It Was Never About the Yarn

It all started with yarn. Literally. My Mom's a knitter. She was sitting on the couch, lamenting her woeful first attempt at knitting as her toes poked through the many holes of the blanket draped over her. She had crocheted for many years before, and decided to teach herself knitting. This blanket was the end result of a several months-long journey of connecting loops. A contrast to her comfort zone of knot-making with crochet.

Her knot-work was impeccable. From bulky beanies to delicate doilies, she was truly an artisan. But in connected loops, she had much to learn. She decided that the blanket, after spending ten years decorating our couch, would be retired. It didn't keep you warm anyway. But we had a habit as a family of keeping things in our life that didn't keep you warm...

She wanted to throw the blanket away. It wasn't worth salvaging. A fitting metaphor for her preferred method of problem solving. She had done the same years before when she left the house she shared with my Dad and sister. The relationship, like the blanket, had too many holes. I woke up one morning to find her gone. No note, no conversation, just gone. I was six. She just threw us away.

We were left with the tattered tapestry of our family, and I was ill-equipped to weave in the loose ends. Even today, thirty years later, I'm still looking for them. Except now, my Mom and I are back in the same house for a while, and I find myself trying still to keep us warm again.

I didn't want to throw away the blanket. I suggested simply unravelling the yarn, and repurposing it for something new. But it was anything but simple. It was double-stranded, and riddled with knots. She may have been good at making them, but getting them loose was another matter. She often lacked the patience. She would get defensive if I tried to help.

But it was never about the yarn, and it all began to unravel when I made the choice to call her on her readiness to defend, even in the absence of a willing foe. I was her daughter, after all, not an adversary. But it didn’t matter. After years of living in a defenseless marriage, she overcorrected. The pendulum swung the other way once my Stepdad died. The narcissist may have left the building, but he still lived in her mind, rent free.

My Mother began to see almost every interaction I had with her as a threat—to her self-worth, to her capabilities, to her sense of self. And all I was trying to do was to love her.

It was like I was six years old all over again, looking for my Mom, and finding her nowhere in sight. She was there, but she didn’t keep me warm.

It was a painful realization when I learned that it was because she didn’t know how to. She couldn’t keep herself warm. There were too many holes. Like her blanket, she’d have to unravel it to make something new.

But she will have to do that work herself. Part of growing up is seeing your parents as human, and perfect in their imperfections. It's not your job to fix them, or to fix anyone, for that matter. That can be a tough pill to swallow for someone who so desperately wants to see their parent happy again.

In the meantime, I’ve learned how to keep myself warm. I’m still left trying to weave in the loose ends, but I've learned to do so with grace and compassion. For myself, and my Mom. In the end, our unravelling was the beginning of something new.