Knitters-Knitters

Spaniel's Greetings

Interesting Facts About the Lemur

I'm wondering exactly why I thought I'd have time to do last minute shopping, wrapping and knitting during these final days before Christmas: the days when Olive has no school, no Maria appointments, and no Special Olympics practice.  The knitting, she languishes.

It's been awhile since Olive has been home for a long stretch when it wasn't due to illness.  Happily, she is healthy.  This means she has the strength and energy of a passel of ring-tailed lemurs. 

Like the wild lemur, Olive does not like cold weather and has little interest in playing in the snow. Also like the lemur, Olive enjoys leaping and vertical clinging. 

Did you know that lemurs are a female-dominant species?  Olive knows this.

She is restless and annoyed until LB comes home from work.  When he arrives, he is allowed no rest.  Olive immediately takes him by the hand and leads him through her agenda. 

There is jumping.

Tickle fights.

Pillow fights.

Arm-leg swing.

LB is not even allowed a bathroom break.

Others who long for his attention must wait.

Toward the end of a long session of rough housers-housers, Olive likes to relax by performing a dental exam.

Much later, fatigue sets in.

Unlike the ring-tailed lemur, Olive is not diurnal by nature.  Melatonin changes all that. 

Thank God.

Things To Look At.

I've been thoroughly entrenched in the business of not wrapping presents and making excuses not to cook, but I'm taking a short break from all this rest by sharing with you some stuff I like looking at:

bunnies and carrots marching around the hem of Baley's dress-in-progress.  This should be finished in time for Easter.

A detail shot of a slip-stitch Rowan kid mohair blankie, also in progress and also for Baley: due for completion in time for Christmas mailing. 

Sorry, Hen, you won't be getting a new pen from us this Christmas, but I'm guessing your magnum opus White With Foam will be going on hiatus for awhile.  This is your year to swaddle.

A Menorah, made by herself.

A spaniel, lost in thought.

That same spaniel, receiving a biscuit.  Clover is careful to take the biscuit from Olive as gently as possible--much more gently than she does from the rest of us.  Clover Knows.

Olive opens the Hanukkah present that came home from school with her in the princess backpack.

Olive also came home with a card for us.  It's just scribbles until you know what to look for: those O's are how she writes her name. She can't write the whole thing, but she knows she is the O.

Daisy aglow on the eighth night of Hanukkah.

Anatole, always industrious, has built an addition to Ashraf's house.

Receiving is Underrated

Today was a very special day.  First of all, Mr. Anatole Yates Sullivan turned twelve.  If you're a regular reader of Knitters-Knitters, then you know that we just do family parties for birthdays.  This year, Tole requested take-out from Once Upon A Grill, a breakfast-served-anytime diner that he loves going to every Sunday after church.

For dessert, Tole asked for cherry pie.  I made the crust from scratch, and I'm getting pretty darned good with handling lard... if I do say so myself.  The pie was accented nicely with Dove Bars.  Why just have a scoop of vanilla when you can have the added benefit of a bit of chocolate with your cherry pie?

Anatole is very enamored of the Avatar, and this card from Sacramento Grandma and Granddad was a big hit.

His favorite gift (and mine as well) was the vest handknit for him by LB's mom, Paula.  Can you read what she knit right into the chest?

Heroic tales are Tole's favorites these days, and a new novel from Milwaukee Grandma and OFG had him forgetting he still had more to open.

Our gift to Anatole was something I don't understand, but which he requested.  In fact, I may have a new phobia: yellow Cameros that transform into giant, four-wheeled robots.

But Anatole was not the only one getting gifts today.  We got a big surprise in the mail: a box of Hanukkah presents from Aliza, Olive's camp counselor at Ramah.

For LB and me, Aliza sent a matched set of mugs.  On one side is a picture of our favorite small, non-verbal person, and on the other: a nod to her well-deserved camp title.

