Tired

On Sunday, I thought I was tired.
Then yesterday, I thought "No, this is tired."
Now today, I realize "Oh, wait, NO, NOW I am really tired."

I feel like I was up too late, drinking too much, for a week, but oh no, that's certainly not the case.

Finn's great. He's Happy Morning Baby.

Last night, he was either sleep eating or sleep thrashing all. night. long. I got up and took him from Pete because he was screaming and screaming, and Pete was frustrated and a bit worried. He thought that Finn must be feeling poorly, as he had gone through two bottles already and was so upset. I think he must be going through a growth spurt because this has been going on for a few days now, and before this, he was in a pretty good routine that involved at least a few hours of solid sleep at a time, for all of us. Throw some teething issues in there, and you have a recipe for tired that will last you for days.

It has nothing to do with his shot yesterday, though that is what Pete thought last night. No, it's all him.

I know what you are thinking: "Are you kidding me? That baby is seven months old and weighs 13 pounds and 13 ounces, and he's not sleeping through the night?" Well, whatever. We did not think that Finn would be sleeping through the night, or anything close to it, until he is six months adjusted, and that's still two months away, more like the beginning of March. Aside from that, all babies are different, and you never know what they are going to do. I am just hoping that this little routine does not last too much longer because I think I need some sleep.

Those cookies are not going to bake themselves.

Follow the Yarn

A few of my favorite things....

As you may remember, one of my resolutions is never to have more than three projects on the needles at once. As, for the foreseeable future, one of them will be a laceweight shawl, that leaves me space for two projects in progress at any given time. Since I posted that resolution, I finished a hat, two scarves, three pairs of slippers, a needle case, and a cardigan. Not bad, eh? I decided to see what would happen to me if I only worked on one project.... scaaaary...

January 4, 2009: This is an experiment in working on only one project until it is done. We'll see if I survive.
I bought three skeins of this yarn back when Finn was still in the hospital, intending to make a leetle blankie for him. But I kept finding relevant skeins, so it became a larger project. Only recently did it coalesce around a pattern.

For this project, I am more interested in showing off the yarn than creating an optical illusion, but the pattern still seemed the most interesting after perusing the archives. I was going to go in the same color order through the whole blankie, but now I think I will mix them up.

I wound all 8 skeins of malabrigo, which consumed quite a bit of time. This was my first time casting on a small amount of stitches and working from the center in the round, and it's a bit cumbersome, but once I got the hang of it, it worked out just fine. I did a few rounds following the pattern (garter stitch) and did not like the result. I don't like garter stitch: it looks like it's inside out.
So, after contemplating the hot mess that was on the needles, I decided to start over and do it stockinette. I am much happier with the results so far.

On the first day, she wound 8 balls of yarn and cast on twice. She finished 26 rounds.

The Gift

In German, "Gift" means "poison." That is not what Pete got last night. No, Pete got a full night's sleep. I did not. Not that I have seen one of those since, oh... maybe early August. I took the boy all night because he was screaming inconsolably, and the only thing that would work was The Boob. Just like a man. It feels like he ate all. night. long. When Pete came in this morning, he said "You look bigger" to the little man in diapers, and I said "He should. He's been eating for eight hours straight." Now, I know that is not truly the case, but it sure feels like it. When I came out to check the clock (I don't have one in the bedroom anymore. It's of no use, and it just makes me feel bad), I was worried it was going to say something like "2:00 a.m." which would have sucked, because I was just ready for the night to be over with.

Surprisingly, I feel pretty good. Of course, it's Monday and we have to take Finn for his monthly RSV shot, which we hate because it's huge, and Finn turns all read and screams. It breaks our hearts, but he recovers quickly with a little help from the boob (seems to fix almost anything lately). At least we get to see how much he weighs, which is always interesting. Plus, it will be over quickly.

Sticky Sticker

The car in front of me was wearing a bumper sticker that its owner had clearly modified. It read "America Bless God" with a little American flag heart next to it, clearly violating the flag code. I thought of the person buying the bumper sticker that said "God Bless America," thinking that it was all wrong, coming home from the convenience store or gas station, sitting down at the kitchen table with the scissors and carefully cutting the words out, cutting around the heart. I saw that person applying the words to the edge of the hatch, right under the window, nodding, saying "That will give them something to think about."

