I thought I’d found the perfect gift. It turned into a disaster

It’s the thought that counts. This was my mantra as I contemplated a gift for my mum’s 80th birthday. What, I wondered, was appropriate for such a milestone? She already has necklaces and scarves and vases and scented candles and enough fragrant soaps to last a lifetime.

“I could visualise the blanket immediately. It would be large, in sky-blue wool, and it would be marvellously soft.” Credit: ISTOCK

I would, I decided, give a gift from the heart. I would make a special present with my very own hands. I would write her a poem! No, I’ve done that before. I would paint her a picture! No, she’s the artist, not me. I would compose a birthday song! Ha, no. I don’t play an instrument.

And then, inspiration! I would knit my mum a blanket.

I have knitted before. During lockdown, I took up knitting for the first time in 30 years. In just a few months I made a scarf (with pockets!), three wonky jumpers, a blanket for each of my kids, and a throw rug for our couch. My mum was impressed, and looked at them longingly, but I never made anything for her.

What a perfect gift. I could visualise the blanket immediately. It would be large, in sky-blue wool, and it would be marvellously soft. Mum would treasure her birthday blanket for the rest of her life. I could see her at 100 years of age, sitting in her easy chair, with that precious, hand-knitted blanket draped comfortingly around her shoulders.

I raced to my local haberdashery and spent $120 on 10 balls of luxury merino wool. I retrieved my knitting needles from the top of the cupboard and got straight to work.

Two weeks and three balls in, I was making excruciatingly slow progress. The needles, I realised, were far too small and the stitches were far too tight. The blanket had the tension of a welcome mat. It would smother my mum in a minute.

I finally finished the blanket. It was huge, soft and glorious. Glorious, but a little misshapen. I could have left it alone. I should have left it alone.

KERRI SACKVILLE

I sighed, unpicked my knitting, bought some bigger needles, and started the project from scratch. I quickly discovered that the unpicked wool was too kinky and frayed to reuse, so I returned once more to the wool shop to buy replacement yarn.

The new blanket was much better, though progress was still very slow. I’d allowed myself three months to make the gift, but time was ticking away.

Six weeks from the birthday, I ran out of wool. Back I trotted to the haberdashery. Another $120 down. The project was getting tedious.

Four weeks from the birthday, I noticed an error. Four rows of stitches were out of sync, about 30 rows from the top. I told myself it was fine – there is a crack in everything, that’s where the light gets in, etc – but all I could see was the flaw. My wonderful mum deserved a perfect blanket. I unravelled the rows – about two balls’ worth of wool – and re-knitted them with gritted teeth.

Three days out from the birthday, I finally finished the blanket. It was huge, soft and glorious. Glorious, but a little misshapen.

I could have left it alone. I should have left it alone. But no, it had to be right.

I did some research. Apparently, if I washed the blanket, lay it flat and pulled it into shape, I could make it perfectly symmetrical.

I had three days up my sleeve, plenty of time for the blanket to dry. I put it in the laundry on a wool wash.

After 20 minutes, I heard a terrible thumping. My heart – my pure, hopeful heart that had knitted the blanket with love – seized in fear. I tiptoed with trepidation to the machine, opened the door, and pulled out … a bath mat.

Yes, my mum’s sky-blue blanket, knitted from hundreds of dollars’ worth of luxury merino wool, was the size of a bath mat and the consistency of a dried sponge. All those months, all that work, all that money, shrunk to a rag.

I cried. I railed. I went through the five stages of grief. There was denial (No! No! This isn’t happening!), bargaining (I can stretch this back into shape!), rage (I am the stupidest person in the world!) and depression (What is the point of anything?).

By the day of the birthday, I finally reached acceptance. Off I went to a homewares shop, and bought a factory-made, sky-blue blanket. The stitching was sublimely excellent and it was perfectly symmetrical.

I told my mother the tragic tale and, of course, she understood. She bravely accepted the shop-bought blanket, wrapped up in my profound regret. “It’s the thought that counts!” she said, though handmade gifts are nice, too.

That evening, I gave the giant blue sponge to my partner, and asked him to put it in the bin. But when I opened his car boot a couple of weeks later, I was shocked to see a glimpse of sky blue. It was my shrunken blanket, the perfect dimensions, as it turns out, to be repurposed as a boot mat.

My partner loves his boot mat, though it was never intended for him. I guess the thought doesn’t count much at all.

Get the best of Sunday Life magazine delivered to your inbox every Sunday morning. Sign up here for our free newsletter.