Knitters-Knitters

Saturday

Some of you may remember that last Christmas, Agatha made LB a book about his workday.  For his birthday, she continued the theme with a peek into his weekend. 

I'm cute when I'm asleep.

¡Gol, gol, gol!  ¡Golazo!

Notice the time on the clock.

Here I am!  All refreshed and well-rested!

When things get slow, Olive likes to push Dana out of his chair.  She's smaller and lighter than he is, but freakishly strong.  Plus, she has the element of surprise on her side.

Anatole likes books about the Avatar.

Heavy on the starch, please.

The pictures don't lie: he does indeed get to control the remote.  Occasionally.

Ah, too true.

Against the Dying of the Light

Today is my day to rant, to pound my puny fists against the wheels of change that force us, little by little, to recognize grammatical errors as "modern usage."  And since these verbal tirades about verbiage are always more interesting to the ranter than the rantees, I'll divert you with pleasing pictures of my children, taken today: Yom Kippur if you go to Keshet, and Fall Holiday for those in public school.

Leave some adverbs for the rest of us.  Actually, I'm totally not going to talk about this.  Seriously.

The Diffused F Bomb.  I don't mind the F word in its place.  Eff you! packs a punch, when not overused.  The F word makes a great verb, as in, I went into the ladies' room at the United Terminal at O'Hare, and there were two people effing in a stall.  But as a definite article, the eff word is a flaccid shadow of its former self.  Pass the effing salt?  Only if that salt has done something very, very unkind to you.

The waste of a perfectly good of.    Remember that famous scene in Guess Who's Coming to Dinner where Sidney Poitier's father rants about how he carried all those heavy mail bags without complaint to insure a better life for his son?  Poitier's reply to Roy Glenn's monologue was most certainly not, You've got to get off of my back.  If he'd said that, the entire focus of the film would have changed and it would have been about two young people attempting to bridge the gap created by grammatical incompatibility.

It's not hard to know when it's right to use the apostrophe.  It is not hard to know when it is right to use the apostrophe.

Do you want to be one less?  Well, you can't, no matter how many shots you get.  Why do the makers of Gardasil choose to market their vaccine to those not informed enough to know that they can only be one fewer?

God is awesome.  Niagara Falls is awesome.  I've never seen the Grand Canyon, but I've heard it's awesome and I believe it.  Finding an extra Diet Coke in the 'fridge when you'd thought you were all out?  That's a nice surprise, but it's not awesome.

The gift that keeps on giving (not gifting!).  Can your ten-year-old play the violin without giving you a behind the eyes headache?  If he can, he may indeed be musically gifted.  If he's not gifted and his playing gives you the aforementioned headache, then you could say he gives you pain.  He has not "gifted" you with pain.  Even if he realizes his lack of talent and gives the violin to a gifted child, he has not "gifted" that violin, nor has that gifted child been "gifted" in receiving the gift.  Get it?

The jarring and inappropriate use of What-not.  Whenever I hear this coming out of the mouths of today's youth, I can also hear the faint laughter of British people from all the way across the pond.  In addition to performing neurosurgery and what-not, I also enjoy the occasional game of Bocce.  What-not can be laundry, idle chit-chat or taking out the trash, but what-not can never be lumbar laminectomy.  At least, it really shouldn't.

At this point in time. It's long and awkward, and people should stop saying it.  Now.

If we gathered together all the people who pronounce the t in often and all the people who say matoor instead of mature and all the people who aren't French but say vahz instead of vase...well...I don't know what would happen, but I do think we should put them all in one place.

Open House

Last night was open house at Sabina's high school, when the parents come and meet their child's teachers.  We went to Sabina's classes and sat at the desks, and her teachers gave short presentations on what they plan on teaching over the course of the year.  For LB and me it was a completely new experience, our parent/teacher meetings and open houses thus far limited to the special ed department.  Having your child's honors history teacher tell you that your kid is one of the few he can always count on to participate in class?  A whole lot more fun than sitting at the long, scary IEP table with the panel of experts -- even the most talented and kind of experts -- on your autistic child's team.  I don't know why that should come as such a surprise to me, but I had not anticipated what it would feel like to have a third party tell me my child had exceeded an expectation.  I liked it.

Yes, I did sneak a little brag in there.  Did you catch that?  Honors history class.  I claim Parent of a Developmentally Disabled Child Immunity.  It's fun to say honors history and honors English (I did it again!).  I think I have a few brags still coming to me over the amount of times I've had to say Pervasive Developmental Delay, Nonverbal, and, "Can you tell me where to find Pull-Ups for a child who weighs over 50 pounds?"  It's not for my benefit, of course, but you know... the grandparents and aunties and uncles read Knitters-Knitters and they eat this stuff up with a spoon.  Put on your Golden Gate Bridge apron, OFD.  Get out your cloth napkin, Paula.  It's my blog and I'll gush if I want to.

