When I was pregnant, my nesting urge took the shape of wanting to knit, needing to knit.

I've never knitted. I didn't have the patience for it when I was a kid in school, and quickly discovered I didn't have a patience for it as an adult. Or, what's worse, the skill. I am notoriously clumsy, something that isn't much of a problem for a writer (well, not in the age of computers, anyway. I shudder to think of writing longhand), but is a big problem for a knitter.

Still, my motherly hormones were a hard boss, and I bought pretty colored yarn and persevered with the knitting needles, knitting small and ugly thingies that I told myself I would be able to sew together to make a baby blanket.

My pregnancy was cut short after only six months when my daughter was born prematurely. I spent the next 15 weeks in the NICU and the knitting urge vanished in the face of greater urges, such as keeping my daughter alive and myself relatively sane. But I'm quite sure that if I'd made it the whole nine months I would be a master knitter by now.

Now I want to knit again. No, I'm not pregnant. I just discovered Yarnbombing.