And for Olive, a very special pillow case.  When Olive saw it she did the usual proud/embarrassed smile she gives whenever she sees a picture of herself.  And then, when she realized that was Aliza in the picture, her smile grew and grew.

I had been wondering if Aliza would return to Ramah next summer, so this card made me very happy:

I love getting presents, and I love seeing my kids get presents.  But seeing your child open a gift of a handmade vest with the name of his favorite action hero knit right into it, or opening a pillow case emblazoned with the image of your child next to someone who loves her...well.  I am as close as I can get to speechless.

The Fugitive Shops at Target; the Advent Poodle Sleeps with One Eye Open

This afternoon LB and I took Olive to Target for Christmas shopping and essentials like laundry detergent and those oft-mentioned Pull-ups in big girls' sizing.  Toward the end of the excursion, LB and I had graduated to two shopping carts.  He led the way with a cart full of groceries, and I followed close behind him (dropping rolls of wrapping paper as I took each corner) with Olive riding in the front. 

LB turned back to me and said, "Did you see the teen-aged boy that just went by with his dad?  The kid has a little arm and a little sleeve."

Little Arm is one thing: we don't see a lot of congenital amputees as we go about our business.  But to see an amputee with an altered coat sleeve, meaning he's entirely prosthetic free-- now that's a rarity.  I turned my cart around and Olive and I went straight into hot pursuit, searching for this one-armed teen and his dad.  I saw teen-aged boys everywhere, but boy with Little Arm was nowhere to be found.  As I often do when out in public, I cursed the fact that I simply don't see people.  I curse this when I discover I've walk right past someone I know well enough that she recognizes me, but not well enough that she's aware of my problem with faces.  I curse this when I'm accused of snubbing someone I never saw in the first place.  I cursed this often when I lived in L.A. and time and again, I walked past a celeb and didn't notice until whomever I was with said, "Did you see that?  It was Billy Crystal buying a Muhammad Ali watch.  It was that woman who plays Agnes DiPesto.  It's Kiefer Sutherland, and he hasn't shaven.  That was Carroll O'Connor at the table by window.  How, how could you not tell that was Howie Mandel?"

But this was different--I wasn't willing to let it go.  I needed to see this one-armed boy with his altered sleeve, and I needed him to know that I have two righties of my own, both with altered sleeves and nary a "helping" device.  And what would he have thought if I'd found him?  I recognize it's not the dream of every one-handed boy, to be flagged down in Target by a small middle-aged person pushing an autistic child in an overflowing shopping cart while she attests that she has two kids just like you at home.  I suppose the meeting would have been more interesting for his dad than for him.  One thing I have seen played out many times: it's more exciting for the parents of congenital amputees to find each other than it is for the amputees themselves, who just tend to wonder what all the fuss is about.

When we got home, I told Sabina about the one-armed teen, how Olive and I stalked every teen-aged boy in Target in search of Rightie.  She was amused to hear that he'd had his coat sleeve professionally altered, just like she does, but mostly she wondered, Mommy, what would you have done with him if you'd caught him?

So, one Christmas miracle, the sighting of the one-armed handi-capable teen, thwarted.  But look, day three of Hanukkah occurs on the same day when the third week of Advent begins.  That's pretty neat, isn't it? 

As we all know, week three is when you introduce French poodles and over-sized rabbits into the nature tableau.  And, like it or not, reptiles.  My children, like most, are wary of any scene that feels unrealistically harmonious.  Your average nine pound dog finds the world a potentially scary place and the life of the Advent Poodle is no different.  Children know this: not even the Advent Tableau, at least in this house, can escape the inevitability of prey and predator, man against nature, poodle against alligator.

The lion and the calf shall lie down together but the calf won’t get much sleep.
- Woody Allen

Lessons in Protocol for the Culturally Confused

1) If you find yourself menorah-less on the afternoon of the first night and you call your child's school in a panic, a kind, anonymous person will send a loaner home in your child's lunchbox, along with Hanukkah celebration instructions.

