AN: A fun little detail I noticed while watching the Burton film - all three Gloops are wearing sweaters that look a little handmade. My new headcanon is that Mrs. Gloop knits, so, of course, write a drabble about it.
A Good Yarn
The basement of the butcher shop was a museum to the Gloop family's history in the meat industry - an odds and ends collection of dull, out of use knives, ancient grinders, and old signs framed by cobwebs. But upstairs, above their apartment, the attic was a shrine to what happened behind closed doors, of the personal history of the family.
Mrs. Gloop had ventured upstairs to find something - a suitcase/winter clothes/Christmas decorations she honestly couldn't remember what she was looking for when she stumbled across a box that she forgot all about. Smiling to herself, she pulled it up and decided to take the journey down memory lane, where her old hobby went to die.
All parents went through the same thing upon welcoming children into their lives. Her father allegedly used to paint before having a family. But she was little, there was no time for to pull out an easel and sit at the mountains' base and paint the sky. Her mother's hobby was cooking, so it never went away with the addition of a daughter.
But before Augustus arrived, she used to knit. Beautiful things. Rich, thick sweaters. Detailed cabled socks. Soft, complex afghans.
And the box housed them all. They were all baby things, things she had knitted prior to or while expecting her son. Bonnets. Booties. Blankets. The sweetest little red cabled sweater that she had knitted in the 6-month size rather than the newborn, anticipating that any child she would have would never be able to squeeze into such a tiny thing. (Her choice had proven useful, as Augustus was a little more than twelve pounds when he born.)
As her baby grew (rather quickly, at that) out of the knitted wardrobe she had never gotten around to making much of anything for him. If anything, it was never as intricate as the things she knitted prior to his birth. A Stockinette hat. A few washcloths. A scarf, maybe. She just didn't have time with keeping up with her ever-growing child and husband's business. There was alway something - customers to attend, meals to cook, books to keep.
But Augustus would be turning eight in February. He was getting older and (as much as this brought a tear to her eye) he wouldn't be needing his dear mama as much anymore.
Who knows? She set the sweater down in the box and pulled out a pair of needles. Maybe she could find some time to pick knitting up again?