Kind of Love
My grandmother taught me to crochet the moment my clumsy, chubby fingers
could hold a crochet hook. By the time that I was six, she handed me
her sewing needles to thread for her because her eyes could no longer
see the needle's eye. When I was eight, my mother spent all of her precious
off-work night-time hours making me a spring wardrobe that I can still
describe in minute detail, right down to the rick-rack that trimmed
the red kerchief that matched the tulip sprigged sleeveless dress. I
can recall precisely the colors and patterns of the nightgowns my grandmother
sewed for me. My brothers will tell you that they've never worn anything
so warm and comfortable as Nana's knitted socks. I even remember the
weight of the stocking cap my mother knit to match the checkerboard
cardigan - that matched the blue one she knit for my brother.
There is a magic in handmade clothing that transcends the colors, the
styles, even the quality of the handiwork. It's as if every stitch and
every knot was imbued with the love of the hands that crafted them.
And so it was only right that when I was carrying my first child, I
picked up crochet hook and thread and started making the clothing she'd
wear home from the hospital.
I didn't stop there, though. Making clothing for babies is more than
a way to save money or create unique clothing styles. It's a way to
surround them with love, to weave your wishes into the fabric as you
shape and create each piece.
Over the years, I have sewn, knit and crocheted sweaters, sunsuits,
dresses, short sets, blankets, quilts, hats and pants for all five of
my children. Beginning with their homecoming outfit, each of them had
special clothes that I'd designed and created just for them. I would
say that it is perhaps a conceit, a fond wish of my own that my feelings
about dressing my babies with my own hands would have transferred themselves
to my children - except:
A month ago, I dropped by my daughter's apartment. The baby girl I dressed
in a strawberry printed romper - each stich carefully placed by hand,
each with a whispered wish and a blessing for her good fortune - is
22 now, a college graduate with a home of her own. Tossed over a table
in the corner is a blanket I crocheted for her when she was three from
odds and ends of yarn. On her walls are pictures of herself wearing
a sweater I made for her - the same sweater, at 3, at 5, at 7. The same
sweater now clothes the teddy bear sitting on her dresser.
My 19 year old son, fully grown and living on his own, still owns the
knit baby blanket that wrapped him on his trip home from the hospital.
He creates and makes his own clothes - imaginative and unusual - and
in the patches on his jeans and his jackets, I find bits and pieces
of shirts and shorts and sweaters I made for him over the years.
My 15 year old has tucked away the first party dress I made for her
- when she was six months old. She never said a word to me about - I
found it in her 'treasure memory box'. And the two youngest boys? At
10 and 12, they each have their favorite blanket - ones that I knit
for them when they were born.
There is magic in your hands when you create clothing for your baby,
the magic of a mother's love that is never, ever completely forgotten.
About The Author:
Peter Dobler successfully operates several web sites on the topic of
internet marketing and web site optimization. Visit his main web site
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