So I did. I thought about it. What is that supposed to mean, anyway? If you believe in God, isn't it hubris to think of blessing your deity? Isn't that muddying up the job descriptions, creating both inefficiency and possibly offending the boss? And how can a nation, which--being an abstract collection of geographical boundaries and citizens represented by a government--really has no ability to sanctify anything, confer blessings on a invisible, omnipotent being? Really, when you think about it, even saying "God Bless America" is rather presumptuous, again telling the deity his business. What if he doesn't want to bless America? What if he's too busy with the NFL playoffs and his Golden Globe picks, and just wants a break? Who are we to tell him to do anything, let alone bless an entire nation?

It's probably not the thoughtful response the driver was looking for, and it's made me late for cooking our dinner, but it got the creaky brain wheels working on something other than breast milk and poopy diapers, so it can't be all bad.

In the car, I debated what I was going to say when I walked in the door, kind of a rehearsal for a homecoming. I had only gone to the co-op, a friend's house to feed her cat, and the yarn store, but in any case, it's good to know how to handle an entrance. Was it going to be "Well, the snow they were predicting has decided to fall as rain," or "It's 25 degrees and raining, and you know what that means." The first, depending upon the inflection used, could be taken as a sardonic indictment of the entire meteorological profession, and the second an affirmation of the craft of the game show host.

But as it happened, when I arrived home, the squirrels had dragged the bag of corn husks onto the steps, so I moved it, and when I opened the door, there was Pete, sitting with Finn in the soft Christmas lights of the livingroom, and instead, I talked to my son to get his attention, completely forgetting about the weather.

Happy New Year

Oh yeah, it's 2009. Pardon the lack of enthusiasm, but my days are pretty much all alike.

I know a lot of people who are pretty damn glad that 2008 is over. My year was pretty good, all things considered, but I would not want to do it over. Hopefully, 2009 will bring many happy events to my friends and family and to everyone reading this little chronicle.

Cinderelly, Cinderelly

I just had one of those moments when you look at your kitchen floor and think "Is this who I am?"

Maybe I am making assumptions addressing you directly, because either you always have a clean kitchen floor, or you don't care one way or the other, but this was ridiculous. As I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor (because this is the only way to get them really clean), I had a revelatory "June Cleaver" moment. I have felt myself ascending into the housewife role over the past few weeks what with all the holiday baking, and the sheer fairytale-ness of this particular task added something tasty to the mix. I would have been the one on my hands and knees cleaning the floor anyway, but the addition of the napping baby in the swing brought it home: I'm a housewife.

I have long been thinking how this idealized version of home life ever came about and what the reality must have been. I can't imagine that Dad returned from a hard day at the office to a home-cooked meal, a home-mixed cocktail, and a cigar while Mom smiled happily in pearls, heels, and perfectly pressed dress, belted at the waist. (I was going to say "while Mom smiled happily in pearls and heels," but I think that particular scenario happened even less often.) Were it true, I would think that the divorce rate would have been much higher, not to mention the spousal homicide-by-scotch poisoning rate, which I think was only tracked in the 1950's suburbs of New York City.

In the past few weeks, I have managed to keep us in meals by planning menus, writing up grocery lists, and getting things together during his swing naps, but I do this ever three days or so, and then we eat leftovers. It's not roast beef one night, a chicken the next, followed by a kicky ham with pineapple rings and maraschino cherries. It's lasagna on Tuesday, lasagna on Wednesday, and lasagna on Thursday, with lasagna thrown in for lunch here and there. Then it's shrimp corn chowder. The next few meals are all very chicken-y, starting with a chicken, that will then be boiled down to be sold for scrap to soup and chicken pot pie, leading to chicken enchiladas with a green sauce. We are just finishing up the beef stroganoff. I have also baked four batches of cookies in the last few weeks: roasted garlic chocolate chip, chocolate chip, pumpkin spice (with molasses), and pumpkin spice (no molasses). The cookie baking has resulted in a new flour sifter (which I really like) and new cookie sheets (which I hate to say I am in love with because they are objects, but I think I love them).

And now, our kitchen floor is relatively clean. I typed "my" kitchen floor first, and then I realized just how very housewifey that sounded, as in "Don't you go getting cookie crumbs all over my clean kitchen floor," so I switched it. Our house, our floor. It's not perfect, but as the cats have been barfing up Christmas Tree and Wheatgrass for a couple of weeks now, and the most popular place has been under the table (I even caught an "on the table" about to happen) and as Pete is having people over tonight to play Irish music, I thought perhaps a little scrub was in order.

No if you don't mind, I have knitting to do.