There are things she learned from me. Like how to raise your voice when you’re falling a part or can’t find your phone, your phone’s charger or a pen that works. And how to stir the bread dough with a wooden spoon until you’re out of breath.
But to crochet? No.
Heavens no. Something this good came from a friend who poured into our girl. Who poured in week after week and patiently praised and calmly kindled the coals of our girl’s efforts. Until digging for crochet hooks in the couch cracks and idly stroking the yarn in the aisles at Joann’s became routine.
Then it was, “I bet I could make a hat.” And she did. A green one, imperfect and pointy. And she wrapped it for her daddy for Christmas last year. And he wore it–because he loves her–day after day after day.
It’s just…she’s making hats again. Better hats. Hats for cousins. A hat for brother.
And yet, she need not think twice…
To know that this guy–the one who’d wear a sack if she made it–is still her biggest fan.