Until glaucoma took away her ability to see the details, my mother knit a sweater for me every Christmas. I can remember most of them. My least favorite was a traditional Scandinavian pullover in red, white and blue she made for me when I was in 3rd grade, even then my color palette was subtler than that. My favorite was a longer tunic sweater she knit in a dark sienna with a Scandinavian knit border print from hip to mid thigh with sienna, pumpkin, cream and dark forest green. One of the most stunning was one she knit of variegated yarn that through serendipity happened to have the exact number of stitches so the yarn formed a gorgeous argyle plaid pattern on the front panel. She knit a gorgeous lacy shell one year that was so soft and made with such fine yarn I could squeeze it into a ball in one hand. The last one she made before her vision dimmed permanently was a soft dove gray, seashell pink and white Scandinavian cardigan with silver buttons. I loved my sweaters and their loss is one of the harder losses from our house fire.
That’s why I dislike the “Ugly Christmas Sweater” trope. How can a sweater made with love ever be ugly?