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.

Could It Be? April 14, 2008

I try not to get my hopes up. This is Rochester, and I’ve been burned before. And yet, I can’t help it. All you have to do is look at my face to know that I haven’t seen the sun in awhile (to be fair, I pretty much always look this way, but by the end of winter, I’m translucent).

The sun is out, and by George, it feels like it could be creeping up to 60 degrees. The seasonal summits of snow in the plazas are disappearing, and I think I saw something green on our back hill. It could be an empty Mountain Dew can, but I’m not using the binoculars to burst my bubble.

Local weathermen are even starting to sound optimistic. They’re a hearty bunch – easily the most reviled members of the local news, they are the cheerful harbingers of doom (and cold. and snow) 8 months out of the year. Its sort of a game of ours to guess how long the new guy (usually freshly minted from meteorology school in an ill-fitting suit) lasts – not much past January, though the persistent ones can last until February.

GASP! Shadows!

Anyhoo, the forecast this week called for THREE DAYS in the big 6-0.

And an even better antidote than a SAD machine for a long, cold, winter is: RED SOCKS (or as they say down south, REY-ed. And they sure are REY-ed).

Alas, they’re not for me. But that won’t stop me from caressing them, trying them on (the recipient has daintier feet, so I’m hoping for a better fit) or just pulling them out to stare at their lovely redness (yarn: Plymouth Yarn Happy Feet – how fitting!). The pattern is Monkey, from Knitty – my first fingering weight, and my first patterning (and only my third lace experience) sock design.

In other words, they took an embarrassingly long time.

The up side is that the self striping stockinette sock I’m doing now (Felici, in Dakota, from KnitPicks ) is whizzing by. I cast-on yesterday and am already doing the heel flap. Don’t be too impressed, though – I haven’t done much else. Like cleaning (later). Or laundry (later). Or feeding my family (takeout).

However, I did accomplish one other thing yesterday that doesn’t happen very often, and left me feeling adult enough as to fritter away the rest of my day knitting a sock. We washed our dogs. BOTH of them. Collectively, that’s 162 lbs. of dirty, hairy, cranky canine – one of which howls like we’re removing his toenails pretty much the entire time. I spent the next couple of hours brushing and drying and brushing some more – somehow, that ad I saw about spinning your dog’s hair doesn’t seem quite so silly – until, miraculously, they were CLEAN. I was filthy, but it was something.

We go to this great place to get them clean – its a self-service dog grooming place where they have raised tubs complete with collars and hooks, shampoo, treats, towels, and aprons (hah!). They even have these great high-powered hair dryers, if the dog will actually put up with it (Boo-Boo kind of liked it, Yogi felt it was a violation of the Geneva convention.)

The best part is leaving the mess behind, and hoo-boy, you better believe their was one. At one point, Yogi somehow twisted his 78 lb self onto the 4 inch ledge where the tub attaches to the wall, and took the sprayer with him. There weren’t just a few drops here and there – “puddles” is not quite an adequate word either. Think much, MUCH bigger.

Ironically, Yogi is the dog that people are most afraid of. He’s big, nearly all black, and a little jumpy, but you could never find a bigger coward. He loves to swim, but somehow, baths are simply torture. Even the seasoned dog groomers kept looking over to be sure we weren’t secretly tazing him or something. Nope – just conditioning.

The tally: 8 towels, 10-15 treats (including the ones given to the house Boston Terrier to keep him from terrorizing Boo-Boo, who really could have swallowed him whole), 1/2 bottle of Oatmeal Shampoo, 4 ear wipes, two bandannas, one extremely wet me (except where the apron was – that was dry), $40 dollars for services.

Two clean but still somehow stinky wet dogs sleeping for the rest of they day: priceless.

Oh, yeah. And we got our taxes done. Well, BG went to the accountant and HE did them. But it was still an adult accomplishment. In celebration of getting back some of our own money, we got takeout.

And I made 1/2 a sock.

CPS

It hurts when I giggle March 13, 2008

BG and I managed to give ourselves food poisoning – AGAIN – this time, with organic eggs. Considering the last episode was traced to a can of organic soup (I STILL can’t eat anything remotely resembling minestrone), BG has become highly suspicious of “that whole organic thing”. I have to admit, in my darkest moments (namely, after not being able to keep a pedialyte flav-r-ice pop in my stomach, where it belonged), I was all for bringing on the preservatives. I’ll come around once I’m on solid food again – I hear protein does wonders for your outlook.

