Procrastination+Desperation = Craft! November 29, 2007

I did it again. Instead of working on the three web sites I should be working on, I’m goofing off. Seriously, this has to stop. I’m on a canvas moratorium for the foreseeable future. Really.

Nick the Racecar Driver. He’s not three yet, but I thought 2.6 would look weird.

This was another test, this one with a coat of black paint on the canvas that I let dry for about 24 hours before painting over it. I was originally going to sand it after it dried to give it a neat color/texture. I still might, but only in the background. I like the way the red didn’t quite cover the black (though the blue did – I SHOULD have known that. Damn color theory.) The only bummer is that it really doesn’t “go” with the other one I did because the colors are so much more muted. The boy likes them, though. He keeps asking when we are going to hang his paintings.

Maybe we should do an opening. LG loves to serve hors’devours – he’s always bringing me “cheese” (refrigerator magnets) on “crackers” (potholders).

(Sorry about butchering the spelling of the small snack foods served before meals – apparently WordPress doesn’t know how to spell it either.)

CP

A Great Excuse November 27, 2007

Christmas, and surrounding holidays, are a terrific excuse to justify all sorts of craft projects that ordinarily my inner voice would be all over me for:

IV: It’s yet ANOTHER project, don’t you have enough started ALREADY? Besides, isn’t there dishes/laundry/grading to be done?

Me: Quiet, you – It’s for a Christmas present.

IV: Noooooooo…..

My inner voice fades out in a Wizard of Oz “I’m melting” sort of way – gifting is my guilty concsience’s kryptonite.

I’ve had it in my head for awhile that I wanted to try and paint something for Nick’s room – originally, it was going to be a mural, but the thought of painting over it eventually was not compelling. So I decided instead to do an actual PAINTING, on canvas and everything. BG, ever the voice of reason, suggested I get some “practice” in first – a couple small canvases, a few tubes of acrylic and moi.

Five hours later:

Once it dries, I’ll paint “Nick’s Construction” on the door. He told me once that he was going to work – when I asked what his job was, he said, “Dump Truck”.

Disclaimer: I completely ripped off the wonderful artist that does the Big/Little, Yummy/Yucky books – I haven’t really found a style of my own yet, and after all, this was just practice….Shut UP, conscience!

You know where this is going: I could make gifts with this new trick I can do! To the art store!

CP

Off the Sugar Wagon November 9, 2007

Or is it on? I can never remember.

Even though there was a distinct possibility of refusal, I was determined to make LG’s Halloween costume again this year. There was a tiny snag, in that every time I asked him what he wanted to be, he replied, firmly, “A pumpkin”. Not that I have anything against pumpkins, but part of me was hoping for something, well, a little more fun. Besides, I had no illusions that he would keep a pumpkin costume (you know, the ones that basically turn you into a giant beanbag) on for more than 30 seconds.

So LG and I were off to the fabric store to buy supplies. After browsing through pattern catalogs, I became aware of the fact that only two sets of people are apparently supposed to wear pumpkin costumes: toddlers and adults. This presented a problem for my guy – as he is currently wearing a 5/6, there were no sizes for KIDS. What’s a parent of a monster-sized toddler to do? All the kids costumes were all wrong – he doesn’t care about Superman or Spiderman – his interests range more along the lines of Elmo and Thomas the Train. But those don’t come in 5/6.

As I began to resign myself to a “Bob the Builder” plan B (overalls, plaid shirt, a hard hat and we’re done!) that I knew he wouldn’t really be into, we came across costumes for dogs. Specifically, a hot dog. Eureka!

A few yards of yellow, red and tan polartec later:

Mmm, hot dog boy.
In typical fashion, I completely winged the entire thing – I made a tube for the body, basically like a hot dog tube dress. To this, I attached a stuffed “mustard” section through a whole bunch of hook and eye’s (turns out iron on velcro – or iron on anything – and polartec is not a good idea. It returns to its plastic origins from whence it came.) Then I made two buns that attached to his back with velcro (this I could actually sew on). The flaw in my plan is evidenced by the oh so subtle string that’s tied around his waist – the “buns” were too big and too heavy and flopped around enough to actually throw him off balance. This is what I get for putting the thing together without my structural engineer/consultant (BG).

