The golden afternoon light shines into the living room. I love this time of day. My pattern says there should be 240 stitches by the end of the row.
“Nobody talk to me for a minute,” I announce, “I’m counting.”
Ah, dear. Too late now, I realise I’ve made a school girl error – never announce your intentions!
“One, two, three, four,” I say under my breath as I crochet the next round, counting each stitch as I go.
“Go Bulldogs!” screams the crocodile.
Really? What the hell? He doesn’t even go for the bulldogs, why all the enthusiasm now?
“Eleven, twelve, thirteen.”
“Whaaa! Watch it.” That’s Dad, he wasn’t expecting the football in his face from close range.
“Twenty three, twenty four.”
“Polly scares clumsy moose,” says the unicorn, pleased with herself.
“Bulldogs, Bulldogs, Bulldogs,” sings the crocodile.
“Emily walks silly fish.”
“That’s random,” says Dad.
“She’s playing that word game.”
My second mistake, contributing to the auditory chaos and the beginning of the slippery slope of my loss of focus.
“Yeah, random though.”
“Thirty five, thirty six,” getting louder now.
“Mum! Mum!”
“Hang on, thirty nine.”
“Mum! Muuum!”
“Do you like their onesies?”
“Mmm, yeah, forty five.”
“Mummy!!!”
“Can you wait a sec, I’m counting?”
“Speccie!!! See my mark Mum? Here Dad, handball!”
“Aaahh! Watch it!”
“Fifty nine.”
“Twenty five dollars.”
“Mmm, sixty two, sixty three.”
“Queen Mary eats wobbly cars.”
“Who ate all the brownies?”
Each animal blames the other.
“Dogs back in front,” the television tells us.
“Yeah!! Go Dogs dogs, dogs doggie dogs!”
“Seriously, I’ll ask you again, can you get off my arm please, I can’t crochet with you lying on me. One hundred.”
“OK.” The cuddly crocodile moves maybe 2 centimetres.
“Have we got any kindling?”
“No, one hundred and oh no, it shouldn’t be an odd number on the chain stitch, I knew I’d lose count. I’m going to my room to count this again. You lot are hopeless.”
“What’s for dinner? Mum’s Caff?”
“No, Mum’s caff is closed, you are too annoying. You can have stone soup!”
“Noooo! Not stone soup!”
The soothing golden light shines into my room. I love this time of day. Shadows of my hand dance long on the bed cover.
OK, so let’s see. “One, two, three.” I take it slowly, and this time use the cute little stitch markers that the unicorn has made for me.
Crocheting in bed always seems so indulgent. I put it in the same category as day drinking. Something that only ever happens when I’m on holiday.
I can just hear the noise from the living room but it doesn’t distract me now.
“One hundred and ninety eight! What, why?” I say aloud. This is annoying, as it means the error started many rows back. I’m not going to be able to fix it in a hurry, so I sit for a while and watch the changing colours in the sky. I remember my Mother’s voice saying “Everyone get up and look at the sunset.” I’m tempted to say it myself, but I’ve learnt that I don’t get the response I’m hoping for. I was probably just the same at their age.
When I emerge I’m surprised to find the living room silent and devoid of animals.
I sit back down, trying to work out where I went wrong with my stitches. But it’s getting dark, and seems too quiet. I head to the kitchen to open Mum’s Caff, not stone soup after all.
It’s our Friday night tradition. If we’re not at the football or at the clubrooms, Mum’s Caff provides the yellow food, so I have a night off cooking and the kids and Dad get to eat junk. But not too bad tonight, it’ll be box lasagne.
“Muuuuuuum! How long’s dinner?” Bellowed from several rooms away.
“I can’t hear you. Come here and ask me.”
A face appears around the corner. “How long’s dinner?”
“Well, I haven’t measured it but I’d say about a foot.”
I’m hilarious, and also, it seems, turning into my mother.
“Huh?” He doesn’t get it, but moves on. “Do you like my onesie?”
“I love it! Do you want to help me?”
“Nah,” he says, and skips off to find some mischief.
Oh well, he’ll be back.
I switch on the oven and the lights overhead. I love this time of day.
Amanda Gambas Author 