You know you’re pathetic when:

You’re winded after accelerating from a stop light. (Stupid stick shift – who’s idea was THAT?)

You can’t remember if you’ve been to the bathroom today.

You burst into tears after going to the bathroom.

Your preschooler starts putting stickers on your belly to make it better – only to have you burst into tears.

You spend at least 5 minutes deciding: shall I have saltines for dinner, or am I in the mood for dry toast?

You think of what a good ab workout losing your lunch must be, since they haven’t been this sore since the whole Pilates-informerical video debacle.

Now that last one was just plain, desperate, dark optimism.

So as I sit here feeling pathetic and sorry for myself and surfing the web (simultaneously!), I come across this.

Wow, does that hurt.

CPS

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!

Pretzel Metomorphisis January 24, 2008

Me: How’s that pretzel stick, pal?

LG: (Mouth full) MMff.

He looks at the half-eaten stick, and I can just see the hamster wheel turning in his little head.

LG: In the springtime, these pretzels turn into the squiggle kind!

I’m guessing this is somehow related to our duck/migration conversation the other day. So keep an eye on your preztel sticks, rods, and nibbles – they may be aspiring to become twists.

CP

Half FULL, Da****t! January 23, 2008

It’s tough to be an optimist. It takes dedication and hard work with a hefty helping of self-delusion. A little ignorance doesn’t hurt either. I can’t remember what movie it was, but I remember this great quote that said, “If you expect the worst, you’re never disappointed. When things go well, its always pleasant surprise.” I think it might have been a John Cusack movie. Scary to say the Eighties were ANYONE’S formative years.

I generally look forward to each New Year’s because of my determination to see the promise in starting anew. While my typical New Year’s Eve consists of watching the ball drop while knitting, I have no problem with this. In fact, I prefer it to a crowded, weird party with a bunch of people I don’t know. Plus, that sort of occasion usually requires panty hose, which is a deal breaker.

Its actually New Year’s Day I look forward to, as I’m ALL about possibilities. The possibility of losing 20 pounds. Or coming up with THE most perfect chocolate cookie recipe (I realize the contradiction here). Or sitting in a clean house, fabulous dinner in the oven, knitting on the couch, watching my husband and son bond over a game of chess or some other equally intellectual pursuit, while my dogs (also clean) sit lovingly at my feet.

Like I said, self-delusion is a requirement.

And so I woke on the first day of the year to the sun shining, which can be rare in these parts, birds chirping (at least one – most are smarter than to be hanging around here), and the day full of promise and renewal. I walked into my lovely son’s room wearing actual pajamas (thanks, Mom) instead of the requisite sweats, letting my husband sleep/relax in a burst of altruism brought on by all this promise. And so it was with good cheer that I opened his door, and said:

“Good Morning, Sweetie! Did you have…. “

“NOOO! IDON’TWANTYOUIWANTDADDYDADDYDADDY!!! I. DON’T.WANT.YOU! DAAAAADDDYYYY!”

It’s hard to put a spin on that, even for a determined optimist. And so began my 2008. Happy Frickin’ New Year.

I’m not bothered by the fact that LG want’s his Dad – I’ve had my glory days. Heck, I singlehandedly sustained the little critter for the first year of his life, well into the 98th percentile, I might add. Many, many nights, when he cried out in his sleep or had a nightmare, he asked for Mommy. I knew that my days as numero uno were numbered. Its just that I didn’t plan for that sort of animosity until at least, say, 13 years from now.

In other news, I managed to finish almost all my gift knitting, except the biggies – a sweater and a felted bag. I have been granted an extension due to a postponed visit in one case, and out of the goodness of their heart for the other. As it happens, I was 96% done with the sweater when my worst fears were confirmed – I HATED it. I had suspected this all along, but deluded myself into thinking it would all be OK. The yarn is scratchy (it was “rustic”), the pattern annoying (it will be challenging! ) and the size? TOO BIG (Aren’t baggy sweaters in?).

Occasionally, my optimism can border on an alternate reality.

With this realization came another pressing issue – now what? I had pledged (to myself) that I was going to make a sweater for this person for Christmas (no longer “by”, but now “for”), and by gum, that is exactly what I’m going to do.

Stubborness helps immensely when you are determined to see the bright side.

The good news is that my obsession to get this done has resulted in one felted bag, awaiting lining, and 3/4 of one sweater, awaiting a second sleeve. I’m encouraged by the fact that I started the sweater a mere two weeks ago.

I’m gonna be optimistic about it if it kills me.

CP

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