Suprisingly, he not only wore it, he kept it on for the whole block – the string self-destructed, and one bun, then another, eventually came off (actually, I took off the second one as he was decidedly off balance – a big problem with the steep neighborhood driveways). Turns out, he really likes trick-or-treating; I had thought we would visit our closest neighbors, say hi, and then head back home to hand out candy, as we did last year. Instead, after each house, he would say, “a couple more houses” – we even went to the resident scary house, complete with music, black lights, skeletons, and various spectres peeking out from the bushes and windows. LG was not fazed in his quest for candy.

We eventually arrived home, at which point he could have one piece of candy. Of course, his choices were sort of limited, being lactose intolerant (though we did give him one tiny candy bar earlier in the evening, and paid for it later). The lollipops, luckily, were the most fascinating, so we let him have one. Being his first, he didn’t really get the idea of sucking on it – he’s more of an instant gratification eater. Before we knew it, he had sucked on it hard enough and long enough that the whole thing ended up in his mouth, soggy stick end and all. BG did some extraction before it got out of hand.

First lollipop…Daddy gives a needed lollipop consultation.

Suprisingly (given his family history), he didn’t ask for his basket of candy again – maybe he will get the “I’ll eat it if its there, but otherwise no thanks” approach to sugar that his father has, rather than the “Give me the sugar NOW before you get hurt” problem that I seem to have. I’ve gotten a lot better over the years – I try desperately to avoid refined sugar, but definitely partake of pretty much all other kinds. Luckily, candy has never really been my thing, but it helps to not be able to eat 90% of it.

I know, I’m a mean mother, depriving my son of the sugar legacy he is entitled to. Maybe at least I can postpone it for a little while longer – at least, until next Halloween.

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

Testing…Testing… September 1, 2007

Its my fault. I was feeling cocky, flush with parenting prowess, and I think I’m getting my commuffins. (Like comeuppance, but tastier).

Just a scant three days ago, LG and I ventured out to the garden/feed store for some dog food. A risky proposition given that a) Dog toys look an awful lot like kid toys (hmm…coincidence?) and b) taking a toddler in public is always risky. I pushed my luck further by allowing him to WALK instead of riding in the cart.

I’ll tell you what happened – nothing.

He was perfectly behaved and lovely, charming to the cashier, and positively gentle to the giant mastiff that agreed to be petted (Baxter, as it happens). On the drive home, I felt a surge of parental satisfaction. I thought to myself, “Wow, maybe I’m not so bad at this after all! All those time outs paid off! He really listens to/respects me! And (this was the nail in my coffin) I think it might be easier now that I’m getting the hand of it!”

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Two days ago, Mr. Hyde replaced my lovely, well mannered boy. I’ll give you an example:

Me: Let’s go downstairs and eat breakfast.

Him: NOOOOOOO! (Legs flail, fists pound)

Me: That wasn’t a very nice way to talk to me. Can you try that again?

Him: No, thank you, Mommy.

Which is still saying, Heck, no, Mommy, I’m not doing what you say (albeit politely).

Now I’m in a pickle. Do I praise him for being polite, or scold him for not listening? I try both.

Me: That was better, pal, but we still need to go downstairs.

Him: I don’t WANT to!!!

Me: (Blood sugar dropping, getting uglier by the second) Well, bud, Mommy asked you to, and you need to listen to me. Remember how we talked about nice boys listening?

At this point, he’s turns away from me, in the exact opposite direction of the stairs. He plops himself in front of his bookshelf and proceeds to pluck books off the shelf. Not to read, but just to tick me off (OK, I may be projecting just a bit.)

It worked.

I put my hand over the book he’s looking at and say: “Do I need to count?”

Like a whirling dervish, he starts pinwheeling his arms. Toward me. Sure enough, he lands a few.

What ensued was 45 MINUTES of timeouts, talking, negotiating, more attempted hitting, and convincing. Why? Because it took him that long to tell me “sorry”. Not for lack of understanding – several times he told his Daddy – “I don’t WANT to. I don’t SAY it.”

Meanwhile, I still haven’t had my Optimum Power cereal with soymilk. I’ve mentally upgraded to waffles with maple syrup and bananas.

Somewhere, my dad is laughing his head off. He remembers a similar incident, where as a child I (allegedly) refused to drink my milk. For two hours. It began as a simple “You can’t leave the table until you drink your milk.” So I sat. And he sat. Until, finally, he said through gritted teeth,”You either drink your milk or you go right to bed.” At which point I said, “Goodnight, Daddy!”

