The Story Of My Crochet Blanket

I dread coming home, not the actual being home, but the flight; it scares the living daylights out of me. I am a wreck; no customs official leaves me be. I will always be the lucky one to be “randomly checked”, scrutinised and frisked. Do I really look like a drug-courier-terrorist? I wonder. Do I look like someone who might use cutlery to attack a pilot?

Maybe. With puffy eyes, tear-stained cheeks, a runny nose and the shakes, they always choose me. This time, every siren buzzed—my bracelets. My backpack was unpacked, my camera opened, my laptop switched on, and my phone and iPad were opened and scrolled through. Everything was re-X-rayed. My children waved and wiped away their tears. Eventually, they threw in the towel and sauntered off. Thank goodness! I thought as an official asked whether I knew Jaco; they play cricket together, but that was not enough.

It must be the old Green Mamba. I’m leaving, for Pete’s sake. Do they think I’m running back to South Africa? At last, they wished me a bon voyage. In haste, I shoved everything into my backpack and handbag, this time not giving a hoot about the precious contents. I can’t wait to see their backs, that’s for sure. Until Calgary, that is

With abandon, I sobbed as I boarded the plane, wedged my possessions into the overhead locker, flopped into my seat, and wailed. Gut-wrenching sobs of sadness and frustration. Bits of sodden tissue were caked to my face, and my mascara was running down my cleavage. My lips were chapped and on the brink of cracking. This is me going home... Someone asked whether I’m excited to see my beloved. I croak and snap, “Yes”. “Dear God, just leave me alone,” I think.

And so, I get home, not jet-lagged, just traumatized. It takes a while to unpack, do the laundry and get settled again. I can’t for the life of me open my laptop to download my photographs. I don’t really want to talk about my “holiday”. All I want to do is think. Be in my head while I mull things over. Fortunately, my beloved seems to get this and leaves me be. He's happy to catch up on his social media following, sending jokes to his buddies and reading quietly. Now and then he looks me over as I slowly get to grips with myself and tell him snatches of stories.  Friends assume I'm "always on holiday and when's the next trip"; I roll my eyes and shake my head.

There’s a fine line between doing nothing and being quiet; I hate doing nothing. It depresses me. That was the last thing I needed. So I unpacked my suitcase and found the crochet hook I'd bought. I fished out all my bits of wool, went on YouTube, and taught myself to crochet a Granny Square. My fingers were stiff and clumsy. I wound the wool, as instructed, around my pinky, pulled the skein tight up to my index finger, and got on with it. I grunted and groaned until I mastered a chain stitch. I was on my way. I had to concentrate on my handiwork, give it 100% attention, and count 1-2-3 repeatedly for weeks on end.

It was all I did. Eventually, my counting decreased, and my thoughts increased. I called my blanket “Vankids”. Van because it would be for our Honey Badger and Kids for my children and grandchildren. The colours I used would depict my children as I saw them. I believe people can be described by colour. Like all children from the same womb, we remain individuals, so I found similarities in the texture of double-ply wool. Even if they're labelled the same brand, each colour is different.

The weight, the feel as the yarn wound through my fingers. Some needed a slight slackening, while others needed winding around my pinky twice. Sometimes I forgot what my fingers were doing; other times, I had to give them all my attention as I encouraged them to move. As my work progressed, the blanket became heavier but provided the warmth and comfort I needed, just like families.

Blue is one of my favourite colours, so I started mixing and matching blue patches. My grandsons are blue. They delighted me with their energy, lust for life, thirst for knowledge and sheer joy. With them, I built Lego structures, sang, danced, puddle-jumped and thought I’d lose my bladder and kidneys jumping on the trampoline. They’d sneak into my bedroom in the mornings; we’d read and laugh, tumble in the twisted bedclothes and have fun. At Easter, we planted Jellybeans and watched them grow until they sprouted colourful "flowers" on Easter Sunday. We were bowled over to see the bunny had eaten the carrot we'd left out the night before, and then the hunt was on. What a privilege to share these moments that pass all too soon.

