FOs and Flying off the Handle August 13, 2008

I finished not one, but TWO projects this past week. In fact, I got so carried away by Finish-itis (which I NEVER have had before, mind you) that I stayed up far past my bedtime to get the second projecxt done in the SAME day, just so I could say I did. Ask BG how personable I was the next day, but I have TWO FOs, people. Did I mention that this was heretofore unheard of?

Pattern: Liesl by Ysolda Teague
Yarn: Debbie Bliss Cotton Silk Aran, 10 skeins (I didn’t use that many, I don’t think)
Needles: US 7 KnitPicks Options
Started: July 7, 2008
Completed: July 31, 2008
Modifications: Changed to stockinette after bodice, continued garter stitch edging, bound off after about 2.5 inches of garter stitch.

Liesl is done – and she’s purty, and wearable (gasp)! I changed to stockinette under the girls to give a sort of empire waist look (but in reality, between the weight of the cotton/silk and the fact that my waist is a scant inch from my ribs, its more like my actual waist). Truth is, this was a bit of a leap for me, as I have been very much a married-to-the-pattern knitter thus far, but having the whole thing feather-and-fan would have been just too busy for me. After consulting my knitting group about my plan (thanks, ladies!) I modified. And wonder of wonders, it actually worked. Hooray!

Now I’m in search of a button to work with it – I’m in no hurry, as I inherited some cool clasps (the giant safety pin type) that are working just fine. I’ve worn it twice already, and it isn’t even blocked yet. Is that wrong?

I also finished my Jaywalker socks – finally. I’m not sure why these have taken so long – maybe its knitting wool socks in the summer, maybe this yarn, however gorgeous, has worn on my last nerve with no pattern being quite good enough for it. (You see, its NOT me, its the yarn. This beautiful, demanding yarn.) I am happy with the final result, and am already electronically window shopping for just the right shoe for them. What about these? Or maybe these? Doesn’t everyone dress around their socks?

Jaywalker Socks out of Koigu - a little loud, but I love 'em

Pattern: Jaywalker, by Grumperina
Yarn: Koigu KPPPM, 2 skein
Needles: US 1 KnitPicks Harmony DPNs
Started: May 27, 2008
Completed: July 31, 2008
Modifications: None, I don’t think

I’ve started two more projects, following my new rule: One mindless project (in this case, a pair of vanilla stockinette socks), and one more challenging project. I’m hoping this will keep me in my new mode of FINISHING things.

If you use your imagination, you can see a sweater.

The challenging project is the February Lady Sweater – well, it is for me, since there will be lace, and you know how I feel about lace. Its not that I can’t do it, its that I can’t have ANYTHING else going on when I do. Like television. Or conversation. Or breathing.

OOOOH - Stripes!

The second project is a pair of plain, vanilla stockinette socks. Am I the only person who is endlessly entertained by self-striping, self-patterning socks? Completely rhetorical question. The yarn is Sockotta, and I’m using my size 1 KnitPicks Harmony DPNs. Because I refuse to use a size 0 – so there.

So it was the perfect opportunity to cast on for the FLS during our garage sale this past Saturday. Before you’re impressed by my ability to knit AND handle the swarm of people wanting to buy my wares, let me clear that up right now – there was NO ONE. It rained. It rained hard, and it rained often. So I knit, and took the fact that I had worked on setting this dumb sale up for the last week and a half in stride. (In other words, I swallowed my frustration like a good repressive does.) I knit under stress. Probably better than drinking.

No – I didn’t fly off the handle then. It was today, when it hit me – THERE ARE THREE MORE WEEKS UNTIL THE FALL, AND I HAVEN’T FIGURED OUT WHAT TO DO FOR PRESCHOOL YET. After beating myself up for a good couple of hours (lousy mother, what have I been doing with my time, knitting! instead of researching my child’s future, etc.), I’ve made several appointments to see a few schools. To be fair, I did the same thing a few months ago, only to discover that the one we had sort of settled on was mucho expensive. I mean, second-job expensive. So to plan B.

But I have a bone to pick and a bit of a rant to go on, since I have no idea how women people (sorry, that was sexist) who work full time (i.e. all year round, unlike me, academic slacker that I am, who only works ten months out of the year) are supposed to juggle most preschool programs given they are a HALF DAY. I completely understand that its probably the most academically responsible approach, given that most 3 year-olds wouldn’t do with a full day of school. What I don’t get is how I’m supposed to make that work, AND go to work so I can pay for said preschool, AND provide for the best educational prep for LG.

Did I mention that guilt is a huge motivator to this rant?

Ahh, MommyGuilt. Guilt is huge for me – its in my genes and in my upbringing. I can’t escape it. And now, I’m being told in order for my son to get the best start in school (which could ultimately color his perception of school in general, and cause him to either love it or hate it, and if he hated it he would end up living in the basement into his forties – you see what I mean about the guilt?) I have to make it work somehow to drop him off at noon and pick him up at three. While I’m working all day.

Is there something I’m not getting? Is there a transporter available? Or some sort of manipulation of the fabric of time and space?

