The older daughter's Wallaby is done. I will get a picture of it eventually, but at the moment she is wearing it with pajama bottoms while doing housework. I am trying to control my horror as this is probably evidence that she likes it. And that is more important than the fact that she's going to butcher the bloody thing before I even get my camera out. Deep breath.

I could make a long list of its imperfections (like screwed-up Kitchenering on the garter rim of the hood, sickeningly obvious joins of new yarn, one wonky stitch in the placket...) but I won't. They'll just be my little secrets.

The best news: it fits me too. If I don't get to steal hers, at least I know what size to make my own.