With me, they’d be allowed doughnuts for breakfast (which we’d made), cupcakes for lunch (which we’d baked), and Easter eggs before anyone was awake to say no!

We’d spend hours in the library, delighting the librarians as they watched and listened to our discussions about sharks, killer whales, lions, dinosaurs and superheroes. Soon, the boys will qualify for their own library cards.

The natural sciences museum was an eye-opener for us, and on hot afternoons we’d have ice creams from the ice cream parlour while sitting on the steps. I met Neil’s teacher and watched him and his friends frolic on the jungle gym, performing hair-raising manoeuvres.

With Danny, I watched concrete mixers at work and men labouring to lay a new driveway. They were a delight, eager to learn new things. Their personalities were so different, yet so similar in many ways. I could see my Timmy as a small boy and Carla’s influence as a loving, caring parent. These two boys were more taken with the "small" things, e.g. Neil with his birthday cards, which had to be read over and over again, and Danny with his little lions, bought at the supermarket and coming at a dime a dozen.

I hope they’ll remember the fun times we had, too. I hope they’ll remember me. I hope they’ll remember how we laughed, our conversations, what we learnt, and our adventures and misadventures. I will remember the hugs, the kisses, sitting close, holding hands, arms around my neck, little fingers and sticky hands tightly holding on as we got to know one another again and loved every minute. My photographs will be a reminder, but my memory will be indelible. I love these two boys with a painful passion.

Pink, of course, will be Isla’s. Much to her mother’s horror and my steadfastness, she will have a splash of pink in her wardrobe and her blocks, though not all baby pink; the colours will reflect her femininity, her powdery-pink baby toes, her new-baby smell, her delicate fingers, and her rosebud-red lips. Here she is in a cloud of pink peony!

She was the primary reason for my visit. The weeks before her birth were a whirlwind of baby showers and last-minute layette gifts and necessities. My suitcase was loaded with bottles of teething gel, gripe water and other South African nursery staples for the first-aid box.

At Lise’s house, Marie Condo had been followed in every drawer, shelf and cupboard, and Babygroes and the tiniest booties had been rolled and packed in perfect colour-coded rows. They were ready for the arrival of this precious child; she was certainly already loved and eagerly awaited.

Lise was aglow, I thought. Slim, with a tiny ball belly. She hadn’t inherited my swollen ankles, double chin or puffy pork-sausage fingers. She had no varicose veins, no stretch marks, and her hair was a healthy mass of golden threads. Her cheeks were still visible and didn’t look as if she’d been on a course of cortisone like I had. She glided rather than waddling up to me at the airport and looked radiant. She hadn’t lost her good humour yet, had slept well, and didn’t spring a leak when Isla kicked her bladder! She managed her heartburn with a good, healthy diet; I had been like a commando worm, eating everything in sight. I gained weight at the rate of 1kg per week… You do the math.

This was the hallmark of the Perfect Pregnancy. Textbook.

During the day, we chatted and caught up while tackling the laundry; I was treated to lovely luncheons, teas, and coffees at the best restaurants; we went shopping, browsing for what Summer had in store, and even did a mother-daughter shoot. Carla, a professional photographer and my daughter–in–law, dressed us, touched up my make-up, and then posed us for the best results. Lise did her best with my frizzy hair and even managed to hide my “bakoortjie”. Although it was very stressful, I prefer being on the business end of photographs; she captured the essence of our special relationship beautifully, and we looked our best. I still can’t believe it’s me.

Lise’s confinement and delivery were among the most moving experiences I have ever witnessed. I watched as my child laboured, endured excruciating pain, doubled up, kept her composure, never cried out as I might have, and remained aware of and considerate towards her partner, listening to and taking note of her midwives and doctors. She was brave and strong, and never lost her sense of humour. Sometimes the hours dragged, and they played games; at other times, things sped up, and everyone was on high alert. There was time to nap, freshen up, smile, and stay cautious.

