Spousal Neglect

This has been a challenging week.

In addition to sending my eldest child off to junior high (at an ungodly hour of the morning, may I add), adjusting to our new schedule, and working on a Secret Knitting Project that hasn't gone as smoothly as I assumed it would when I procrastiknitted my way up to the deadline, I have now been accused of being a neglectful wife.

After more than a year of acting as though my knitting hobby was something cute that I was doing with (a lot) of my time ("You can make socks. How quaint"), B has started to make noise about how unfair it is that only one of the things I've made in the last two years was for him.

The grousing started while we were on vacation. We were in the middle of one of our big driving days, and I was working on the first of my father's socks. Having left dad's measurements behind I was worried that the leg of the sock would be too tight ... so I asked B if I could try slipping it over his fist. Happily, it fit with room to spare.

"Good," I said, relieved that I wasn't going to have to start over. "These should fit dad just fine."

"Those are for your DAD?!?" B asked, wounded. "How come he gets socks before I do?"

"Because I've known him longer."

I thought this was a pretty clever answer, but my husband was not amused.

Since then B has -- apparently -- been watching as I've worked on projects for various and sundry family members, and stewed in silence as I put together my packages for KSKS and the August birthday swap. When he saw me working on the Vintage Velvet scarf he could control himself no longer.

There I was, sitting in my green chair, watching Project Runway (Jeffrey is such an ass) and knitting happily away. Suddenly B came up behind me, reached over my shoulder, and stroked the scarf with his fingertips.

"That's nice and soft," he said. "Who's it for?"

Now, B is a quiet, stoic sort of man. His customary facial expression is .... well, the word "self-possessed" comes to mind. So do words like "still". "Imperturbable". "Composed". "Even". "Placid".

What I saw when I turned around was the human equivalent of this:


"Oh, for God's sake," I said. "Do you want me to make you something?"

"I've been neglected," he said sadly.

I reminded him that he received an Irish Hiking scarf for his birthday.

"Yes, but it's too heavy, and sort of scratchy," he said. "I'd like something lighter. And softer. Yes," he announced, looking at me as though he wondered why I wasn't writing this down, "lighter and softer would do the trick. And you know, if you knit me a sweater -- I'd wear it."

A sweater now. You know, there's a good reason why he's gone sweaterless to this point ... the man is 6'7", and refuses to countenance the idea of wearing anything with any sort of pattern. He wants plain stockinette. Navy blue, black, or grey stockinette. I am going to have to knit this GINORMOUS man a navy blue sweater in plain stockinette, and if I die of boredom he's going to have only himself to blame.