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.

Perfect patch

We found ourselves yesterday in a muddy cornfield with some friends. Hot afternoon sun, high and bright in the autumnal way, and huts made of corn stalks, and small sugar pumpkins barricaded up against the hut entrances, laboring small boys piling them, yelling directions to one another, sword fighting with corn stalks, disappearing into tunnels of straw.

By far the most informal pumpkin patch I have ever visited, and for it, the finest. Less than 2 miles from school, the price was right - three dollars got you a tractor ride, a sugar pumpkin, and unlimited access to the mayhem. There was no patrolling of where you could or couldn't walk, nobody scolding the kids for deconstructing and reconstructing the corn huts or piling the pumpkins or even throwing them, for that matter. Nobody cared if you stuck your fingers in the calf pen and got them nibbled. The guys driving the tractor, from the look of their leathered skin, brimmed hats, long sleeved, worn shirts and muddy boots knew an awful lot about driving a tractor - and not so much about carting a bunch of kids around.

It was the perfect place. I sat my expanding, nauseous self on a bale of hay and watched Benen disappear into the cornfield. I watched him trade blows with an eight year old boy, become the minion of many older boys in their quest to barricade the door of a corn hut, and make nice with the calf. I watched him play without reprisal, rules, or any shade of interference. He was in a magical place, this was absolutely apparent to me, and it was fine thing to see, and have very little to do with.

the days

The days are winding through October, slowly, slowly. It is still bright and warm but there is something about the weather that recommends being indoors.

I am moving at a placid, careful pace. Lots of extended story time under my mother's quilt, extended games of dinosaur and farm, robot building, endless encounters with scissors and glue and paper and crayons. The baby will be here in June, June, and that is a far time away, and there is so much to be done, but right now I mostly inhabit the couch, knitting and reading and avoiding nausea.

Everyday this month has been a blessing, an absolute, quiet, unabashed song. Gratitude for Benen, for knowing the way, for my kind husband, for this new baby. Everyday I look at Benen in the morning and I think silent, whimsical thoughts: how will I cherish you today? we have many more months, just the two of us, how can we conspire today? The thoughts make my throat catch, and I am full of inexpressible wonder and sadness and joy, all at the same time, being this mother that I have become, all through the days.

The gentleness of all this knowledge has rubbed off on me, and on Benen. All the edges have softened. Even the way he says "no" now has a sweet, expectant lilt to it. Maybe I am conserving resources. Maybe I have just finally surrendered to being the mother I want to be.

Scalawags and hooligans

The cousins came for a sleepover this week. There is something delightful about a little boy that slides out of bed at 6:45 to wake up his friends and play.

As long as it doesn't happen every morning.