Sorry, Dad. But you can take comfort in the fact that the universe has repaid me in kind.

Of course, you could argue that both of these parenting attempts had more to do with stubbornness than an actual discipline strategy. Whose stubbornness is greater is the big question.

I did manage to get him downstairs. He did tell me he was sorry. I admit to feeling a split second of victory parental satisfaction, but it was pretty hollow. Or maybe that was just my stomach.

CP

A Fool and Her Yarn… August 20, 2007

I’ve been knitting lately – A LOT. It occurred to me that having a blog about knitting and works in progress is tough because, well, all my knitting is for other people. Probably the same people who read this blog, or at least, know of its existence.

Why do I only knit for other people? I honestly don’t know – I’ve been trying to rectify it (I started a summer sweater for myself, stopped it, started it again when I was all done with my gift knitting, thought of another gift project, stopped it again, started it again when I told myself it was stupid to start another project). Guilt is probably a big factor – yarn costs money after all, and hey, if its for a gift that I would need to spend money on anyway, and y’know, Mom LOVES silk, so this yarn is totally worth it…

I realize this perceived altruism on my part is really hiding a purely selfish and possibly dangerous addiction to yarn. I don’t expect most people to understand, but there is something about the stuff that’s like heroin. I once combed the not-so-vast yarn resources of Rochester to find one skein – just one skein, man, that’s all I need – to finish BG’s Sweater That Shall Not Be Named. Long story short, it is now the sweater that shall not be finished (turns out that buying an extra skein for a project IS a good idea), but I was scary efficient as I expanded my desperate search to include the entire Finger Lakes Region, parts of Pennsylvania, and Canada. I even look it up on eBay every so often.

I know I’m not alone in this particular affliction – yarn stores (none here) have “yarn tastings” where you come in and knit with a variety of yarns you’ve been coveting, and some very subversive (read: hip) sites have something called “yarn porn” (its not what you think – its close-up pictures of yarn, usually taken off of flatbed scanners, so you can see every color and variation). OK, I found this last thing a little disturbing, but at least it tells me there are others out there.

I suppose as addictions go, its not so bad (I tell myself): its not fattening, it’s a terribly productive way to watch TV, and of the senses, I think touch always gets the short shrift. Knitting with a nice, soft yarn is as comforting as petting an incredibly soft, warm, multicolored cute thing – and making a sweater out of it. And haven’t you heard? Knitting is the new yoga. I have to admit, it feels a little weird and not altogether good to be involved in an activity that is considered hip or hot, but I’m willing to bet its not going to elevate me into either category.

Since I DO want to show and tell a little bit here, I’ll start with a warning: If you are my friends and family, have a major life event/holiday coming up, one of these objects may be for you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you – GIFT SPOILERS AHEAD:

This baby kimono was done from Mason-Dixon Knitting for friends who had their uber-cute little boy a few weeks ago:

Yarn: Peaches & Cream
Needle: No idea – maybe a three?
Buttons: Jo-ann’s

Knitting baby things is fabulous. They’re quick, super cute, and you could just eat up the result even if you did a terrible job. Case in point – for this sweater to fit, the baby needs to be shaped like Jabba the Hut. But its too cute for me to care. Eat up, little Ryan!

This next one is for a great friend who is leaving for Chicago, who has amazing fashion sense and an absolutely incredible ability to wear things that no one should be able to wear (a wood grain skirt, I tell you! And she looked FABULOUS.) Anyhow, making her something that would live up to her eye for color and pattern, I made this – “Roxy Lady” (I figured the name was appropriate too):

Pre-Felted: Note the almost hypnotizing (?nauseating) pattern. The bubbliness evens out. I hope.

Post-Felted and Done! The brown suede handles aren’t exactly Chicago-friendly, but her books and papers will be nice and warm.