2) You load the candles from right to left (as pictured). All my life I've been doing it wrong!

3) Best to keep a wide swath of cleared brush between your menorah and your Advent nature tableau.

4) Yarmulkes come in different sizes, and make great Christmas gifts.

5) Inviting your pastor to your child's Siddur ceremony -- probably not such a good idea.

How Songs Get Written

I do not sing well; in fact, I sing badly.  When I sing in church, God winces and tells me it's okay by Him if I just knit Him something pretty instead.  Still, this has never stopped me from singing to my children or even composing songs about them.  Some of the songs are very simple, based on their nicknames.  Daisy, for instance, was born almost a month early.  She looked more like a skinny orange Martian than a human newborn.  We called her "Pod," then Poddy-Loddy, Pod-winkle, Winkle, and eventually, Winkus.  Her little song went thusly:

Winkus-a-binkus, winkenstein,

Mommy loves you all the time!

Agatha's song was sung to the tune of Rock-a-Bye Baby.  I don't remember all the words, but it focused on her little round nose, the lack of hair on her head, and the stripe of dark fur that ran down her back.  Also, I think the words "Sausage Rumpus" were in there somewhere.  I realize this song sounds vaguely unflattering, but I assure you it did nothing to shake her self-confidence.

Sometimes I just sang regular old standards.  For Dana I remember singing:

Sweetest little fella, everybody knows

Don't know what to call him

But he's mighty like a rose!

That song became "his" and will always connote, for me, a small, wide-eyed Kenyan boy with a flower headband.

Olive's song is longer and had many more collaborators, since the other children were old enough to suggest lyrics and Olive never interrupted our flow of musical prattle with words of her own.

When Olive was about ten months old and began to eat solid food, we immediately noticed her strong preference for animal protein.  She did like sweets, but nothing pleased her more than a nice brisket, a thick slice of meatloaf or her very own turkey leg to gnaw.  Whenever I fried or sauteed any kind of meat in a pan, she'd insist on sitting on the counter next to the stove, applauding and chortling at every sizzle.  While making dinner, I can't leave any raw meat on the counter -- more than once she's grabbed a fillet right off the butcher paper and managed to scarf down a bite or two before anyone could wrestle it away from her.  Olive's song is all about her love of meat, and compares aspects of her personality to her favorite foods:

Pork chop of love

Veal cutlet of joy

Roast beef of romance

Chicken leg of trickiness!

For a few years the song contained only these four lines, which we sang in an impossible to transcribe, somewhat atonal melody.  Then, Olive's tastes broadened and it became necessary for us to add two more lines:

Ramen noodles of naughtiness

Salmon of silliness!

This was the Meat Song, and it went unchanged for about four years.  I sang her to sleep with this song, I rocked her to this song, and her sisters enjoyed singing it to her, too.  Olive has danced to the Meat Song, swaying from side to side with her signature, ceremonious, straight-legged stance.

As I told you a few weeks ago, Olive participated in her second grade class's Thanksgiving Pageant.  Watching her walk on stage from a distance amid a sea of her peers, I saw her with fresh eyes.  I noticed things, like that she has gotten taller and more mature-looking without my realizing it.  Her hair has grown out from last spring's disastrous run-in with the scissors, and her face: her face is very round. 

Symmetrically round. 

Noteworthy in its roundness.  Surprisingly, undeniably, unstoppably round.  When I got home and looked through some old photographs, I realized she's always had a round face.

Round like the sun, round like a rubber ball, round like...like...

How could I have missed this?  And given her love of gouda, manchego, mozzarella, ripe brie, sharp cheddar, Co-jack, and even plain old American slices, how could I have not included a line in the Meat Song to pay homage to her love of this most versatile of dairy products?  So now Olive's song has a coda:

Cheese wheel of roundness!

