I stopped counting at 63.
No matter how optimistic (or delusional) I can be about the speed at which I stitch or the amount of time I have to stitch, 63 is kind of a ridiculous number. Unless, of course, I quit my job, I stop sleeping, and I manage to talk Dearly Beloved into doing all the cooking and housework. So I decided to do what I've been doing for the last several years . . . just work on whatever strikes my fancy whenever my fancy is struck.
Therefore, this morning when I finally staggered out of bed and tottered downstairs, I pulled a kit from the basket and started to stitch. It was a gray, rainy, chilly day--not the best way to start a New Year, as far as I'm concerned--so we had decided to stay in. And if I'm staying in, I'm stitching.
Not only did I stitch, I also finished.
Wee Floral Hornbook Fob
One down, sixty-two to go.
Totally delusional . . .