Yarn: Cascade Pastaza, 1.5 skeins orange, 1.5 purple
Needle: sz 10 circulars, knit picks

In this project, I tried my hand at mosaic knitting, which, suffice it to say, involves lots of counting. Those that know me know this doesn’t bode well. Lucky for me, felting hides a multitude of sins, including an inability to K12, (sl 1, k1) 6 times, K4 (or variations thereof) times twenty-eight rows for the pattern. Times 4 pattern repeats. This was WAY outside my comfort zone, but I like the result so much that I got some yarn to make myself one in green and purple. (I know – a project for myself! Ask me how that’s going in a couple of months. I think I might be giving that to someone too.) The brown suede straps were ordered on-line, and only took me three tries each to attach. Did I mention I’m not much of a hand sewer? By the way, I finished this in about week and a half. That’s a new record for me, but I’m still suffering the consequences (must…slip…next…stitch…)

And finally, last but not least:

Pattern: Simple Baby Knits – Debbie Bliss
Yarn: Debbie Bliss wool/cotton (machine washable – yay!)
Needle: sz 2 straight, sz 1 circular

All together now: AWWWW!

What human can resist a knitted baby dress? With ribbon? In purple? Not I. I’m not sure I’ll be able to give this away, in fact. I’ve become quite attached – for all the reasons above, as well as the fact that I did the most kick-butt seams I’ve ever done, if I do say so myself.

(This coming from a woman who had to make a little sweater for a teddy she knitted to cover her handiwork – the front seam on the poor guy was so bad it looked like he had had an autopsy. The sweater turned out cute – I only hope the recipient never took it off. In retrospect, I would’ve sewn it on. I can just hear it now – “Mommy, what happened to Teddy?”)

Never knowing quite when to quit, note the matching shoes…

A girl can never have too many shoes…

Okay, not quite matching. But I direct your attention to the ribbon, picking up colors from both and tying them together, and drawing your attention away from the fact that I was afraid I would run out of purple (the Sweater That Shall Not Be Finished haunts me still).

I did the shoes before the dress, because they’re small, and cute and easy – right? Well, this pair represents the sixth and seventh attempts. Apparently, I’m a little bit of an inconsistent knitter, and should be firmly reminded of this fact before I attempt to knit anything again that’s supposed to match in size. These two were the closest ones, but I have to admit I still rationalized that no one has the same sized feet…Sock knitting is just a pie in the sky, at this point.
They also took many iterations because, apparently, I am also a “loose” knitter (keep it clean – it means that my stitches are looser than they should be), resulting in baby shoes of sasquatchean proportions. To put it in perspective, the first one I made almost fit my two year old (who is currently wearing a size 10 shoe) – and I made it to newborn size in the pattern. Yikes. Darn seed stitch! When you’re knitting is loose you need to go down in needle size – and before I knew it – I was at needle size 1, preparing to drop down to zero (the existence of which makes no sense to me – it should be -1 or something). Knitting with a size 1 needle is like, literally, knitting with a needle (and just as painful), instead of a blunt stick that needles usually are. It also makes time pass very slowly.

The dress is for my almost-ready-to-be-born niece. I love boys, truly I do, but nothing compares to making things for a little girl. There just aren’t enough cute sweaters with trucks on them to compare with a empire waist knitted purple dress, my friends.

I am now buckling down and working on green gable (for me!). I’m giving myself a week to finish before I need to start holiday/birthday knitting. Do you see what I’m dealing with? I wonder if there’s a twelve step program with my name on it.

CP

Planes, Trains and Automobiles July 20, 2007

It comes as a surprise to no one that our kid is pretty obsessed with all things mechanical. After all, it could be said that I am mildly mechanically inclined (if I do say so m’self – after all, I know “lefty-loosey, righty tighty”), and BG…Well, lets just say that’s his main superpower. Whenever I make the mistake of asking him how a repair is going, I usually get something like, “Well, there’s a flyrod that’s attached to a flange, which allows the piston…” At this point, I mostly hear a loud buzzing noise, but the point is, BG can instantly and easily visualize how something works, down to the last nut, so to speak. Its like having X-RAY vision, without the Peeping-Tom part. We’re still trying to figure out a way to exploit this power of his – sort of like having a numbers-blessed savant with you in a casino. If only there was a way to win a million dollars by being able to diagram something (TO SCALE!) in your head.

Anyhoo, LG is obsessed with trains, excited by cars/trucks, and pretty interested in airplanes. In fact, its a point of pride with my husband that LG can identify if a plane has a propeller or a jet engine by its sound. So it seemed a logical thing to go to the Annual Big Airshow. Armed with naught but a Radio Flyer wagon, Bunny Grahams, and about an inch-thick layer of sunscreen, off we went.

