In the far back reaches of my closet, where my good intentions gather dust bunnies with my long lost dreams of “creative time”, there lies a pile of abandoned felted sweaters. I’d intended to make magical, whimsical longies & garments for my baby out of these. That was three kids ago. Current score? Kids: 4, adorable mom made felted garments: 0. I am a girl with sweaters in her closet.

I’m not sure what I was thinking. After all, I live in Southern California. On the one day each year when it is finally cold enough to wear a felted wool garment, I dig the ol’ sweaters out, do a feverish late night google search for free pants patterns, stay up till 1 am sketching out a design and make great plans. The next day it’s 85 again and I’m too tired to get out of the car for my coffee. The detritus from my late night creativity fest enjoys two weeks on my nightstand before the sweaters migrate back to the corner of the closet for another year while I berate myself in print.

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