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Knit or die

I have become a grandmother. A blissful state, every bit as exciting as I had been told it would be.

This grandmother-role comes with certain requirements, some of which seem to be unavoidable.

One of the things a real grandmother is supposed to spend time doing, is knitting. Preferably seated in a rocking chair, grandmothers are expected to knit happily away during the long winter hours. Stockings, sweaters, long-johns or whatever is needed in the household.

I have a rocking chair. Well, it is really more of a recliner, but it rocks. It rocks you to sleep, to be honest, that is what it is designed for. It is not ideal for knitting, but it will have to suffice.

My main problem in this matter is that my daughter has picked a father for her child from one of the most accomplished knitting families in this country. The ladies in that family knit in their sleep, I swear it! While driving! I am sure they knit one-handedly while stirring the porridge in the mornings. You must not turn your back on them unless you want them to jump you with a freshly pressed newly finished sweater in an elaborate Icelandic ethnic design. There is absolutely no way I can hold my own with these people.

I managed to enlist my own family members while visiting Norway this summer. My mother is always game, but she has a bad arm and can only knit for so long at one sitting. This is a big disadvantage of course, but she tried to compensate for it by choosing a very difficult pattern based on an old Norwegian national costume. Give the Icelanders something to chew on there.

My sister is also running. She is 10 years my junior and used to laugh mockingly whenever she heard the word “knitting” used in conversation. But now she has become a boardmember of her parish church, another role that comes with knitting requirements, and she has joined the forces, but is of course still rather new to the game and no match for the in-laws. She is working on it, and had chosen a blanket for starters. Always useful. She looked almost Jane Marpleish dropping pastel wool whenever she moved.

And my daughter, of course, the mother of the seventh wonder, being thrown headfirst into this knitting clan in Hveragerði, joined the club in good spirits and was knitting a tremendously intricate dress with lace and a huge-eyed owl motive.

They all started working on these projects during the World cup. While watching Messi mess things up on the pitch, they produced in good tempo. Women can both knit and watch tv at the same time. The only one that could silence the needles was Diego Forlan lining up for a free kick.

I consentrated wholeheartedly on the football, but I knew deep down inside that it was first and foremost my responsibility as a grandmother to do the knitting. They were standing in for me, and they did not complain, but I could feel their glances turning from questioning to reprimanding to downright accusing.

I capitulated. I went to the store and bought yarn. And started knitting away like crazy. A dress in traditional pattern but untraditional colours. It will fit the girl when she is two. I hope she likes it.
The main colour is raspberry red. It looks nice. It is finished. Now what?

It is obvious that this child has already been provided with all the knitten garments she will need till the day she starts school. There is nothing left for me to do.

So I have found my own niche. I will consentrate on dolls clothes. When my granddaughter starts playing with dolls, her dolls will have closets filled with all kinds of hand made stuff. Their personal wardrobe will be second to none. Thanks to Granny Gry.

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