This air show is no ordinary show, I’m told – its “a big one”. This would account for us losing our car…but more on that later. Its held at a historic aircraft museum – which in these parts, means a small hanger with lots of pictures and a few airplanes attached to a cleared field airstrip. A REALLY big one.

Sidenote: This is the same airshow I took my Dad to years ago, during which he almost was carried away by hurricane force winds while trying to “save” a 2,000 lb. airplane from turning over. That’s my Dad, the engineer – had I asked, I’m sure I would have had a perfectly logical, physics-backed explanation as to why he would NOT have been flipped into the air like a pancake if the wind had decided to take the plane with it. But I didn’t ask. Besides, I’m pretty sure Dad loved every second of it, and because the wind ended up deciding against going all Dorothy on us, he was the ONLY thing that saved that plane that day, by gosh.

Getting back to our day at the airshow:

Who looks more excited? Tough call…

LG was pretty amused by it all – not sputtering with excitement, but most certainly entertained. BG, on the other hand, was pulling us (literally) from plane to plane, excitedly pointing out to LG all the design differences, introducing him to the pilots, putting him up on his shoulders for a better look. From that, LG mostly just remembers the plane with the teeth.

Can’t you almost hear “Highway to the Dangerzone”?

LG, for his part, was very into the one lonely helicopter there; the pilot offered the driver’s seat (wrong term, I know, but clearly I don’t know what I’m talking about) to all the little boys that wanted a look. A bigger kid, maybe 6 or 7, balked; but my normally stranger-shy boy immediately lifted his arms up to the guy, clearly giving the order “I go IN there!”

(I’m not being sexist about offering the seat to little boys, just stating the obvious. Girls were scarce, especially asking to sit in the driver’s seat. Maybe because we call it the driver’s seat. OK, THAT was probably sexist.)

Leave it to my boy to find the dangerous red button.

After an ugly, low-blood sugar induced episode, (both me AND LG, quickly rectified by awful but so timely airshow burgers), we pressed on. The giant cargo plane was getting ready to take off…or do something….

(One of the annoying features of airshows for me is there’s so much PREPARATION. I mean, we watched this thing get ready for 3o minutes before it even started its engines, and then another 30 before it even moved. Oh, wait! They’re moving the chucks! Maybe…no. Wait! I think I see the pilot! Um….No. But wait! Guys in flight suits are telling us to move back – they must REALLY be ready now! OK, Buddy, watch this! Oh….no.

Maybe I’m exaggerating just a tad, maybe I was getting a little tired by then, maybe it was the jet fuel. I know its a thorough process, etc etc. All I knew by then is both LG and I were getting pretty gosh darn impatient.)

This thing was big and it was loud…the sort of loud that you know you probably shouldn’t be listening to. LG was having none of that, and administered safety procedures accordingly.

After we finally saw the thing lumber down the field runway, and we could hear each other, LG proclaimed, “TIME TO GO”.

I’ve never heard these words out of my boy’s mouth. Ever. Especially in light of the diversions in store. But he was pooped. All morning in the sun + running to every destination + sheer, stuttering awe + hamburgers + an hour or so after naptime = TIME TO GO.

But there was a problem. The F-14 (or F-16, F-18 – honesty, I didn’t really care at that point) was supposed to do its thing in 30 minutes. BG was trying to stall, and even suggested we shop(!) for a t-shirt for the little guy. You know he had to be desperate to kill some time to suggest such blasphemy. But alas, LG was firm – WE GO.

As we made our way to where the “parking lot” was, I began to get kind of a sinking feeling – the kind you get when you knew you should have been paying attention to something important. To wit: we had no idea, not one iota, or even an inkling, where our car was. The three or four rows of cars had become 10 +, two or three deep. (We weren’t that early – really.)

Worse still, we noticed there were people, tribes of families, wandering around like desert nomads in search of water. Family after family clambered by us, craning their necks in search of that familiar glimpse of roof rack, sticker, Mickey Mouse antenna cover. We joined in, convinced that we were in no such position – we were right over there. Yes, I’m sure of it – there’s the white RV we passed where the people were laying on top getting hammered….you know, next to the black Ford…

A half hour and several white RV’s later, I may have been getting a little testy, possibly directly in proportion to LG’s lack of amusement. I remember muttering something about BG’s special spatial superpower; where was it now – its ALWAYS his job to remember where we park…

And then, there it was…the sea of cars parted, and a single shaft of sunlight beamed down on our dusty green subaru. I heard the Hallelujah chorus in my head (another benefit of growing up with bad 70s-80s sitcoms – built in sound effects and laugh tracks at just the right moments). No sooner was LG strapped in when BG casually glanced at the clock – why, there’s only 7 minutes until the super-cool jet arrives! Whaddya know!

