There comes a time in every parent's life when their children exceed them, as they should. It could be in their sense of generosity, their astounding memory, their ease with numbers, or their fearless approach to sliding down snowy mountains on skis.
Owen is six. And, for him, one such magical moment came a few weeks ago. "Mama, guess what! I finished my knitting needles today," he said, recalling highlights of an otherwise typical Wednesday. In the four years I've spent on the fringes of Waldorf early childhood classrooms, I have learned crafts I never dreamed possible: felting, sewing, embroidery, drawing, woodworking—singing, even. But one creative outlet had always eluded me, the one for which Waldorf kids are famous. Knitting. I told myself (giddily) that I would learn to knit when Owen did, in First Grade. And I couldn't wait.
So, on this December afternoon, Owen explained that he and his classmates had sharpened small dowels with pencil sharpeners. They sanded them so no splinters might snag delicate yarn, and they oiled them to preserve the wood. The final loving touch? He glued an acorn cap to the end of each needle to keep his work from sliding off.
I was so charmed that we made a pair just like them for home—and for me to practice with, when he's not here. We borrowed a great Kids Knitting book from the library, so even an inexperienced mother could catch on to casting on quickly. And we did. The pictures were easy to imitate, and Owen's keen memory and generosity guided me. We were both hooked. He'd knit for a while each day, and then take the little muslin drawstring bag into which we'd tucked his yarn and needles to bed with him. He knit by flashlight before bed and, again, when he woke up.
One morning, when Michael went in to wake up drowsy boys, I found him laying in the top bunk. While Owen knitted, Michael spun his skein of creamy yarn into a much more manageable ball. "It's addictive," he admitted. While I was busy trying not to drop stitches and ripping out all of my work when I did, Owen was knitting. Steadily.
Owen is six. And, for him, one such magical moment came a few weeks ago. "Mama, guess what! I finished my knitting needles today," he said, recalling highlights of an otherwise typical Wednesday. In the four years I've spent on the fringes of Waldorf early childhood classrooms, I have learned crafts I never dreamed possible: felting, sewing, embroidery, drawing, woodworking—singing, even. But one creative outlet had always eluded me, the one for which Waldorf kids are famous. Knitting. I told myself (giddily) that I would learn to knit when Owen did, in First Grade. And I couldn't wait.
So, on this December afternoon, Owen explained that he and his classmates had sharpened small dowels with pencil sharpeners. They sanded them so no splinters might snag delicate yarn, and they oiled them to preserve the wood. The final loving touch? He glued an acorn cap to the end of each needle to keep his work from sliding off.
I was so charmed that we made a pair just like them for home—and for me to practice with, when he's not here. We borrowed a great Kids Knitting book from the library, so even an inexperienced mother could catch on to casting on quickly. And we did. The pictures were easy to imitate, and Owen's keen memory and generosity guided me. We were both hooked. He'd knit for a while each day, and then take the little muslin drawstring bag into which we'd tucked his yarn and needles to bed with him. He knit by flashlight before bed and, again, when he woke up.
One morning, when Michael went in to wake up drowsy boys, I found him laying in the top bunk. While Owen knitted, Michael spun his skein of creamy yarn into a much more manageable ball. "It's addictive," he admitted. While I was busy trying not to drop stitches and ripping out all of my work when I did, Owen was knitting. Steadily.
A week or so later, my muse came downstairs from his afternoon rest and showed me the makings of a large-ish knitted rooster. (It was supposed to be a small square, sewn together, but he explained that he just couldn't stop.) Looking at the life he's given to one long strand of wool, all by himself, I felt such a gush of pride I nearly cried.
I didn't, though. I just took a few deep breaths, the kind of breaths that fill you to brimming when you watch someone you love do something great. My sweet boy doesn't just know how to knit. He can repair his mistakes, with patience to spare. If I'm lucky, maybe he'll teach me how to pearl, next...
"a great Kids Knitting book from the library, so even ......"
In the article above where "Kids Knitting" is a link, it needs editing because there are two http
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