Please don’t get me wrong – I WISH I were a stay-at-home mom. I do. If I could take a time-out from working, I would. But I can’t – that’s pretty simple and obvious. So, I need to make it work.

The last time I felt this level of MommyGuilt was dropping LG off to daycare for the first time. Nothing will make you question every decision leading up to that moment as leaving your 8 month old with a veritable stranger. He was completely fine – I was, however, a mess. For months – in fact, I don’t remember being anything but miserable for that first year. I still have a twinge of it EVERY time I leave him to go to work. It gets easier only because I know he has fun.

This is a different sort of guilt, because I know he’ll have fun and I know that its best for him. Its not so much “I’m abandoning my child” guilt as it is “I need to do what’s best for my child” guilt (You see? I have categories). What I don’t know is how everyone else in the same position makes this work.

/rant  (That’s end rant, for those not web geeky enough.)

Sigh. Please, someone who’s smarter than me, clue me in. ‘Cause I don’t get it. I guess its a lot to ask for the answer to the ultimate Mommy/work balance, but ya’ll are smart people. Throw me a bone.

And in response to the stress, I knit. Or spin. Or pretend to shop for shoes online.

I’m off to do all three of those things before I have to shower for work, and do laundry – LG and I are going on a road trip to see YaYa the day after tomorrow. I’ve decided that 8 hours in a car – with just me and a three year old, ought to cure me of any guilt – I may want to sell him to the circus by the time we get there.

CPS

IT! July 1, 2008

I was tagged by the lovely Denise from knitting group, and boy, howdy – I feel pretty special about it. I feel a little like the new kid at school, being waved over to the cool kids’ table in the cafeteria. Now, if I can only hide my true inner dorkiness for a little longer…

What was I doing ten years ago?

I had just finished my first year teaching at RIT as a lowly (and I mean lowly) instructor, and was seriously debating the wisdom of returning in the fall since I had done such a lousy job. Then I got my student evaluations – never have I questioned my own grip on reality as with those evals. They thought I did a bang-up job. Were they actually paying attention? I think, no.

Dean and I had just gotten married the previous fall, and were still flush with the giddiness of having health insurance. For BOTH of us. With DENTAL. Woo-hoo! We lived in a thin-walled two bedroom duplex in East Rochester (which we would later buy) next to our landlords – in retrospect, we should have recognized the reality TV goldmine that was our landlords.

What are the five things on my to-do list today?

I have a few more then five, so I’ll spare you the REALLY boring ones. Like tackling the single sock basket pile.

1. Laundry. Apparently buying more underwear and socks doesn’t mean less laundry, less often. Someone much smarter than me needs to explain this mystery to me. And how is it the towels are never clean? Must buy more.
2. Grocery store. This morning’s trip was pre-empted by very dark clouds appearing out of nowhere while we were in Target. And yes, of COURSE I left all the windows in the house open, so then we had to go home, eat lunch, and then LG needed a nap… But we need to get there later, because without the essentials (sugar for coffee, bread for PB&J, chocolate) things get ugly fast in my house. While there, come up with, buy ingredients for, and MAKE dinner, instead of copping out at the last minute and getting something to bring right home. Darn you, Rotisserie Chickens, and your accompanying, expensive, convenient sides!
3. Go through my email. I detest email even more in the summer than during the school year. I almost resent it – doesn’t everyone realize summer is my time to veg, goof off, and basically drop off the professional planet? As a result, I end up ignoring it for days on end, until I get nasty “Your account is over its limit” messages and 190 messages in my inbox. Not counting the 232 in my junk folder. BLECH. I may need to come up with a self-reward to make me do it. That’s NOT food based. I’m trying…
4. Play CandyLand/Thomas’s Great Race, build a fort, have a picnic with the finest plastic food money can buy, and read books to my son (at least until I get so sleepy that I need a break). Drink caffeine. Repeat. Resist temptation to let him watch TV.
   
5. Ply and wash the last of my very first fiber. I need to watch the DVD again to remember how to andean ply. Without breaking off my middle finger. OOh, wait! I found this instead. After I finish that, I want to start on a knitted critter for my girlfriends b-day. When is that again? Oh, right – it’s today.

5a. Call Erika for B-day.

Snacks I Enjoy

• Chocolate, obviously. Dark, but sweet and unadulterated by nuts or other contaminants – sort of like the cheap wine of the chocolate world. I can’t eat milk chocolate because of the dairy allergy. My current favorite is Newman’s Own Sweet Dark – today has been a two square day. So far. (I do need to confess a strong affinity for chocolate covered blueberries, despite my claims of being a chocolate purist.)
• Chips and guacamole. I could eat guacamole all day, every day. Ask me how I know.
• Toasted flatbread and hummus, or flatbread and tabbouleh. Not recommended in the same day.