(While I don’t think he lost our car on purpose, it was just a little too pat in retrospect. My BG isn’t that underhanded, and my passive aggressive radar didn’t sound. STILL…)

The jet screamed overhead, dipped and looped and did its thing for about 15 minutes. BG stood outside the car, craning his neck to see what would happen next. Needless to say, LG and I sat in the car. In the air-conditioning. And quite happily, I might add.

A few mintues later, we pulled out, and BG dabbed the drool from the corners of his mouth and let out a satisfied sigh, as if he’d just eaten a large meal. Moments later, LG’s head bobbed and weaved, his pacifier fell out, and he was out cold.

My boys were tired, a little sunburned, and satisfied. Life is good.

CP

Great Balls of Yarn July 8, 2007

Considering when I started this blog, I did mention that knitting is pretty up there in my priorities, it occured to me that I might write about it. I always have at least 3 ongoing (read: unfinished) projects, but one of my latest ones includes The Yarn Ball that Ate Rochester. Or at least, The 5-Pound Yarn Ball That Could Soon Be A Footstool.

Inspired by Mason-Dixon Knitting (in this case, the book, not the blog, but LOVE them), I have begun my own Plot-To-Divest-BG-Of-All-Gross-T-Shirts-Disguised-As-A-Shaker-Rug-Project. The ladies of Mason-Dixon call it Calamari Knitting – you cut said nasty T-shirts across from armpit to armpit in inch wide strips, resulting in inch wide loops of T-shirt yarn that you loop together into one long strip.
The RESULT:

Inclusion of Cracker-Eating Boy for Scale

Now, the trick will be convincing BG that his well-worn (and to him, just right) tees could go to a better place – my giant ball of yarn. In BG’s mind, there is a very strict and time-honored lifecycle for his shirts:

NEW – The rules for this catagory include wash in cold water, no matter what, fabric softener (Sigh. “If you must”), and absolutely positively no dryer. You heard me.
SLIGHTLY USED: Modified slightly from above, except the occassional drying. This is more my rule than his, and I usually claim that it was an accident. Do you know how hard it is to find places to hang t-shirts around the house? In February? In Rochester?
THOROUGHLY USED: If there are blemishes to the fabric and or holes, the shirts are then subdivided into A: Work Shirts or B: Sleep Shirts. The criteria for each are far too complicated to discuss here…I think there is consideration to fabric makeup, lycra content, etc. This is the point I put my wifely foot down and declare a moratorium on public wear.

Now, as far as BG is concerned, no shirts will ever leave this last catagory. Even if its just an elastic neck band held together with strips to the armpit: it rarely, if ever, gets demoted to the garbage.

This is where my diabolical plan comes in. If I can present my case, oh so subtly, that the shirts will in fact live on in this rug of the future, and if they’re TOO worn, well, that would’nt make for a very sturdy rug. Hey, I’m not above using BG’s kryptonite: INEFFICIENCY (OR INEFFECTIVENESS) OF DESIGN. If there’s a way to improve something by modifying some aspect of your technique; well, I think he’d sooner eat wheatgrass than risk a sub-par product. Besides, I have an even more insidious superpower up my sleeve, the use of which leaves me weak, bewildered and in need of chocolate: passive-agression. I was raised in a passive-agressive petri dish. Don’t mess with me: you’re liable to feel guilty later without really knowing why.

If you or someone you love are subjected to t-shirts that have long overstayed their welcome, send them my way. Other possible removal tactics: Recycling, or any Green angle (including not having to use industrial chemicals to get the things clean), The Resurgence of Craft in America (Especially among the shiftless Generation X’ers). Or you could bat your eyelashes/flex your biceps. Whatever works.

CP

Et Tu, Dr. Suess? June 18, 2007

Like most people, I LOVE Dr. Suess. I love him not just for breaking the Dick and Jane choke hold on children’s literature, but for his sheer irreverance, and, let’s face it, outright trippy use of words just vaguely tied together by a theme of some kind. His illustrations are equally weird and wonderful, if not for the sheer nuttiness of an animal who’s primary purpose is to haunt your toothbrush (a Noothgrush, I believe). And I’m ALL for silliness, especially in my literature.