Something Jolly This Way Comes

Clover always knows when we're expecting someone or something; she's clever that way. 

But she is not clever enough to remember snow.  In dog-time, it's been about six years since she's seen it.  When we got our first sprinkles of it last week, Clover howled herself hoarse.  She's more of a yipper than a howler by nature, but these were extreme circumstances.

For me, the Christmas season begins with dusting off the L.L. Bean Advent calender and purchasing candies that are on the small side.  Six Hershey Kisses can fit in one cubby, but six Ghiradelli chiocolate squares cannot.  Skittles work, but jamming six orange marshamllow circus peanuts into one cubby is a bad, bad idea.  Tradition dictates that the final cubby for December 24th contain doggie treats.

On Saturday, the children left their shoes by the fireplace for the Tomten, the little elf who comes on the eve of December 5th and leaves toys and treats for all the good little Sullivans. I don't think anyone's ever seen him but legend has it he looks something like this:

and of course, he always wears the sweater Elizabeth Zimmermann designed for him.

This year he brought peppermint sticks, chocolate Santas, knitting patterns, pretty soaps, new socks, tiny dolls and gelt (little known fact -- the Tomten is Jewish on his mother's side).

Conveniently, we had visited the dentist Saturday morning and Dr. Teeny Tiny sent us home with a big bag of toothpaste samples, floss and new brushes.  On Sunday morning the children asked, accusatorily, if I had been the one to leave the dental supplies in their shoes.  I explained that Dr. Teeny Tiny had come in through our window in the middle of the night and left them herself.  It sounded feasible to me (she weighs about 89 pounds--I don't call her Dr. Teeny Tiny for nothing) but I don't think the children bought it. 

We got a late start on Advent this year, so LB took the older five children for a catch-up nature walk on Sunday to hunt for both minerals and plant life.  There is an order to creating the proper Advent nature tableau: I think it's minerals for the first week of Advent, then plants, then man, and then small, portable electronics.  But I may be wrong here.  This is not a holiday tradition I grew up with (that's why LB is in charge) but Suse's blog has beautiful pictures and writing on the correct way to celebrate.

On the 11th we'll begin lighting the Hanukkah candles, and just a few days later the Santa Lucia Bride will dress in a white gown and bring breakfast in bed to everyone in the family.  This holiday may actually fall on the 13th, but I reserve the right to move it around so that it always falls on a Sunday (no one wants to eat breakfast at the ungodly hour LB has to wake up for work).  Last year we actually moved it all the way into January.  Here's Daisy, the most patient of Lucia Brides.

This year it's Agatha's turn to be the Lucia Bride, which means no postponing or shilly-shallying will be tolerated.  Luckily, the 13th falls on a Sunday.

I don't have any true believers in Santa left, but the children write to him anyways: they like to cover all their bases.  Anatole's letter especially amused me this year.  Normally his handwriting is a febrile scrawl reserved for people who have medical degrees, but his letter to Santa almost looks like it was typed:

Anatole and Agatha collaborated on Olive's letter to Santa.  Santa may be magic, but they know he isn't God and he can't read Olive's mind.  They also drew pictures of the things Olive likes, to make it easier on the old guy.

The Apron, Explained

I've been sitting on this photo for a few days now, ever since Hen sent it to me after Thanksgiving.  It's a good photo of this threesome -- OFD's eyes being open -but the apron stops me.  We all know Dad didn't cook the turkey, and the apron makes it look like we took him out of the home for an annual visitation, and we'll be wheeling him back there later with him only slightly aware that the day contained a change in scenery.  I'd feel remiss if I didn't tell you that the apron's been a staple for a long time now, and OFD has always had a tendency to spill.  He spilled when I was in my twenties, he spilled when I was a child, and I suspect that as a young Cornellian, having his favorite study break of a pint of ice cream and a cigar, there was spillage.

