So I’m sitting at a weekend long peewee baseball tournament (read-excruciating boredom) trying to work up some enthusiasm for the next midget up to bat. With identical uniforms, it’s embarrassingly difficult to figure out which little unit shares your DNA. The only way I can tell my progeny from the rest is the fact that he has absolutely no ass (can’t say he inherited that from me).
A combination of sun and nachos & cheese (size large) threaten to induce a coma. Besides, the score is a 109- 0, us being the o. I’m only conscious due to a terrible case of bleacher butt (ass-ache).
So, to pass the time, I am knitting. Yes, knitting. In public. Yes, I am getting a few odd looks (from other son’s pubescently, pimply, numbskulled friends) but I’m also getting looks of – could it be – AWE?
Bleacher Baseball Mom: “Oh, I’d love to be able to knit like that. It would be sooo nice to have something to do during the games. (Hmm, maybe instead of cussing out the ref?) “What kinds of things do you make?”
BBM: “OMG, you must be one of them experts!”
Me? Expert? Hardly. It’s the felting baby. Makes your messed up stitches look like little soldiers and your half-baked handbag look like Coach. You too can look like a knitting genius. Just felt.