Things I would do if I were billionaire

• Pay off all of our debt, all of our families debt, and repay my parents for college. Pay off Tori’s debt. Invest enough to make sure BG never worries about money ever again.
• Build my mother-in-law her own house, next to her parents’ house on the land she grew up on. She’s been basically their live-in caregiver for years now, and needs her own space.
• Fund our families’ retirement.
• Build a house with lots of land, horses, sheep, and alpaca. Realize I know nothing about raising horses, sheep and alpaca, and hire someone who does.
• Buy BG a ‘63 Corvette split-window coupe. Not too perfect, though, so he can tinker with it and call it his own.
• Build BG a woodworking/sculpture studio. Hire Norm Abrams to help him outfit it. Enable him to build me that spinning wheel that he’s been threatening.
• Set up a trust for Nick, and give Tori some start her own coffee shop/go back to school/travel the world without-having-to-work-two-jobs money.
• Travel! Visit my dad and stepmom in NM, then travel Europe and Asia. Then maybe Australia…
• Fund a non-profit organization, benefiting any of the following: dogs, horses, babies, kids with disabilities, cancer research…
• Buy a spinning wheel. Build a little outbuilding for a craft/photo studio.
• Buy a house on the beach in Cape Cod – spend 1 month out of every summer there.
• Give away whatever’s left

5 People I would like to learn more about

Nick – I just want to hear more about the space bullet train trip to Jupiter he took during his nap. ‘Nuff said. His blog will be quite something, once he learns to read.

Tori – I already know she’s brilliant and fascinating, but don’t really get to know true life philosophies in our weekend visits. Especially lately, as I’m usually occupied with corralling her half-brother. I want to know her values, her politics, her pizza preferences, and if she’s a Captain Kirk, or more of a Mr. Spock. Or is she a Scotty? If you know what I mean. Get a blog, you! Plus, I need to know how not to dangle a participle. The blogosphere needs more english majors. Tag!

Denise – a former lawyer with six kids who spins, blogs, knits fearlessly and buys couches from eBay. How could I not want to know more?

My sister – While we didn’t exactly see eye to eye growing up, I figure now we have more in common than not. All you need to add is a blog to your great website. How about it? Those kids, dogs, cats, husband and job shouldn’t be taking THAT much of your time. Consider yourself tagged.

What would you like to learn this summer?

I guess I’m currently in progress with this one – spinning! I’m still on the lookout for that one perfect wheel for me. I have one spinning class left before I have no more wheel access, and I’m already a little apprehensive at the thought. The spindle is good, but the wheel, is.. well, better.

CPS

Happy Big Three June 5, 2008

Dear Nick -

Its that time again – time for me to collate the mental files for the last year and chronicle this, your third year (technically, it was your second – but that whole 21 century thing, while logical, just never sounded right given its not 2100).

You’ve officially crossed the line from toddler to preschooler/little boy.

Yesterday, you were decked out in your shorts (with new longer skinny little legs), sunglasses (Crayola, of course), red Converse all-stars, and your new airplane watch. (Nothing transforms a little kid into a bigger kid than a watch). While it is extremely difficult in these sorts of instances to not grab you up and give you about a million kisses on your not-so-chubby neck, all the while telling you how painfully cute and grown up you are, I restrained myself with no small effort Instead, I told you that I loved you, and that I was so proud of what a big boy you have become. You told me you loved me back (I figure I have another year or so until I get the eye roll as it relates to Mommy being sappy) and returned to your “Hey, Pancakes!” book. Did I mention you were sitting on your potty at the time? Sigh.

Your latest thing is to ask me how to spell everything: while I love this from a developmental/learning point of view, it always seems to be at its height before I’ve had coffee. Spelling “refrigerator” is WAY more difficult from this perspective. (Also challenging: garbage disposal, marsupial, and chalkboard, for some dumb reason. It has, however, made me spelling bee-ready. Amorphous? Bring it on.)

Your sense of humor has also seemed to come into its own – you’ve become quite the teller of jokes (except you usually crack up before getting to the punch line). But as I’ve said before, neither I or your Dad have any illusions regarding the sophistication of our own humor – if it falls or flatulates (is that a word?), its funny. And nothing makes your Dad giggle like a schoolgirl than the scene in Austin Powers, International Man of Mystery, of MiniMe beating the cr*p out of Austin. Like I said, you don’t have much to work with.

But back to your favorite jokes, such as the following:

“What is a ghost’s favorite dessert? BOOO-berry pie”!

“How does the ocean say hello? It gives a WAVE!”

At which point you collapse into a riff of what can best be described as Cleatus-inspired laughter. Or Roscoe P. Coltrane, depending on your generation.

Not content to deliver your lines without your own creative twist, however, the original joke is usually then re-delivered with noun in the punchline replaced with “poop”. Or “poopy-head”. Or “tooty-head”. I know not what is this thing that attracts and amuses young boys (and let’s face it – all boys/men) to anything rear end-related. Its like a hard-wired Y-linked funny button. If you don’t believe me, walk into a room full of people, and say “FART!” at the top of your lungs. Then check to see who’s smiling. It’s not the women.

