This is the face of a very happy almost-one-year-old. "S" is for son, and special, and snuggly.
Around our house, "S" is also for stash.
My yarn is not only intelligent, it has the power of procreation. What started a a few skeins has mushroomed into a pile of gargantuan proportions. It knows how to hide from me. It multiplies when I'm not looking. "S" is for sentient, and sex.
I can't open a certain closet, because there are boxes in there. Many boxes, all full of yarn. Big, heavy boxes that try to fall on me if the stash thinks I'm going to try to reduce its size. "S" is for squish.
I ponder the many boxes and think about the value of the yarn inside. Over the years, it is entirely possible that I have financed the purchase of someone's house with my fiberholicism. I am afraid to tot up just how much I've spent on yarn and yarn-related things. "S" is for staggering.
My husband thinks I am slightly nuts, although he appreciates hand-knit socks. My friends and family members look at me funny, although they do enjoy the wooly dividends of our continued association. I consider the fact that my yarn, expensive and occasionally vicious though it may be, keeps me happy. And sane. And out of jail. I think of these things and realize that there is but one thing to say to those who would tell me that my personal obession is, to them, weird.
"S" is for "So what?"