What Do I Have to Say for Myself?

It's true, I haven't been blogging as much.  Free time, meaning those hours not consumed with the education of the four middle children (particularly the vagaries of 7th grade math) has been pretty much consumed by knitting.  I have not been this captivated by knitting in a long time.  For most of the summer I knit sporadically, only able to constipate out a very few finished items.  There was the stripey sweater, a striped tank, the Keshet shawl, and...was that it?  I'm not counting Sabina's cardigan because I didn't really get going on that until school started.

I'm working on a little dress for my impending niece during the background of my day, while children do independent work:

But my solitary late-nights, when I can spread out all my skeins and directions and my pen and the back of whatever envelope I'm using for row counts, are filled with Marianne Isager's "Mie's Jacket."  In this series of photos, you can see it going from yarn...

...to its humble beginning: a chevron triangle...

...to a stand-up collar. It's very hard to visualize a collar unless you've seen the photos in the book, and even then it's not so easy.

This is the back of the jacket, from collar to armholes. 

Those colorful stripes, which were a total pain in my rumpus and involved the dreaded intarsia, should stand out more after blocking.  They'd better.

Here's the front and the back together, up to the stripes.

And here's where I'm at today.  All the body stitches are joined on one needle.  You see the jacket emerging now, right?  This isn't like when we played Find the Howler monkey in my coffee table, or Do you see the French nun?  This one should be easy.

But back to school: Sabina did well on her placement exams and is enjoying herself.  At least, I assume she's enjoying high school because she just called me and she wants to stay late today for a meeting of the such and such club.  Debate?  Speech?  Theater?  I'm pretty sure it was something verbal, but my brain immediately discarded the information in the relief of discovering the call was of a benign nature.  Last year, whenever I saw Public School in my caller ID, it meant that Olive was itching and had to be picked up at once.  Then, after I arrived, the change in activity invariably made her forget about scratching and there we were home early for no good reason.  I've only gotten one Olive Is Itchy phone call so far this year, and the nurse was willing--nay, eager--to try distraction techniques.

Olive is also enjoying school.  It's easy for me to tell when Olive is happy with school because on weekends, she tends to drag one or more of us to the garage door and natter, in Olive-ese, about how very tedious we all are and how the fact that none of us are Teacher Caroline is too much to be borne.  Last year when she was unhappy with school, she'd cry in the mornings and try to pull me away from the door when it was time to go.

Olive has been very huggy recently, not just reciprocating hugs (she's done that for a few years) but actually initiating them and in hug-appropriate situations.  I get a lot of hugs as does LB, but as for who gets the most that's an easy one: Maria.

Today I did something I always swore I'd never do.  Sabina leaves for school in the morning before I get up and is gone most of the day, so I took the opportunity to search her room.  I'm very pleased to say I came up scratch.  It was wrong of me, but as a mother, I had to know...

..if she'd worn her new Fan cardigan to school today.

Works in Progress

The birthday girl, blowing out one large Shabbat candle.  This year I forgot to buy birthday candles, but I did figure out how to keep the cheesecake's outer layer from turning rock hard--a little corn syrup added to the chocolate while melting.

The next day, Sabina went to buy her textbooks and get her student ID.  She is as happy about high school as she looks.  Won't you all join me in a chorus of Sunrise, Sunset?

Today I made a blueberry pie, to assuage my guilt over having eaten the last piece of cheesecake.  Cheesecake is always over way too soon.

I made my own crust.

That little piece broke off by accident.  I could carefully put it back in place to restore the edge's pristine appearance.  Or not.

I'm working on the back of the fan cardigan now.  After this, I've just got a sleeve and a half to go.  I always do the little arm sleeve last.

Sabina's Birthday Preparations, In Real Time

Today is Sabina's birthday.  We asked her what she wanted, and she said an iTunes gift card.  When I told her that just didn't sound very exciting and wouldn't she rather have something that required more unwrapping, she asked me what I got for my 15th birthday.  Ah, what a good year!  "That's when I got Rubber Soul and Abbey Road."   Sabina waited quietly while my brain made the necessary connections.  Nevermind.

She has also asked for cheesecake.

I always make the one from this book:

Here's where I pause in exasperation and finally order a new wire whip attachment for my mixer, admitting to myself the old one is never going to be found and beating by hand is a royal pain.

Here's how Dana keeps Olive amused so I can make the cake without lots of interruptions.