I do admit at being enormously and completely proud of all that you can DO now, even though you tell me all the time, “Don’t be proud of me!”. (But you dressed yourself! I can’t help grinning like an idiot!) I also know that you’re both sensitive (to the point of mind-reading, see previous sentence) AND stubborn – which are two characteristics I have mixed feelings about having passed on to you. Though the stubbornness can pay off in the form of terrier-like tenacity, and the sensitivity is already making you into a kind and generous little boy. You’re pretty giving with your affections, and are even showing Yogi (your nemesis!) a little love now every so often. You bring BooBoo his ball when you think “he looks sad”. It also, however, confuses the heck out of you when another kid yells at you, or is mean to you. And your little quivering chin breaks my heart, because I know there’s more to come. And that it will be HARD. And that there’s not a thing I can do to help, other than hug you when you need it.

The stubbornness is evidenced by the whole resistance to the potty thing, but I keep telling myself that you will be going on the potty by the time you’re twelve. I hope. All I know is that you’re already in “Goodnights” (the diapers for big kids who wet the bed sometimes) full time, because at 46 lbs and 48 inches tall, you’re a wee bit big for the Pull-ups/diapers anymore (they only go up to 5T). Pretty soon we’ll be using Depends.

You’ve become quite social lately, especially with the ladies. And I do mean ladies. The other day you asked our waitress if she liked your sneakers. And at the grocery store yesterday, you stuck your face nearly between the scanner and the cashier trying to catch her eye with a smile. Your subtle moves crack me up, mostly because you’re willing to share just about any and all information (“I’m three! I have four engines! I need a diaper change! I like boobies!”) except your name. At that point, you become “shy”. Somehow, shyness didn’t prevent you from entertaining the entire produce section at Wegmans with a spontaneous rendition of the I Love Boobies song (a Nick original, apparently). While I’m working on teaching you the meaning of the word appropriate, this lesson is not helped by the fact that I can’t really keep a straight face when trying to lecture you about time and place.

Your favorite things at the moment (and have been for some time) are your books. Any books. All books. Library books, kid’s books, even Dog Training for Dummies. (The other day, you had pulled out Setting up an LLC, and were apparently riveted). Your current favorite books, in order of repetition, are Hey, Pancakes!, Harry the Dirty Dog, and Who Stole the Cookie from the Cookie Jar. That’s pretty much how you like to conduct your days – eat, get dirty, eat some more – preferably something sweet. Repeat.

One of my favorite things at the moment is our talks right before bed, after we’ve read at least three books, and you’re in your robot jammies. You’ve already run around and “gotten the junk out”, and are sitting, sometimes quietly, in my lap. Our nightly discussion of late has been what to dream about; last night, it was that you were going to build a rocket ship out of your crib and that giant box that your beanbag came in, you were going to Pluto, and you would make room for me and Daddy, and Tori (and even Yogi and BooBoo, but we would need to make spacesuits for them first). We discussed on how it was a really long trip, so you decided we needed plenty of snacks; a whole box of granola bars, M&M’s, and lots of juice boxes. The ones with the funny faces that they have at the grocery store (that I never let you get).

We’ll be getting you a big boy bed soon (another baby-hood relic you don’t seem too keen to let go) – that, with the giving up of the Paci (thank YOU, Paci Fairy!), sitting on the potty, the fact that you could now have a booster instead of a carseat, that REALLY you don’t need a booster in a restaurant – its all so much so fast. You are transforming so quickly into a little man that I can’t seem to easily let go of the baby that you were. But you remind me every day about how what a unique, brilliant, funny and kind little boy you are (and are growing into). And while I’m more and more nervous as you engage the world outside ours (and I’m less able to control what you see, what you hear, or what you experience), I know your good heart and sharp mind will serve you pretty well.

I love you, big boy. Happy Three.

Love,

Mommy

P.S. I’m really sorry about the potty picture. If this is uncovered during a future gubernatorial campaign, you have my permission to declare me insane and tuck me away in some beachside villa where I can subject you to no further public embarrassment. But if anyone asks, you’ll always be my cutie-patootie.

Dear Christye, May 18, 2008

This is your brain. We need to talk.

I’ve put up with a lot from you. Your caffeine/no caffeine waffling. Limited sleep (I think you killed off at least a third of my guys with this one). Soccer. The Bachelor.

I’ve been trying to let you know ever so gently. I made you forget your office keys. You sent your Mom her Mother’s Day gift, but did you know you billed her for it? And that great gift you sent your Stepmom? You should know you haven’t sent it yet. I dreamed that one up for you. I’m pretty convincing. And when you bought the overpriced soy latte and promptly forgot about it? All me.

Here’s why I’ve been trying to get your attention: I can’t STAND the whining for ONE MORE SECOND. You may be tired, or have work to do, and LG may be going through a bit of a rude independent phase but guess what?

You’re REALLY lucky. Allow me to list why. (I’m a brain. I like ordered lists).

• I got to sleep in on Mother’s Day. Until 9:45!
• There’s fresh flowers on the table. MMMM, Lilacs… (quiet, nose!)
• Your boy tells you he loves you at least once a day.
• Your husband does the same, every time we talk on the phone.
• You wore your new, freshly knitted, snazzy striped socks yesterday. The feet reported they were overly warm, but it was worth it.
• You get your summer off in two weeks.

