Her fault entirely.
Hear me out, and you will agree.
Maybe I already told you this.
My Mom loved to knit and crochet and do various things with wool and fiber while I was growing up. When I was put to bed, she would stay up for hours making something. To feed her habit, she visited yarn shop frequently. I accompanied her.
She was always in a hurry, her pace was fast and furious, I could hardly keep up with her. I had to run. I hated shopping with her. I refused to visit any other shops than yarns shops with her. If I needed clothes, she would ask if we should go shopping and I always told, No! I don’t need anything.
Yarn shopping for me was more fun than shopping for toys. I still remember the smell of the wool shop …and the ladies behind the counter. Mom once bought me a little box of angora yarn, ten light blue balls, all wrapped in silk paper. What a treasure!mutism, condition where child refuses to talk in various occasions and I would not talk in the shop, but I could stare. And while I stared at the wool, it left no one cold ... or puzzled, oh! they knew what I wanted.)
If I was sad and needed something to cheer me up, Mom took me to the yarn store. If I had done well in school and needed to be rewarded, Mom took me to the yarn store. If I was bored and did not know what to do, Mom took me to the yarn store.
No wonder I keep buying yarn. I could do worse, I am sure there are worse options, I just cannot think any right now, because what else is there than yarn … and books. (My other habit is book store, but for that I can blame my father and that is another story.)
While I read your comments, I hear that you all have thought about the stash and its size and you all have very good reasons why it is about the right size, or why it could be little bigger even. There might be an odd ball here and there in need of a new good home and busy hands, but mostly the stash seems to keep us all warm. One does not need to knit or crochet it all, it just the same keeps us cozy.
While I write this, the post brought me a little note. There is a small parcel at the post office waiting to be picked up. There is something fuzzy. Just the right amount to tuck into the little holes in my stash. More about it later.
Wool with you,
PS. I don’t remember what happened to the angora yarn. I was not good at finishing things then (am not good at finishing things now), I was always better starting them (am always better starting them). My Mom never told me to finish the previous project before buying more. She never spoiled my plans nor took away my enthusiasm. If she had been different, my stash might be smaller… or nonexistent, which could be sad. So, you see, she is to blame.