Now it's in the oven.  I use the time to organize all Olive's Keshet paperwork into a file box, and even put her name on it.  While I'm at it, I fill out the forms and write checks so Olive can get a Kosher beverage at lunchtime and a Keshet water bottle.  I also sign the form that promises I won't telephone her teachers at home late at night or send them insulting emails.  See how ahead of schedule I am?   I got this. 

Right in the middle of feeling good about myself, I realize I got distracted and lost all sense of time.

The cake is slightly overdone.  I carefully remove the over-browned top edges and drown the entire thing in sour cream topping.  Phew.

Now the mail is here, and something came for me.  My birthday isn't until next week.  I should put the box away and not give it another thought until the 23rd. 

That's too hard.  No, it isn't--I'm a grown-up.  Wait, I'm only 43.  I won't be a grown-up for another week.  I AM DISTRACTED AGAIN!

For dinner, Sabina wants the chicken pot pies made by Elegance in Meat.  Bless her.

Here's something else Sabina is getting, but it wont be ready for a week or so.  This is (or will be) the fan cardigan from Japanese Inspired Knits.

I saw this one on Dances with Wool, and was immediately gripped by the urge to make a lace cardigan too... except with several mistakes and intermittent irregularities in guage. 

And in green.

Orb

...Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;

 

Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

The Merchant of Venice, Act 5, Scene 1

Class of 2013

Bear with me this week.  It began with Phase II of a root canal in which Dr. Teeny-Tiny drilled so deep I now have a hole in my shoe. (I've said that to 3 people now, and so far no one has laughed.  It's funny, right?)  This bunny-stomping pain in the left side of my face has colored my perception of everything, tinging all memories and events blood red and burning them around the edges like a pirate's map.

We had a wonderful visit with Lo and her whole family, Mom, OFD and Aunt Marilyn.  I have lots of pictures to share, but today I'll only show this one because it leads nicely into what I'm going to spend most of this blog riffing on, and no, it's not my dental x-rays.

Here is Aunt Marilyn, whispering words of congratulations and good luck to Sabina on her new adventure: 

This fall, Sabina is going to high school.  Yes, high school.  The kind that meets in a building that is not my house.  The answer to the next question is because she wants to.  She wants it so much that she did not ask, she did not nag, and her only method of conveying her desire was in that persistent, wordless way that she must have gotten from her father.

She is excited.  I'm excited, too, and a little relieved, to be honest.  My pack zips shut more easily, and I have a rebound back ache from the lightening of my load.

I'm also scared, remembering  words and phrases from my own high school experience: not hyperbola, declension, tragic flaw and the Parable of the Cave.  That was the fun stuff.  I'm talking about words like Trust fund.  Monogram.  Freshman Initiation (where's your beanie, Frosh?).  I'm talking about being absolutely phobic of out-of-uniform day, because it forced me out of the financial ambiguity provided by the black watch plaid skirt, white blouse and forest green knee socks.  Those things I had, but when it came to the right kind of lime green wide wale corduroy pants and the turtleneck with little hearts on it, I was sunk.  If I'd known where those people shopped, my parents would certainly have bought me a heart turtle neck.  It would have become my out-of-uniform day uniform, and in a class of 88 kids, this would not have gone unnoticed.  And that would have been worse.

Perhaps the saddest thing about my high school experience was that I didn't have that bad a time.  I had friends, I did well academically, and I was more or less okay being in the socio-economic fourth quintile.  It wasn't as if the kids brought their parents W-2 forms to school and compared: it just came up in little moments, like on those out-of-uniform days.  Or in the circular drop-off lane, where you saw what everyone else's parents were driving.  And once at a birthday party at the home of a girl whose Lakefront Milwaukee home was the little pied a terre, when I knocked over a crystal wine glass full of sparkling cider and it broke.  Her mother answered my frantic apology and offer to pay for it with, "You couldn't possibly."

It wasn't until I went to college that I learned most people don't own second homes on Sanibel Island, most kids have dads (and moms) who go to work every day and not just once a week in an "advisory" capacity, and that ski vacations in Aspen are something enjoyed by a very small percentage of an already very small percentage.  I didn't even realize that although I wasn't in the latter small percentage, I was definitely in the former. 

It was (and is) a Good School.  I was well-educated, got lots of individual attention, and went on to other Good Schools.  I know where to put the apostrophe, and I know my latter from my former (see previous paragraph).  When I went to college, the workload transition was seamless.  And yet I cannot drive past my high school--even though it has moved and the old buildings now house something else entirely--without breaking into a sweat.  As for going to one of my reunions, ever? I couldn't possibly.

But back to the dwarves. 

