Can't make it small

When I was on my mission, one of my companions taught me how to crochet.  She taught me the basic stitches and then said I would have to start out with dishrags.  I didn't want to start out with dishrags.  I wanted to make an afghan.  So that's what I did.  It was huge, stretchy, and had various widths.  It was awesome.  (It was later destroyed when I realized how much awesome-er I could do.)
It's not my fault.  It must be a gene and I know exactly where it came from-- my Dad.  Years ago, he took a stained glass class at the community college.  They learned the skills, made their little boxes, and then had a final project to do.  I'm sure most of the students skated by with the least amount of work possible.  Not Dad.  He made two long panels to go on either side of the front door of their house.  They are beautiful and have been a part of that house since I can remember.  The setting sun shines through the browns and reds and casts colored lights on to the floor.  Lovely.  The whole house is full of his beautiful creations.  When he had his sprinkler head accident and his face was so badly damaged, one of the things I worried about was his ability to create more stained glass art (probably the least of his worries).  His eye had to be reset in a new metal cheekbone and the doctors never did get it quite right.  I couldn't believe that he would be able to do the intricate work involved in placing those little pieces of glass just so and then soldering them together.  I underestimated the body's ability to compensate and the drive my dad has to create beautiful things.  It was after the accident that he did my favorite work-- a pair of redwing blackbirds that reside in the window so that one of the first things you notice about the house as you drive down the road (besides the red roof) is that sweet bit of Weiser wildlife designed by my brother and built piece by piece by my dad. 
That isn't where I wanted to go with this post, but it just came out.  That story is an amazing one.  Where I was going kind of pales in significance. 
My sister in law makes darling crocheted rag rugs and has inspired me.  (Sorry, Christi, I can't let you keep this to yourself.)  I made a little one, just to see if I could.  It's okay.  It kind of curls up around the edges.  Our TV room floor is getting hammered by chairs being scraped across it and things getting dropped.  It's looking sad.  To get a rug is cost prohibitive.  So.  Being my father's daughter I have decided that I can make a rug that will protect a whole room.  I should have been taking pictures, but I never remember that part.  It is now just over half the size of our king sized bed and getting very heavy.  I think that's huge, but then when I throw it on the floor downstairs, it looks like a baby blanket.  It already has 7 sheets torn into strips and crocheted together in it.  I have to keep going back to Goodwill to find blue or white sheets.  I don't want to count the times I've had to take rows apart because it has started to ripple.  Back in the beginning when the rug was a mere baby of 1 1/2 x 3 feet, I had to undo the whole thing and start over because my base was wrong and the whole thing couldn't be fixed.  I did use the opportunity to teach Alison about repentance, so I guess there was something good in that, but I felt like crying. 
I'm not sure how much further I can go with it.  I don't know that I can lug it around as it gets bigger.  I don't know if there will be enough white and blue sheets in the greater Maple Valley area.  I'll just keep going until one of us gives out.
P.S.  100% cotton sheets make your hands hurt when you tear them into strips, but the poly/cotton blends do not.
There are a lot of strings created as you tear the fabric into strips.  Have kids handy to strip all of the strings off, like corn silk off of the cob.
Be careful as you pull the strings off.  String cuts like a knife and hurts just as bad.
If you weren't an asthmatic before, breathing in all of the fabric dust will make you one.  I feel for the furry lungs of the people in material factories.
Your husband will not like the constant tearing sound.  Do it while he is away.
Roll your fabric strips as you go along.  If you get too much built up, it is like untying your kid's shoelace after they let a fellow 2nd grader tie them and then quadruple knot them.
It really is better to take it apart when you notice something going wrong that to keep going, hoping it will resolve itself.