Why I knit.

I was thinking this afternoon the question all knitters seem to ask themselves at one point or another - why do I knit? I can think of several reasons:

• Knitting doesn't talk back. If i ask it to do something, unless I'm the one screwing up, it does it.
• If I don't like it that day, I just rip it out
• If I don't want to deal with it's issues, I can stuff it behind the couch, leave it in the car or do pretty much anything I like with it.
• I am not responsible for how it acts when it's 18 years old. In fact people should be relieved if it reaches that ripe old age.

These are all compelling reasons. It restores order and sanity and some small measure of control to my life. However, there is another really good reason to knit.

I started knitting again to try and curb my tv snacking. It's difficult - not impossible by any means, but difficult - to eat and knit at the same time. Stuck in the house every evening I don't have much to do for entertainment (trust me laundry and housework are NOT entertainment by any stretch of the imagination) so I like to have a little reality escape by watching tv. No wonder I hate reality tv. That ain't reality, kids.

Now I have discovered another, possibly better, reason to knit: it's hard to knit when you're drunk. My life being the way it is I'd probably start drinking the moment I walked in the door and not stop 'til I was passed out on the floor. This would be a large improvement while dealing with the nightly performance of Thing 1 and Thing 2. I LIKE knitting, and I don't like knitting drunk. Good thing.

I don't know what to do. I cannot cope with my wretched children. Today I had to resort to unplugging the tv and carting it out onto the front porch. Really, it was all I could do to stop myself throwing it over the railing. Only the thought of picking up all the pieces of glass from my driveway stopped me. Every day I tell myself it will be better - they won't be so awful, I won't be so crusty, but it ain't happening.

And what a surprise. I average about 7 hours of sleep a night, in 2 or three hour chunks. Isn't this what they do to POWs to torture them? Well it's working. I'll give up my secrets, my chocolate, my children just for an extended bout of sleep. Great, I get to sleep every second weekend, but it just. Isn't. Enough.

Last time I whinged to my doc about being on the edge she said I should ask for help. Great. Fabulous. Got any volunteers? My mom won't take my phone calls and besides, she's tied up in her roll as full time babysitter to my brother's kids. So nice to have her in the city. Steve has already divulged the fact that he is outdoing himself in the parenting department by coming every second tuesday evening. Lovely, really that I get to go knitting, but I have to get the kids ready before he arrives, and when I get home I have to do all the other things I should have been doing; clean up, do the garbage, pick up crap... not much of a break.

AND IF THE TORONTO STAR COME IN MY HOUSE JUST ONE MORE TIME I MAY HAVE A MELTDOWN OF EPIC PROPORTIONS. I don't subscribe, tit, and I don't read it. If you're going to bring it in, PUT IN IN THE RECYCLE BIN, for the love of Pearl.

So tell me, if I start beating my kids do you think I could stop? I don't think so. That's why I won't go down that road, tempting though it may be. It's not supposed to help anyway. Feh.

So anyone who tells me I spend too much money or wool can just fuck right off. It's better than the alternatives.

Meet Sylvi, my new best friend.