Unlike our private hospitalisation and medical care in Canada, they have a national health system that provides all patients with excellent healthcare. Still, it also means you may never see "your" doctor. A constant stream of medical personnel breezed in and out of her room: doctors, gynaecologists, a gaggle of nurses, sisters, midwives, and anaesthetists.

Eventually, I lost track of who was who and what their qualifications were. Surprisingly, there was no paediatrician. Ever. Once again, I was humbled by the love, empathy and professional decorum the nurses showed. Without their motivation, I am sure things might've gone to surgery. Here I must make special mention of Jodi, one of Lise's nurses, who was exceptional in carrying out her duties with her no-nonsense wisdom and encouragement. She never let up. Thank you.

At 2h00, it was all systems go, and after a short, intense labour, our Isla made an appearance. She was perfect. A small, lightweight with the longest legs and healthiest set of lungs. She bellowed herself into our lives and the world. With a mop of black hair and blue eyes, we gawked at her and wondered who she looked like. We knew who the mother was; she looked like her father—no questions about that.  Isla was born on 17 April 2019; she weighed 6 lbs 11 oz and measured 49cm. Her name is Isla Elizabeth Jane Haacke.

And then the most wonderful thing happened. Lise asked me to cut the umbilicus once it was completely clear of any blood. The Doctor dutifully handed over the scissors, and I cut it. It was a strong symbol that I was separating myself from my child, who had become a mother, and with the cutting I was releasing her from me and binding her to her daughter, who’d lie on her chest swaddled in a thin cheesecloth to bond with her Mama. Soon she’d wriggle her nose as she searched for the life-giving nipple to suckle and sleep. The day was done. It was time for Carla and me to leave; we needed to give this new family of three the space and time to get to know each other.

Carla recorded the whole birthing process with delicacy and ease. Never intrusive, she moved around doctors and nurses to capture this most miraculous time.  Her photographs are emotive, raw, clear, and don't shy away from the miracle that is childbirth.  With compassion, she captured how we all felt.

As my blocks progressed, I eventually got to the big children. Often we see ourselves differently from how others see us. Mostly, people see us in a better light; we’re so hard on ourselves. I think I chose the perfect colours: greys and greens, yellows, oranges, hues of red. In some, I see their eyes, the golden light they shine, sometimes the warmth they bring to our family, the caring, the clarity they give us and the abundance of joy they bring to each other’s lives.

This blanket proves that different colours, even if they’re not a perfect match in texture or thickness, can be blended and fashioned into something beautiful, just like families. Once the squares are hooked together, they cover us and keep us warm, safe, and secure. Just like families, the threads that hold us together are strong, but pull one and a whole blanket can unravel with devastating consequences. That’s why we must keep our loved ones safe; they must know they’re loved and cared for; they must be treated with respect and honoured for being different; and we must celebrate our differences and cherish what we have, seeing the beauty, vulnerabilities and frailties and know that together we’re strong.  Individually, we can see our scars; as a whole, we don't.  A slipped stitch here and there goes unnoticed; in fact, it gives the blanket character and makes it handmade.

These were my thoughts as I crocheted my blocks, drew in the threads and attached them, trying to do it all with one thread. (It wasn’t possible). Our modern family doesn't work that way either; we're blessed to have many strong, capable, caring women who keep us together. Our children have fathers, stepfathers, and fathers-in-law who quietly support them.  My Dad, their great-grandfather, relentlessly keeps up their individual photo albums. My grandchildren have great-grandmothers, glam'mas, oumas, and grannies.   Elizabeth, for the third time, is like my scalloped edge that finishes the whole thing off.  In Africa, we believe it takes a village to raise a child.  I hope our enormous family will raise these precious children.

 I can use it in our Honey Badger to keep us warm or for picnics on sunny summer days. It’s not perfect, but neither are we. I look at it and realise that every colour is important, not one more so than another.  I have no favourite colour after all. I find them all equally splendid.  Do remember "He who sleeps under a crochet blanket is covered by love"!  That is true.  We are never too old to learn new tricks... and even teach others something new. 

---oOo--- 

Tapestry
Carole King