Unraveled (yet again)

Nobody harshed my mellow today. I didn't even leave the house. I didn't even take a shower. Good friend visited, soup was enjoyed, dining room chairs were given new seat covers, Daddy pulled chauffeur and gymnastics coach duty, Benen came home from school with a giant stash of turkeyand leaf-themed art, and is busy with scotch tape, decorating.

I unraveled, not in a bad way at all. Sometimes, make that often, I wonder why I knit. It seems I undo at least as much as I do, if not more so. I think that makes me a process knitter? Considering my WIP count is in the tens and my finished work balance for the past three years can be accounted for on one hand, I'll buy that. I feel no compulsion to change. It would be nice to finish a few gifts, gads, maybe something for myself, someday, but I am totally clear on the fact that if I was knitting for survival (say, Laura Ingalls in the long winter-style) I would freeze to death.

Oh well. We have synthetic fleece, thrifted wool sweaters, hot tea from the grocery store and central heating. And I love how kinked-out frogged yarn looks. I love knitting the same piece, over and over, until I finally find a rhythm with the fiber and needles and pattern that makes sense to me, or agree to disagree with the project, and abandon it for greener pastures. This life is a practice run for me. Perfection has no place in my mellow, disorderly bliss.

The Assistant

Mama hasn't been 100% fun this last month. In fact, she's been something of a drag; think a gravid, slow-moving, ill-tempered drag. Daddy has done more than his share of loving us and caring for us. Benen has gamely sorted socks, carried piles of laundry to his room, picked up toys, and scrubbed toilets. All with a little bit of almost-four-years-old flourish, of course, the kind of flourish that we usually have to tidy up after. But there is something so loving to me about these two men working hard to make our home neat and peaceful. Enough to make one curmudgeon of a mama feel much, much kinder. And now that the days of being a big drag are behind us for the while, I find that I still have assistance in every thing I do. I know Jeff has always been like this; his domesticity has always been one of his most attractive qualities to me. It is an extension of his courtesy, and an expression of his lovingness. I think Benen has always been like this too, fueled by curiosity and need to be busy, and I think our natural parenting style has always allowed him to run with it, but there is a sweetness to his ways now that I just didn't savor properly before. A few nights ago, Jeff heated me up a bowl of broccoli soup, and brought it to me on the couch while I watched Benen play. When I had finished, Benen stood up from his trains, put his hands on my bowl, asked me "all done?" and then carefully walked the bowl into the kitchen. I think my heart broke into about a thousand pieces.

Today he put the groceries away in the pantry, stocked the toilet paper in the cupboard, carried out the recycling, and assisted me in trialing a recipe for next Thursday. I cherish that he's in a place where these things have novelty. All he asks in return is a cornbread muffin, a pink skirt a la Minnie Mouse and his Superman t-shirt. Now that's a man worth keeping around. Off to sew that skirt. He's earned it.

Chicken time

Hello, dear reader. My, my, how I have missed you. How much I have wanted to tell you. How badly I have craved your company, your kindness, your encouragement. But I've been busy, and I have not much to show for it, but a round belly and a clean house.

I've been in that illucid, startling landscape called early pregnancy. I had forgotten how crazy it can be there. How an entire day can be wrapped around the notion of eating a burrito, and being far too sick to do so, and oh the tears. There is a less funny part to this story, the story of overwhelming fear and powerlessness that goes hand in hand with motherhood, but that is a story for another time. Suffice it to say we are well, that my month-long date with nausea and exhaustion is over, and I so want to be back here, writing, recording our days, musing on motherhood, creating with my mind and hands, and connecting with you.

I'm a little stagnant. Stay silent too long and I find myself so deep in a world of things I need to say that every thought turns a shade of gray and backs into an obscure corner.

I've felt this way for days. So much I want to do, and so unsure where to begin. I keep walking outside and staring at the chickens. The cochins run up to me, chickens in poodle pants, and crouch down at me feet begging to be picked up. I pick them up and stroke their fluffy necks. I bring them fancy food from the refrigerator. Right now I am on chicken time, in slightly inarticulate chicken place. Bear with me. I have missed you.

Grandma came through

There's a story here, one about me, a sewing machine, a full day of work, tears, and phone calls to mom. If you sew, or if you come from a sewing family, it is par for the course.

To gloss over the ugly little details, details that include things like spending twenty minutes trying to ease a sleeve into the crotch of the costume, there are two little reptile suits in the house now. One, inexpertly sewn by me, and christened with lots of rough language, and sporting princess sleeves and backwards velcro. Another, expertly sewn by my mother, mailed here, mailed back, expertly altered by my mother, mailed here again, and worn with great enthusiasm by the grandchild. He told me it is an alligator.

Unless it involves tutus and leotards, I think I am off the sewing-a-costume roster for awhile. My mom has always rocked the home-made costumes, and continues to be the undisputed champion.

And the shoes. She shipped them overnight so he would have them in time for the costume parade at school yesterday. Once again, undisputed.

No mystery

Priceless intensity, and no mystery where this expression comes from. It's the same face I make when lifting heavy objects, tackling complex math problems, and sprinting. He is looking for his drumsticks.

Hasty hat

The weather turned very quickly here - we had a day of deluge a few weeks back to tease us with Fall, and then subsequent days of it being unseasonably hot, but I took heed, and cast on a winter hat for Benen.

And now that it is decidedly hat weather, my once-hat-loving boy will not wear hats, nor socks, nor pants, for that matter.

It is a hasty hat not only in that it was knit in great haste, but that it is worn in great haste. On, off. On, off. Mostly, off. I am not taking it personally.

I did take him to the yarn shop and encourage him to choose some yarn himself for another hat. If it was pink or purple and had strips of glitter and fur hanging off of it, and cost 17 dollars for 25 yards, he wanted it. None of those tidy washed merinos for him. Now I have to figure out how to translate flash-and-trash into my deliberately lo-fi crunchy-woolly knitting abilities. In the interim, I continue fighting with lace (for myself) and hemp (for the baby). Maybe I will just sew blue sequins on the hasty hat and call it a day.

Le decor

I don't go all out for holidays, but I do have a soft spot for Halloween.

Apparently Benen does, too. Over the course of the last week he has quietly transformed the little table holding his art supplies into a veritable alter to all things creepy and crawly. The only thing I did was help him string the twinkly lights up over the lamp and easel; the rest has been pure boy. It is pretty funny, every time I walk out there I see a new piece of Halloween frou-frou added to the mix. He got into the costume bin after I took these pictures and added a green feather boa, four plastic vampire capes in their packages, a pair of handcuffs, and a sheriff's badge pinned to one of his school paintings of a pumpkin. It has truly taken on the flavor of an idolater's alter - there are layers of junk on it. I don't dare touch it, it is too precious, and I love that he plugs the lights in first thing every morning and will not let me unplug them throughout the day.

We are in big trouble come Christmas.