be a scarf for an American Girl doll. I haven’t decided yet.
And my husband is happy, because he sees socks made with love in his future.
I’ll let you know how that goes.