Sabina is not going to my old high school, and though my nightmares often suggest otherwise, I do not have to go back to my old high school.  In fact, I'd like to think my old high school isn't even my old high school anymore.  I do know that Initiation and the blue and gold Freshman beanies have fallen by the wayside.  And I hope the students no longer shout from the bleachers, when losing a basketball game, That's all right, that's okay.  You'll be working for us someday.

My Summer Vacation

When we arrived at Susan's guest house, we found the pantry stocked with Olive's favorite foods.  It was almost as if Susan had found an online record detailing all of Olive's prefer...hey...

This is a horse (of course).  Susan's horses look just like the ones on TV, except no talking.

Agatha and Abbi, making flag cake.  It was Agatha's first time, and she didn't understand why it was supposed to be baked in a rectangular pan until it was time to decorate.

Sabina holding a kitten.  In the words of the immortal Bill Baughn (indulge me--it's not every day I get to quote from The Myoelectric Myth):

A prosthetist has made claim to have developed a prosthetic hand with "the sense of touch". When a child can put his prosthetic hand through a hole in a box and tell us he has found a kitten, that the kitten is warm and furry, that it is licking his hand and his tongue is rough and wet, then and only then will it be honest and ethical to use such a term.

 

This is Romeo.  He's 137 in dog years.  Clover was unafraid of him, due to either his lack of initiative or lack of teeth.

Olive with a Bomb Pop.  Remember Bomb Pops?  These were bigger when we were littler weren't they?  Come on, you 'member...

Susan and Christina in a mother/daughter shot.  I'm sorry they're blurry; they kept making tiny, almost imperceptible movements, as if they'd had too much caffeine.

Agatha, Brett and a Roman candle.

Olive walking briskly.

Olive up high.

Abbi, Mercy Grace, Agatha, Brett and sparklers.  At one point in the visit, Susan mentioned how cool it looked when Anatole did things with his little arm.  Apparently, seeing people handle pyrotechnics with their toes has gotten old hat.

Gideon (Susan's youngest) watching the fireworks while gently running his toy helicopter atop Clover's head.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Morning

When Olive left for camp this morning it was warm and sunny.  Today is "wear blue and white" day, but she doesn't have many articles of clothing that limit themselves to just one or two colors.  I've bought her all sorts of camp attire and had no problem with "wear your Ramah tee-shirt" day, but despite having had the calendar for over a month I have not managed to buy her an outfit that invokes the Israeli flag.  This little dress would have to do, with the light blue scrunchy. 

As has become my pattern, I went down for a nap after Olive left for camp.  The other 5 children were still sleeping.  The sudden darkening of the sky made me think their rest would continue undisturbed longer than most mornings, given the lack of light coming in from their bedroom skylights.

When I got up, all 5 children were dressed and breakfasted and I thought about how nice it was to have older kids.  They were sitting in the family room, looking--from a distance--quaint and harmonious.  Three of them were playing a quiz game, arguing over how to pronounce synonym and whose question that was in the first place and whether or not Dana should have to raise his hand and how that really wasn't fair because he'd seen Anatole answer a question without raising his hand.  Sabina was working on a research paper about Judy Garland, displaying her ability to tune out both Agatha's bossing and Dana's litany over injustice.

When I came downstairs they looked at me reproachfully.  Agatha told me there had been some thunder before and Clover was terrified and needed lots of consoling and reminders of what a good, brave spaniel she was, and I had slept through it.  Also, we were low on toilet paper.  My uselessness as both a parent and a dog owner was unspoken but shimmeringly implied.

At that there was a flash of light immediately followed by the kind of thunder you hear maybe once a summer, and suddenly, I'm Julie Andrews.  I'm an all-embracing, guitar-strumming nun, the only person capable of assuring these momentarily needy children that the house will not be struck by lightning and catch fire.   Yes, Olive's camp counselors know that standing under a tent is not enough and we can assume--scratch that--we know that Olive and her fellow campers are indoors.  We will all be okay. 

I am reminded, as I often am during these moments of suddenly Mommy's nice to have around, of the George Lopez routine about his uncle's heart attack.  Previously his uncle had been a dismissive and insulting husband, but the fact that he now has a pain in his chess and can't breaf has made his wife, shall we say, praiseworthy and important.  And she knows it.

I resist the temptation to say, "Oh, suddenly Mommy has all the answers, huh?"  The children and I talk about lightning rods.  I'm unclear about what they are and how they work, but this doesn't stop me from making reassuring statements about their effectiveness, like I invented the lightning rod.  Like I wrote a research paper about lightning rods.  Like I would even know what one looked like if I backed over it with my car.  I consider it my responsibility to, at these moments, sound like I know what I'm talking about when I do not. 

Especially when I do not.