I don't have pictures right now of the final stockings, but all three are finished with more than a week to spare. That's like super early for me when it comes to crocheting something for Christmas. I'm usually trying to finish something up to the last minute, hoping people aren't pulling up in the driveway yet.
Mom asked for the stocking holders that we usually take around for our booth back so she could hang stockings. The thing is, the stockings are really big, and they stretch once she starts filling them, the holders won't hold them.
I'm not sure the new family members will know what to think. Speaking of which, I did have to look up the correct spellings like a social media stalker of my brother's stepkids. When Dad picked the stockings, I had to warn him that I knew I was right on the name tags I attached because he was going to think I was wrong. Turns out, presents under the tree are just going to be spelled wrong. Whoops.
At least it is pronounced the same either way. It's not like when I get to my Grandmother's house and have something with my name spelled correctly only to be called Ordra. Come to think of it, I'm not so sure my other grandmother didn't spell my name wrong from time to time growing up -- on my annual pair of Christmas socks.
If mom goes back to Christmas tradition which she sometimes does, there may be socks in the stockings. One year she went with traditions from both sides of the family and we got socks, Hershey bars and something else. Between my socks coming apart (with black fuzz all over my bedroom carpet to prove it) and Peyton raiding my sock drawer, I'd take socks. Warm, fuzzy ones. It's been cold.
I can't believe I just went on such a random trail about socks. I'm telling you, this is what my life has come to. It's all I have to talk about. I don't know what I'm going to do the next few weeks between book releases. I have some blank spots on my calendar. If you are still reading regularly, you'll be thankful to have Nick The Bachelor.