Were You Raised in a Prehistoric Barn?

I do not know when the term 'biological clock' was coined, but I'm betting it happened with the discovery of natural light.  When that first cave person etched ruts in the kitchen wall to record the daily ascension of the big, hot, yellow ball over the smoking volcano, she exclaimed - probably on the second day - I'm almost at the end of my ten-year life span!  WHY HAVEN'T MY CHILDREN INVENTED BOWLING?

Or words to that effect.

After exactly one day of kindergarten, my daughter Abi came home and matter-of-factly stated, "Mama, I forgot to learn how to jump rope."

Arrrrgh!!!!  I have often wondered since that day - What the heck else was I doing for five entire years?

Most people develop a sense of impending SOMETHINGness at a certain point in their lives.  Personally, I am nagged by the fact that I have not yet started to practice Grandma Stuff.

True, I'm not a grandmother at this moment, but what if it happened in the future?  Would I magically understand how intricate lace doilies are born and grow up to be dusty doll skirts that hide Kleenex boxes?  Is there a snowball's chance in Phoenix that a perfectly browned peach cobbler would emerge from my recipe file, much less my oven?  And - most importantly - WOULD MY GRANDBABY'S CRIB BE LITTERED WITH THOSE ADORABLE STUFFED CROCHETED OCTOPUS DEALS?

No.  It would not.  None of these things would happen, and so I set out to rectify what I could.

I left the doily part of the equation up to the Salvation Army since those things will survive in thrift store "Housewares" until long after everybody dies.  It's a comforting thought, in case I need to buy one someday.  Let's say one of my Grandchildren-To-Be writes a report on World-Class Oddities of the Past, and cannot for the tiny life of them think of one thing to use.

"Stand back," I'll say.  "These things bite."

My hope springs eternal for a hands-on class totally devoted to peach cobbler.  I know better than to trust myself with an online lesson, as I am inevitably drawn to the magic part of the computer that lets me check in on important people like Suri Cruise.  (Lightning Prayer:  May the Gods of Procrastination have mercy on my soul if many more royal babies arrive in England during my lifetime.)

My list-slashing left me with the crocheted crib buddies.  Not a problem!  Our local yarn shops understand laziness like mine.  I signed up for a Beginning Crochet class that met four times, and I fully expected to make an animal on the first night.  Okay - not a real complicated animal.  Maybe something nearing extinction so a future grandchild couldn't question the appendage dimensions.

I had a lot of faith in our teacher - a very sweet YOUNG person who will be more than crazy-prepared when her grandchildren arrive.  She had crocheted the shirt she was wearing, as well as her socks, tote bag, and possibly her pants and shoes.  I was psyched!

Our first assignment was a scarf.  Honestly?  A scarf?  Didn't the first cave persons crochet these out of boredom using each other's hair?  I watched a lot of safari shows as a child.  That cave person spare time should have been used to invent leggings for those mini-leopard dresses, or perhaps a sewing machine that could get a hem straight.

I raised my hand and asked to make an animal, which made the teacher smile - so happy to have the class idiot reveal herself right out of the gate.  But I am nothing if not a problem solver, so I decided I'd simply turn my completed scarf into a crib snake.  Duh.

We were told to begin with 20 stitches, but I wanted more than that - 20 stitches would only make a garter snake!  So I kept going and almost stopped at 30, but that is such a predictable number.  Thirty-two sounded a little better, but I loved the roundness of 33.  However - you guessed it - that's an odd number.

I stopped at 38, which turned out to be a LOT to keep track of back and forth on each row.  We were warned about the hazards of accidentally adding stitches by picking up an extra loop on the way across, or dropping stitches by not picking up that secret, hidden loop on each end.

My technique was fairly consistent - I picked up extras and dropped originals in almost equal numbers.  As the scarf grew, the raggedy sides staggered in and out, resembling the path a rat takes through a maze after scarfing down eighteen Hershey kisses.

The "finished edge" option was not made available to me, and not only because I didn't finish my assignment.  My teacher couldn't figure out where to start without first defining which part most closely resembled an "edge."

Luckily, in the second class I got to put my scalloped partial snake away and start dishcloths with everybody else.  Dishcloths?  Box turtle bodies!  Obviously!

I did my best with directions written in a code that would have shortened World War II by at least a year.  After a few circular "rows" I decided to use my Glass-Half-Full approach and create a line of Crocheted Abstract Animals after I retire.  They'll come equipped with names that give important clues to help figure out their species.  Fun!

But a more important decision came to me after the classes were all over:  I'll tell Abi the truth.

1.)  Kleenex boxes get more "attractive" every year - no ornamentation necessary. 

2.)  Sara Lee has surely died by now, although her company lives on and has got to be using organic peaches in their cobblers.

3.)  Babies who cuddle up with stuffed animals riddled with giant, randomly spaced holes run the very serious risk of weird skin rashes. 

What matters is that since the dawn of time, long before the invention of the jump rope, parents have loved their children and grandchildren with a ferocity that apparently won out over that of the saber-toothed animals. 

I forgot to learn how to do all kinds of things.  Formulating the perfect priority list wasn't one of them.

(Do you hear that jungle beat in the distance?  It will be louder than heck next Friday when I tell you all about Women Of The Drum.)