During my last stay in hospital I found a wonderful crochet pattern for a soft toy. It is rather an endearing looking elephant, with a long graceful trunk, floppy ears and four sturdy legs. I find it irresistible, and despite my lack of practice in crochet I decide to give it a try. When I tell Rachel about the project she thinks little Ziva will be enthused. She asks me:
“Do you remember that soft toy you made for us when we were kids Mum?”
Creative genius
I decided to be the resourceful sort of mother you read about in magazines. The children were to be admirers and beneficiaries of my creative efforts. Since spatial awareness is not one of my strengths, things did not go according to plan. I had the idea of making a cow with some lovely soft material, a little kapok for stuffing and enough enthusiasm to create a herd.
Curbing my tendency to be slapdash I carefully cut out the template. Two sides of the cow; quite an achievement for me. My art teacher at school used to look at my efforts with pity, and his comments might rise to: ‘Good ideas, less successfully carried out’ and other such encouraging gems.
I was feeling very proud of myself. Carefully I sewed the two sides of the soft toy together. It was going well, until 10-year-old Rachel pointed out the fatal flaw.
“Mum, I hate to tell you, but there is something wrong with the cow.”
“Nonsense” I protested, with the confidence of a soft toy connoisseur.
“Well look at its legs!”
I studied the beast. There was no denying it; where four legs should have been, there were, strangely, only two.
I couldn’t understand it. I had put the sides together myself and each had two legs. I knew that two and two made four. What on earth could have gone wrong? I had created a two-legged cow. Even Dolly the sheep managed four legs, despite being cloned.
When Daniel had picked himself up from the floor, and wiped his eyes, his comment was almost encouraging.
“Well Mum, at least you’d never get one like it in the shops.” Our two-legged cow was unique.
I probably should have left the project right there, but somehow my disappointment spurred me on.
“I can sort this out!” I reassured the children. Using the remains of the kapok I fashioned another two legs and stuffed them.
“This should do the trick,” I told myself. I noticed the new legs weren’t very symmetrical, but my impatience had kicked into gear by then. I needed to prove once and for all that a four-legged cow wasn’t beyond my capabilities. When I attached them to the ailing bovine I ended up with a creature Professor Frankenstein would have been proud of. It still lacked its full quota of legs, but with the addition of two pendulous udders attached wonkily underneath by my clumsily inadequate stitching. Not one of my proudest moments.
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