Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Finishing My Handiwork

Today's distraction, I mean task, is to finish the blanket I made for my father's Christmas gift.  Yes, it's woefully overdue but there were extenuating circumstances.  I was set to finish it on Christmas Eve.  Our small family does nothing on that night, and we do our gift exchanging and dinner on Christmas Day.  I wish we did more, but there's nothing I can do about that.  

Throw a Christmas Party? :) me? Do you think anyone would come? I have my doubts.  Maybe I'll try it this year, since I'll have new furniture which will facilitate things.  I'll have to do it small, to minimize my hurt feelings when it doesn't go well.  

Back to my point.  I was going to finish the blanket on Christmas Eve.  It takes months to make one and I'd looked vainly for the burgundy yarn my father requested but didn't know that it doesn't exist, for several months. I was also going to make two gallons of my grandmother's beloved boiled custard recipe for the family to enjoy and take home.  I'm the only one who makes it.  Part of the chore is an hour of nonstop stirring over a double boiler, and I was planning on doing this twice.  Usually, there's only enough of that one gallon to enjoy together, with just a few cups for one or two people to take home.  

Plus, it's expensive to make -- lots of eggs, lots of milk, lots of sugar, and lots of time to mix and cook it just right.  

At 11 am on Christmas Eve, a very mean dog entered my yard and attacked my Yorkie.  He almost killed him.  So I spent my morning at the vet's office, unable to see him while they worked on him in the emergency room.  When we got home, I had to clean up and take him, all drugged up and still in shock, to the family Christmas dinner at my father's house.  I don't remember much of the day that wasn't about my baby bleeding and drooling, and afraid for me to leave him long enough to fix myself some food.  I wasn't hungry anyway. I was sick and afraid and cold most of the day, maybe even a mild case of shock myself. 

Yes, he's my baby.  I've put all of my maternal feelings on him.  It's probably easier to understand if you are a childless woman who desperately wanted children and you know you can't have any.  Not that it hurts any less.

Anyway, I didn't make any boiled custard, and I didn't finish my father's blanket.  I've been looking at it for six months and getting a horrible case of fearfulness every time.  Maybe I'm afraid my delay in finishing it will come to late to give it to my dad.  

Last night I pulled it back out and finished the six rows I had left to crochet at the top and then started on the pocket I like to put on the back for keeping feet snug and warm. (The greatest compliment you can give me regarding something I make, like a blanket, is to use it happily.  The hand towels in my bathroom are not decorative.... Please use them with my blessing!)  I only got half of the pocket finished, because I was completely tuckered out and dehydrated from two days of nearly nonstop tears and my contacts were clouded over from all the salt.

You see, I had finally told someone that I love him.  He didn't respond to that at all.

Then all hell broke loose and then he stopped talking to me.  I was told (by someone else) that was a stupid thing to do, telling him that I love him, but I never saw the point in playing games when I could just tell the truth about how I feel.  

Not telling him felt like I was lying to him.  I meant it, and I still do.  

I don't know if it's worth anything to him. 

He won't talk to me.

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