Last year, months before we started fertility treatments, I decided it would be a good idea to start crocheting a baby blanket. Why? Because I am insane. And because I needed a project to keep my mind off the fact that I desperately wanted a child and we were no closer to having one.
It took months. Months and months, I can’t even remember how many. There was nothing difficult about the pattern, except that it was mostly single crochet, which is time-consuming, and that it’s woven, so it was like crocheting two blankets instead of just one. I chose colors that are not at all baby-ish, and since I cannot see into the future, fairly gender-neutral. (Hubby says the pink is a bit overwhelming, but I disagree.) I had meant to do the whole border in the darkest color, but since I ran out of it, and this cotton-wool organic blend was not cheap, I went with a multi-colored border.
Once I finished the thing (oh, and it’s still not really finished–I have strings hanging all over the opposite side), I hated it. I had loved putting it together, the colors I had chosen, how they all looked together, but seeing it (mostly) done, I hated the stupid thing with every fiber of my being. Just another not-so-subtle reminder of what we do not have.
It now sits in plastic bag in a corner of the living room, next to the TV. If I looked really hard, I’m sure I could find a better place to store it. Somehow, though, putting it away just leaves the possibility of stumbling upon one day in the future, and if we still don’t have a baby by that time, who knows what kind of cliff that discovery could send my sanity over? So here it sits. I have become mostly numb to its presence. Most days. Someday I hope I’ll go back to thinking it was a good idea. Back to thinking it’s pretty. And I really hope that someday I have a use for it.