I could go on. But you get my point. There are lots and lots of people who have it far harder than you do. Like nurses. Or the homeless. Or pretty much the entire continent of Africa.

So suck it up, stop your whining, and be grateful. Or I will continue to check out on you at the most inopportune times. Like the time you restarted the car, even though it was already running.

Love,

Your Brain

P.S. The Heart wanted me to give you a message – a brisk walk now and then wouldn’t kill us.

HELLO….hello…ECHO…echo March 3, 2008

Yes, I am in fact still here.

I’m not entirely sure why I’ve been so neglectful of the blog of late. It could be because I’m not feeling all that interesting, or that the chronicles of what its like in Rochester in late February doesn’t seem all that blog-worthy. Or it could be that I’ve just turned 36, its flippin’ -30 degrees (or thereabouts) outside, my beloved Subaru seems to be rebelling in a big way against the new kid in the driveway (more about that in a bit), I have a single inch-square of emergency Ghiradelli in the house, and I’m hip-deep in grading. BLECH.

So much for my promise not to wallow. My apologies.

On the upside, I’ve learned to make socks. ME. The probability of me pulling this off was really right up there with losing 20 pounds, winning the lottery, or discovering the secret to Barack Obama’s charm (my vote is on subliminal messages, or some kind of hypno-blinking. Or maybe he just smells good). Needless to say, I’m ridiculously pleased with myself. When I turned that heel, it was like the heaven’s parted and the hallelujah chorus kicked in. And don’t even get me started on grafting/kitchener stitch. I was already rationalizing how fashionable it would be to have toeless socks – pedicure socks! Brilliant! – when, quite surprisingly, at about 1:15 am, I got it (Knit, slip, Purl…Purl, slip, knit…..). And behold, there was a toe. And it was good.

OK, I had some help. A lot of help. I took a sock knitting class. For the non-knitters among you, this may sound like a pretty sad way to spend three consecutive Saturday mornings. And I would probably agree that knitting socks sounds about as exciting, say, as a 25-year anniversary “Thriller” video tribute. (I told you I was feeling old.)

But I and my fellow intrepid sock knitters were a united front, giving moral support and sharing mutual tales of woe, until one day, one of us produced…a SOCK. (It wasn’t me – I was in the remedial section). The reception of that first sock by the group was on par with the arrival of a newborn baby. We passed it around, cradled it gently, =at its beauty and construction, and oohd and aahhd at how soft it was.

Now you’ve gone from mocking to pity. But that’s OK. Because I’ve made not one, but TWO PAIR at this point.

These are barrel-distortion induced cankles. Really. Ask any optical engineer. Please.

Doesn’t everyone put their handmade socks on their nightstand? Right next to my copy of Friday Night Knitting Club and my cinnamon schnapps nightcap (like mouthwash, but you can swallow it).

I’m graduating to fingering (sock) weight yarn – the REALLY COOL yarn, on teensy-weensy needles. These things (size 1) are nearly microscopic, and feel so delicate I’m afraid to hold them too tightly (which I feel myself doing, along with not breathing, on account of not wanting to drop a teensy-weensy stitch). My hands have never felt more like meaty mitts as they do when I’m using these needles.

I feel like I’m in the “man-hands” Seinfeld episode.

Quarter break is approaching (have you noticed the correlation between finals week and blog entries? Sheer coincidence.), and I am quite looking forward to spending some quality time with my boys and my yarn. Because that’s how I roll.

(The one cool thing about getting older is that you really begin to care less how un-cool you truly are. Peace out.)

CP

P.S. I think our new too-cool-for-us Scion xD must be sticking its tongue out at our poor lonely Subaru, because the latter has developed a wonderful crunching noise when turning, a gas perfume that’ll knock you over, has burned out one headlight and one fog light (almost like winking), and has begun to sing the siren song of an alternator on its way out. And the check engine light is now on. All in the last week.

There are good reasons for this. One – the inspection is due, uh, tomorrow. Two – we paid off the darn thing. Three – we bought a new, young, cheeky car, and the middle-aged gal’s feelings are hurt.

I’ve tried reasoning with her, telling her that we’re just giving her a break – 50 miles a day for 6 years – you’ve earned some time off, my friend! It didn’t work. She proceeded to short out the headlight-switch wand thingy and chew up the wiper blades.

Qualitatively Speaking January 28, 2008

Experiment Purpose: To see if I get migraines after eating chocolate

The Method: I will eat some chocolate, and wait and see if I get a migraine. (Pfffff. Scientific research is EASY.)

3:48 pm: I eat 1/8th of The Best Chocolate Cookie Ever. This is the same cookie recipe that triggered my previous episode, and contains an excessive amount of dark chocolate. It is less a cookie than it is a plate-sized chocolate bar with chunks of cookie dough holding it together. I wash it down with 1/2 cup soymilk to reproduce the variables from the previous incident. That, and this cookie SCREAMS for a milk chaser.