Up until this point, LG’s Dr. Suess exposure was pretty limited – Wocket in my Pocket (As in: “There’s a Woset in my Closet and a Ghair beneath my chair, but the Bofa on the Sofa acts as if he doesn’t care.”), Dr. Suess’s ABC’s, and a few other DS classics geared to the under 2 set. Now that he’s turned two, I told those who were interested that, Yes, he loves Dr. Suess, and Yes, he’d love some of the classic stories for his birthday. So, sure enough, he recieved “Cat in the Hat”for the event – the birthday edition, no less.

We’ve read it faithfully every night since that day (almost two weeks ago) – I point this out only becuase its a LOT longer than A Wocket in My Pocket, and I’ve actuallly fallen asleep reading it. TO him. No easy trick, but I did it.

But I digress. Lately, I noticed a slightly annoying habit in the formerly easygoing LG of mine. I’ll give you an example:

ME: C’ mere, big guy – time to wash up for lunch.
LG: I don’t LIKE lunch.

(Those of you who know my boy know that this is a highly unusual statement. I’ve actually been maimed holding sandwiches for him to bite into.)

ME: What do you mean? I made you grilled cheese.
LG: I don’t LIKE THAT. I DON’T LIKE GRILLED CHEESE! I DON’T LIKE IT!

You can use your imagination as to what may have happened next. We’ll just say it involved a lot of ketchup. I’m not proud. Besides, ketchup has LYCOPENE, doncha know. Positively a food group.

When getting dressed to play in the pool:

ME: Let’s get your swim trunks on, buddy – we’re going outside to play in the pool.
LG: (Pointing to his Nemo swim diapers) I DON’T LIKE THAT. I DON’T WEAR IT.
ME: But you DO like Nemo, Honey. You wore them yesterday.

(Let me point out that this last statement just slipped out – I fully realize the futility of using this argument with a freshly minted two year old. Like he gives a poop about consistency.)

LG: (Louder and Louder). I DON’T WEAR IT! (At which point he plucks the offending swim diaper out of my hands and flings it across the room.)


Just look at that face. Just tell me you wouldn’t do everything you could to avoid that face.

Now, you may wonder what all of this has to do with Cat in the Hat.

Like every parent, I’m looking to assign blame on someone other than myself. How could my formerly affable boy go all Mr. Hyde on me? Surely there’s an outside force at work. It couldn’t have anything to do that he’s two, nuh-uh, no way. Hmm, let’s see, what new to LG lately…Aha! Teletubbies and birthday presents, or more specifically, books he got for his birthday.

The newfound facination for Teletubbies: boy, would that be great if they were the culprit. If ever there was a mind-rotting, undermining, and downright evil TV experience, the Teletubbies are it. I’m pretty sure extended exposure violates the Geneva Convention. But after extensive (EXTENSIVE) viewing, no luck there. In fact, Tinky Winky and friends don’t seem to have much of an aversion to anything to speak of, other than sitting in their spilled Tubby custard. Don’t ask.

(You may be asking yourself, as any reasonable individual would – why on earth would she let her child be exposed to such depraved stupidity? I myself would have said the very same thing. The answer is: he LOVES it. More importantly, he’s completely and totally engrossed. And I don’t mean that he enjoys it from time to time, I mean he wakes up and its the first thing he asks for. BEFORE MILK. Its all I can do to limit it to 1/2 hour per day. Sometimes, I just cave and allow him to park himself, slackjawed and surely shrinking brand new brain cells, in front of the TeleBoobTube. All for the sake of laundry. Or making dinner. Or – gasp! – cleaning. OK, OK – I may sneak in some knitting from time to time. I’m no martyr.)

So that quickly leads me to my next suspect: books we’ve been reading recently. A lot. After reading Cat in the Hat for the umpteenth time, I noticed there’s a fish (in a teapot, naturally) that strongly objects to the Cat in the Hat and his idea of fun. So much so, he says, surely enough, on a quite frequent basis, “I don’t LIKE it, not one little bit.”

Hey, Dr. Suess is a good a scapegoat as any. Green Eggs and Ham is NOT going to be introduced any time soon.

I’m thinking of starting an adult bookclub for Dr. Suess books. I think he had issues with his mother.

CP