Also, this spilling thing is genetic.  Today after I dropped Olive off at school, I went to Starbucks for my beloved Tall Red Eye.  Then I drove home, got out of the car, bumped my elbow, and sent the paper cup flying.  My entire 12 oz of coffee with added coffee, all over the floor of the garage. 

If I'm concentrating I'm pretty handy.  I can sew, I can knit, I can unscrew those tiny Phillips head screws that they use to close the battery compartment on most toys.  But if I'm not paying attention, things get messy.  I cannot hold a cup level if I'm not looking directly at it.  Touch-typing eludes me. I can drive a standard but I really, really shouldn't.

It's not just liquids that stump us; it's the entire physical world.  And it's not just OFD and me -- it's all of us.   My Mom sends things flying.  I could devote an entire blog to the things my brother Hen has spilled, broken or fallen through.  Perlmans cannot julienne: a few years ago my sister and I, on the same day at roughly the same time but over 1800 miles apart, cut ourselves badly with Cutco knives while trying to slice a carrot the long way.  

My friend Susan sent me this video of comedian Brian Regan last week and I've been thinking about the expression Take care! ever since.  My family never used this phrase and the first time I heard it used as a good-bye, I thought the person was warning me not to break anything on my way out.  Today when I brought Olive to school, one of her teachers told me, Take care as I was leaving.  Did she know that I was going to have a Starbucks coffee accident not fifteen minutes later?  More importantly, why didn't I listen?

Six Lights

The thing about hosting Thanksgiving is that you don't remember details of the event as clearly as the guests do, and the recovery period is longer than you'd think.  I'm just going to share some moments that stand out in my post-vacation memory more clearly than others, in no particular order:

1) Olive finding the box that contained the turkey roasting bags and pointing emphatically at the picture of the turkey on it, then doing the sign for I want.

2) Giving Rachel and Seth a tour of Ashraf's house, then descending the back stairs and seeing the pan of foodge Rachel had brought in without my noticing.  My first thought was that the Foodge Fairy had been here.

3) LB's terrible...dyspepsia on Friday, which culminated in my being sent out at 7pm to purchase an instrument of dyspepsia relief.  My reluctance to drive at night was only heightened by my inability to get out of the garage without scraping the passenger door of the car and clipping off what remained of the side-view mirror.

4) Arriving at the pharmacy section of the grocery store and being ignored by a clerk on the telephone for about five minutes.  Then he slammed down the receiver, glared at me and said, "I QUIT.  I can't answer another question."

5) LB telephoning me on my drive home to tell me that the dyspepsia had resolved itself.

6) Seeing Changeling on television last night.  

I do so love to hate Clint Eastwood movies, and this one does not disappoint.  The thrill of describing its badness to LB almost makes up for the 2 hours and 5 minutes of my life lost.  In several places it reminded me of the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode where Picard is held captive by the Cardassians (not the Kardashians--that's a much different episode).  The interrogator tries to get Picard to say he sees three lights in the room when there are, in fact, four.  Not a new story premise when TNG used it, but well-written and well-acted.

If you're entertaining fleeting desires to see Changeling, desist at once and watch that episode of TNG instead. See any episode of TNG instead.  In fact, see any Clint Eastwood movie instead.

When you read this it sounds like watching a bad movie on HBO was the most memorable part of the Thanksgiving holiday, but it wasn't--it's just the most recent.

In fact, I'd say my feeling of being on sedation vacation didn't end until early this afternoon, when I got a call from the Judaics teacher at Keshet saying that the school's Siddur ceremony was coming up and did Olive have a Hebrew name?  When I told her no, she offered to come up with one based on the possible ways to say Olive Pearl in Hebrew and Olive's personality.  I appreciated this and asked her what Siddur was, but her explanation assumed a lot more prior knowledge than I have and I didn't want to admit the depth of my ignorance take up more of her time.  So it's off to Google for me.

It makes sense, doesn't it?  The holiday isn't really over until you've got homework.