4:01 pm: So far, so good. My faculties are intact, my balance good (well, as good as it ever is), and the afternoon light is casting a pleasant glow (as opposed to driving hot daggers into my frontal, occipital, or any other lobe). I go up to check on LG, who has slept WAY past normal nap limits. He’s awake, and upon seeing me he bursts into tears. “I want DAAADDDY!” Hmmm. Empirical study may have been compromised by secondary headache inducing factors.

4:33 pm: I’m feeling some slight twinges of headache every so often – sort of like someone flicking a rubber band inside my skull – nothing coming anywhere close to the humdinging, slingshots of fire I was experiencing last week. The smell of LG’s blueberry yogurt isn’t even making me any more nauseated than usual (I know its good for you, but the stuff is just gross). I may be in the clear. However, the viewing of Teletubbies may seriously compromise the experiment. Between that and the chocolate, I may actually have some sort of full-brain hard drive failure.

4:48 pm – 1 hour post-consumption: No change. Teletubbies viewing neatly averted with promises of Playdough.

Conclusions:
I seem to be SLIGHTLY sensitive to chocolate most of the time, and REALLY sensitive to it at, ahem, other times. I fail to see the irony in that the time I can’t have the chocolate is the time I MOST need it. I will endeavor to conduct further experiments to determine the upper and lower limits of my cocoa-derivative tolerance. The fate of my household equilibrium for one solid week a month lies in the balance.

CP

P.S. Those of you who visit often may be marveling at the unusual frequency of posts in the last few days. Have I been unusually inspired by life events? Not really. I have an enormous pile of work staring me down (literally, heh), but I refuse to cower in the face of it. So I do other things. Like clip LG’s fingernails. Or clean out my makeup drawer. Or attend a sock knitting class. Or conduct and publish “experiments”. Everyone has their process. Don’t judge me.

Running Commentary January 28, 2008

LG is getting to the phase in his life where he makes comments. And exclamations. ALL THE TIME. This may sound odd and rather ordinary, but its a big leap from “I’m hungry”, to “Pie for dessert? That’s great!” He’s always had an opinion, but has never been quite as eloquent in his sharing. He is 2 and 3/4, after all. It seems that his vocabulary, awareness, and cheekiness have all come together, like some kind of preschooler perfect storm.

Exhibit A

Scene: Sitting at the table, eating a lovely snack. Some quiet, busy eating. Then, out of nowhere…

LG: The dog isn’t green!

I don’t even know how to reply. What dog? Dogs in general? Our dogs? What dog do you know that’s green? Which dog isn’t green? What the heck are you talking about?

Exhibit B

Scene: Getting ready for, and then eating, dinner. This is, word for word, exactly what comes out of his mouth in 240 seconds.

“This one (sink) is dirty and has some food. You are using one of those soaps! You see bubbles? Is it about ready? Is it hot? BooBoo’s trying to eat my food. He is! He’s trying! He’s not sitting. All the way down, BooBoo. I want a cup of milk, Daddy. Please. Scuse you, Daddy. I put it (milk cup) all the way over there so Yogi and BooBoo don’t eat anything. I put it (milk cup) right there for somebody else can eat it. Is your tummy full (Daddy)? What’re you having (Daddy)? What’re YOU having (Mommy)? I’m licking the sauce. Does Mommy want a piece of (Daddy’s) bread? Is that toast over there? Can I have a bite of your toast? Thank you, Daddy!”

And in the meantime, he somehow found the time to down 6 cherry tomatoes, a entire serving of macaroni and soy cheese, a cup of milk, and some of his Dad’s toast. All while carrying on snappy banter worthy of a White House dinner, or at least, a high school cafeteria. Granted, some of the above was punctuated by single word/syllable responses by me and BG, but we only managed to interrupt for 3 seconds, at best.

Then, as I’m writing this very entry:

“What you doin’ there, Mommy? What’re you doing with the buttons? What’re you doing with the letters? (Noticing old, unmailed Christmas cards) Those snowmans have no hats! They have NO! That’s the baby. These are all kind of things at our backyard. These are all cards. Round round round round ran, ran, ran: blue blue blue blue! (Sung to the tune of London Bridge is Falling Down.) I want Daddy! One car can going up, and jump and juuuuump. Peanut butter! Same for the other! Jump, Jump….and plop. Mommy! I’m holding this up! Can I put this up here so I can drive on top? The car is on top! It’s like a blue baby monster. This is for NO MORE RACE “R” CARS….”

It could be existential genius. I clearly wouldn’t know.

CP

P.S. As a completely personal, self-pitying, off-topic rant, I need to share the following: I MAY BE “SENSITIVE” TO CHOCOLATE. Lately, whenever I eat it, I get the most sickening, throbbing, pounding noggin-ache of my life; at least until I eat chocolate again.

Where did I go wrong? I have no vices. I don’t drink, smoke, poke fun at people (except myself) or watch cable. I’m clean, polite, and obey most traffic laws. I throw the end pieces of the bread off the deck for the wildlife (Sorry, Honey). I even recycle. Oh Universe, why do you smite me? I don’t even eat dairy!

