Pitt Stop Hat

Another of The Designer Daughter’s idea’s coming to fruition:

There she stands, her tiny little frame with her beautiful sweet little voice, asking me “Can you please make me sumfin wif this?” Holding out in her small, star shaped hands, a ball of whatever took her fancy at the yarn shop this morning.  Today’s purchase: A ball of pinkish yellowish awesomeness that reminds me of the old fruit salad sweets which I’ve not seen in years…. and Penelope Pitstop.  Yes, my childhood was awesome.

Normally, I’d develop some sort of allergic reaction to anything pink, coming down with the bubonic plague within 24 hours and generally behaving like a man with flu… but who am I to deny my princess?

So I find myself asking her: What kind of ‘sumfin’ would you like? She replies “a hat”… I swear this kid owns 20 already, but I indulge her (she is, after all, my princess…) so next question… what kind of hat?

Off she goes to root through my stock bag… She’s seen something, maybe just an element of something, that I’ve already made, that she wants in this new hat.  She’s telling me about a pink and purple hat with a “spiky fing” on the top, gesturing with her little hand, and huffing impatiently when my blank look is clearly exasperating… I’ve made 350+ hats at this point, and I’m trying manically to run through anything vaguely matching the description… brain is not in gear today… come on, child, give mummy a break I’m allergic to coffee and slept for about 20 minutes…

Me, STUPIDLY: “Do you mean a pompom?”

The look I got was pitying, disgusted and exasperated… all in a 3 year old, [who knew they arrived with this kind of capability at such a young age?!]

Response “NO, Mummy.  NOT a pompom… a spiky fing.  Like you have on your head” (Don’t you dare laugh, I’m NOT a tellytubby!)

Suddenly I remember a tiny hat I made as a photo prop what seems like decades ago but could have only been last year… A ponytail hat.  OK.  I’ve got my instructions.  Off I go, hooking away to craft her latest headwear.

After a few rounds I ask her how it’s looking (ie…does it pass Mumble Muster?).  She stands at the side of my glider chair, her hand touching my arm gently and lovingly, rises to her tiptoes, peering to inspects my efforts and gives me an unsure look.  “You didn’t do a spiky fing”.  She might be certain that nutty old mummy forgot about the all important detail.  That there has been a communication breakdown.  That she has been misunderstood, that, her most hated emotion is about to happen: The feeling of failing to get what she wants across clearly.  Such weight for someone so young to carry.

“I’ve not finished yet, the spiky fing comes last”.

She looks a little sad.  So I explain to her how I plan to create her visionary masterpiece.  She sees that I’ve neither misunderstood nor forgotten her wishes.  She knows that I’ve gotten all the information, and will deliver what I’ve promised: The hat she sees in her head.

Suddenly, that fabulous look of awe returns to her eyes.  The “mum’ll fix it” look.  The look I treasure and prize most highly.  The “My Mum Can Do Anything” look.  I swear, if her faith in me was any stronger I’d be able to taste it.

I’m grateful every day for the belief that little people (and the other big person) in this house have in me.

The total, unwavering and absolute faith that I will come through for them.

Always.