Knitting Taught Me To Accept My Imperfections As A Mom

For months after my second daughter was born, I painstakingly knitted a pair of socks with a tiny set of knitting needles. But I couldn’t stand any dropped stitches or other mistakes, and I ended up unraveling and starting over again so many times, I eventually gave up.

The tiny socks, in various forms of incompletion, stuck in the back of my closet, haunted me.. At the time I was staying at home with my two young daughters, an infant and a 3-year-old. Unused to handling multiple children, I was often in tears out of frustration. There was near-constant screaming as the baby cried to be breastfed, and wails  from my toddler who wanted more of my attention.

I wanted to be there for both of them 110 percent of the time. As a kid, I was the child who would chuck an entire drawing if there was a mistake, who would enter art contests and cry inconsolably if I won less then first prize. I spent hours painstakingly perfecting the rise of a horse’s nostril and its intricate muscles in third grade. And the world rewarded me for this perfectionism, too. I won academic awards, a dozen scholarships, a full-tuition ride to my first university, and acceptance into very prestigious undergraduate university and master’s program.

Part of why I wanted to give up on knitting was that the validation came in slow repetition of quiet work the reward was the work itself. I had a hard time giving in to the peacefulness of doing something quietly, with no expectation other than to make something in and of itself. My mistakes glared at me every time I forget a stick or counted the wrong number of stitches on a pattern. Every sock I made seemed to reflect that I had always been imperfect, and maybe, deep inside, unworthy of the  rewards I had earned.

Now caught in the throes of screaming, potty accidents, tantrums, and projectile pooping from the baby, I was in a world I had never encountered. Although I have a very supportive spouse and family, I felt like I was in a vacuum, helpless during the day. ”How am I going to do this?” I would say to myself every morning. ”And what mistakes am I making that will harm my children?”

I wanted to offer everything to my children that I thought they deserved: peaceful parenting while teaching self-discipline, only organic, non-sugary, unprocessed food, exclusive breastfeeding. I set the bar high, and when I was weeping on the floor with toys around my feet, I felt I would never live up to it.

Now pregnant with my third child, I understand that perfectionism is a my worst enemy. Not only do I not have time to make everything perfect, but it is an unhealthy way of behaving that teaches my daughters not to believe in themselves. But it took a friend to introduce me to a beautiful way of knitting that helped teach me this.

At a small knitting meet up a year after my second daughter was born, she showed me the gorgeous, chunky scarfs that she could whip out in a night’s worth of working. Any mistakes she made were hidden, and seemed part of the artful texture of the piece. The secret: larger needles, bigger yarn, and the willingness to talk and socialize while you knit.

I tried it. Suddenly, I could laugh, multi-task, and enjoy knitting. I was relaxing. Recently, I began knitting a chunky baby blanket for my third baby, and I was surprised to look down while I was knitting in the doctor’s waiting room to see how much I had completed. Something in me had changed.

I remember when my first daughter was born how hard it was to just be, to take in the smell of her hair, to hold and rock her without thinking. There was always something to do, something to worry over in my mind until it followed me to sleep and crept into my dreams. What was the sore on her bottom? Is she getting enough calcium? Is she walking okay? Is she bruised on her left arm from a fall that I didn’t see? I should ask her preschool. The questions I asked myself would not stop.

The repetition of knitting, however, somehow taught me to give in to the moment, to be mindful of an action while letting go of thought. Thoughts are useful, and certainly a portion of a mother’s worry can be useful as well to problem-solving. But quality of life should be more important that a mother’s aim at perfectionism and a hovering sense of nature.

It took me a long time, but now I can laugh with my children on the floor without worry seeping into my thoughts, can lay with them on the coach and think of nothing but their soft bodies that I keep warm. If there are any rewards I receive from motherhood, this is it – motherhood itself.

(Photo: Shutterstock)