What on earth will I call my blog/alter ego in the face of a chocolate moratorium? I can only be so clever so often, you know.

What about dessert? Is there even such a thing without chocolate? Shall I just suck on a sugar cube?

Stupid Universe. Just for this, I’m NOT building a compost bin. HAH!

Call Me Darwin December 16, 2007

I’ve decided that there’s an excellent reason why children are so cute, so aesthetically appealing to adults: it allows them to survive their childhood.

We’ve entered toddler Bizzarro world in earnest:

Me: Why don’t we go outside and play in the snow, buddy?

LG: Okay, we can wear special pants.

Me: That’s right, your new special snow pants. Let’s put them on.

LG: NOOOOO! I DON’T WANT THEM, I DON’T WANT THEM!!!!

Me: Okay, well, if you don’t put on your pants you can’t go outside and play in the snow. Besides, when we get back in we can have hot cocoa with marshmallows.

LG: IDON’TWANTHOTCOCOAIDONTPUTTHEMONIDONTGOOUTSIDE!

Me: Fine.

5 minutes later:

LG: If we go outside, I can put my snowpants on.

Me: Okay, pal – that’s great. Put your foot in.

LG: NOOOO! IDONTWANTTOWEARITNONONONO!

Me: (Heavy Sigh, Reaching for Bottle of Tequila) Okay, buddy, fine.

10 minutes later:

LG: Can we go outside?

Like I said, that cuteness is no accident. It’s a biological imperative.

CP

Can you keep a secret? November 9, 2007

I can. Its one of my talents, I suppose. Some people are athletic, others good at math. I can keep my mouth shut. It may not come in handy as much as math (= Nobel Prize, or at least being able to calculate tip) or athleticism (= $$, endorsements), but it has its moments.

The second week of October is big in our house – BG’s birthday is the 10th, our anniversary is the 11th. This year, it wasn’t just any ol’ anniversary – it was our 10th. (We’ve been sharing the same space for thirteen years, actually, but you don’t get credit for the pre-marriage years. Maybe because they were probationary.) Since the tenth is the Tin Anniversary (or the modern equivalent, aluminum), the obsessive gift giver in me really needed it to be both a)Memorable and b) Keeping with the metal theme. I came up with a doozy, if I do say so myself: Race car driving lessons.

Those of you who know my husband know this is potentially a dangerous idea – not because he would hurt himself – he’s actually an excellent driver – but because it would be like giving heroin to a former cocaine addict. BG was very into cars and hot rods growing up – he has many fond memories of various male family members driving him and his cousins on country roads, very fast. This was in the days before shoulder belts, or even seat belts, in some cars, as well as, he feels obliged to point out, without strict DUI laws. He fondly recalls the six-pack rattling as he and his cousins butts’ rose off the seat over a particularly fast hill.

My next problem was how to pay for it. Being a race car driver, for even just a few hours, is not cheap (I’m sure a good portion of this fee goes to their liability insurance). So as relatives began asking what to get BG for his birthday, I mentioned my idea, and viola – donations to the BG-Racer fund began to come in. After some quick math, (with calculator of course), the tickets were bought. I’ve never taken longer to hit “Submit” in my entire life – I think I sat there for at least an hour.

The day of our anniversary arrived – though I was empty handed, I told BG that he needed to be ready and caffeinated for a significant amount of driving the following Thursday night. It was an Oscar-worthy test of my mettle – I told him nothing more than he needed to pack for two nights and put a full tank of gas in the car. My fabulous mother-in-law (who contributed significantly to the BGRacer scholarship) was coming that afternoon to hang out with LG while we were away.

He quizzed me and asked me and tried to be sly, but I was having none of it. As scheduled, we left right after my lecture on Thursday night.

I gave him turn by turn directions (for FOUR HOURS), hoping that his spatial superpower would fail with a lack of visual stimuli – I wouldn’t let him look at the map, and it was pitch black out. Sure enough, these factors short circuited his internal mapping ability, and he had no other clue where we were other than the “Welcome to Pennsylvania” sign.

The mystery remained as we got up bright and early the next morning – we needed to be there by 7:45 am, and I wasn’t taking any chances. So we were out of the motel by 7. I won’t comment on how attractive we were, but I did manage a shower and a cup of tea for me, coffee and danish for him.

It was pretty foggy out, but out of the mist emerged the giant “POCONO RACEWAY” sign, and BG muttered “No WAY.”

From then on, he was smiling so much I think his lips stuck to his teeth.

We went through a half-hour of orientation – me, BG, and three other couples and a single guy. We sat through the informational DVD, which, in all honesty, I tuned out as they were talking about the geometry of turn 1. It was more fun to surreptitiously watch BG as he soaked up every word, every moment.

“THIS makes it go very fast… “

The other significant others and I settled in to watch as the boys got suited up for their ride (in addition to the drive, they got a three-lap ride as well). I am proud to say that BG was the only one that didn’t struggle to get in through the window – must have been all that “Dukes of Hazzard” as a kid. For some odd reason, I kept hearing theme music in my head, which ranged from the Rocky theme (when he was getting suited up, helmet in hand) to “Sweet Home Alabama” (when they were pulling out), to AC/DC’s “Back in Black”. Not ordinarily on my internal playlist, but there was an awful lot of testosterone floating around.

