The other day, the kid went on a school outing. When I asked where they were going, he gave me a very detailed explanation: “some garden, or nature, or… stuff.” He also announced—very seriously—that he would bring me back a present.
Fast forward to the afternoon. He comes home, slightly mysterious, slightly proud, and very dirty. Then, with great ceremony, he slowly unzips his anorak, makes a funny little face, and carefully reveals… a tiny strand of wool. (And no, you really don’t want to know what his hands looked like at that point.)
Turns out they had been to a farm, where the kids got to try things like spinning wool. He later admitted that he wasn’t all that interested in the whole “sheep-clipping, fleece, spinning” process. But the idea of bringing home real wool—wool that he had made himself, no less—clearly won him over. And somehow, that little fuzzy string made it all the way home in his pocket.
This morning, he checked back in with me. Very serious again.
“So… what are you going to make out of it?”
Pause. Thoughtful look.
“Do you think it might become a cardigan?”