Happy BG. VERY Happy.

At this point, it was becoming mistier and mistier – not raining, precisely, but the air was becoming more and more sauna-like; only without the heat. Sitting on the metal chairs under our pop-canopy, we (the other ladies and I) began to seriously chatter, teeth wise. And turn 1 was becoming a mystery – as we watched, the cars disappeared into the fog. This didn’t bode well – after all, those headlights are only painted on.

BG arrived back a few minutes later – turns out, three laps go pretty quickly at 160 MPH – with the report that they may not get to drive today. But he seemed not bothered at all by this info – he was positively giddy. I scanned my brain quickly for any withheld information that would upset him ordinarily – “They were on sale…I know its a lot for yarn, but they’ll be GIFTS…I forgot to take your T-shirts out of the dryer”, because now would be a GREAT time. He was impervious to disappointment, bad news, even shoe shopping. But I came up empty.

He didn’t get to take his drive that day, but we got a rain check for the following spring. As it turns out, I think this was a perfect way to go, because now he will have the benefit of anticipation, too.

Later that day, we went to an outlet mall, where I went, you guessed it – shoe shopping. On our way home, we took a “detour” so that I could go to Rhinebeck Sheep and Wool Festival.

Still smiling…….. and note the race car hat hasn’t come off, even for a nap.

Meanwhile, I’m manhandling all kinds of pretty yarn…

All natural dyes – can you stand it?

I probably could have garnered all kinds of sweet deals for myself at that point, like lifetime exemption from cleaning the bathroom, weekly pedicures, or no diaper changes for a month. He was feeling, literally, no pain – not from shopping, or from walking around looking at people looking at yarn. He did eventually retire back to the car for a nap, but even for that he held out an awfully long time. Just IMAGINE if he had access to a race car all the time – what a happy boy he would be. But for now, I think him getting to sit in one and take a ride is pretty darn good.

I’ll keep you posted on when he actually DRIVES it this spring. We may not be able to get him out.

CP

Please Stand By October 13, 2007

So sorry for the delay in updates. As many of you know, I’ve been dealing with something big and unfortunately, rather devastating. A few weeks ago, I was ten weeks pregnant. Now, I’m not.

In the hormonal roller coaster that’s followed, there are several things that have become evident:

1. My family and friends are the best people ever. EVER. Thank you so much everyone, for everything. I couldn’t say it enough.

2. My husband is the most compassionate and selfless human being I’ve ever known. He’s handled his leaky wife and tantrum-prone son with an amazing level of humor and grace – I may need to add this to his list of superpowers.

3. Grieving for something that was never really there is odd, but I’m letting myself do it anyway.

4. Blood is important. Not having enough makes you feel…well, sucky.

5. Dogs are great therapists.

5. PlayDough with a two year old also makes for excellent therapy, as does spelling nonsense words with refrigerator magnets with aforementioned company.

6. I have an addictive personality that seems to assert itself in times of stress. While the Tylenol with Codine was the most obvious choice, craft seemed like a healthier way to go.

Case in point, in the past two weeks, I have completed the following:

• The Green Gable sweater, for myself, from Zephyr Style

• A baby hat made from bamboo yarn, loosly based on the candy top swirl hat from HandKnit Holidays by Melanie Falick

• Baby Mary Jane’s from a great verigated pastel version of the same bamboo yarn from Knitting for Two by Erika Knight

(The two items listed above are for my adorable new niece Georgia Calliope, born 9/18. Good work, Cindee and Mike!)

• A Christmas gift knit made with some handspun to be revealed – but very cool

• So-Called Scarf, out of Manos De Uraguay Yarn

• Two plush monsters, one for LG and one for his cousin, new big brother Donovan

The monsters are probably the thing I’m most proud of, only because I’m not the best sewer. I used an old sweatshirt for LG’s, and a felted sweater for Donovan’s (much easier and more forgiving for a lousy sewer to hide her mistakes in).

A pretty blatant rip-off of the UglyDolls, but nicer. I wanted to make these guys the friendly defenders of the nightly boogie monsters.

I started this because I felt that since his new baby sister was getting a few goodies, big brother shouldn’t be left out. But since a) I have zero energy or inclination to leave the house and b) am trying to save money, I thought something handmade would be the way to go. Hand-knitting something would take to long, since I wanted it done by the time the other stuff finishes blocking and drying, so it could all be mailed out in short order. (Of course, I finished them within two days, but the real delay came in taking pictures of them…yada, yada, yada – two weeks later, they’re FINALLY getting mailed!)

The problem (pointed out in item #6 ) is that since making the two monsters the day before yesterday, I’ve sketched out six more to be made for….somebody – in my current state, who these things are for seems unimportant. Instead of doing things I should do, like clean the house, I’m likely going to the thrift store for more materials for the monster mash. Who knows, maybe I’ll make myself one to chase away the hormonal monsters.

CP