Knitters-Knitters

Before There Was Daisy

The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shuts the Door —
To her divine Majority —
Present no more —

Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing —
At her low Gate —
Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat —

I've known her — from an ample nation —
Choose One —
Then — close the Valves of her attention —
Like Stone —

- Emily Dickinson

 

Daisy was conceived against medical advice. 

Approximately two weeks before her zygote-hood I was in exam room one, waiting for the gastroenterologist to confirm what I already knew but did not want to admit: my Crohn's had come back.  The eight short years of remission were over and I was, once again, a 92-pound bloated tick of an abdomen with matchsticks for arms and legs. This is what Crohn's does: at first, you don't realize you're losing weight because your belly is so distended.

I noticed there was a copy of Everybody Poops among the magazines. Why?  It felt like a cruel choice for reading material, even if the exam room was meant for pediatric patients with inflammatory bowel disease.  Yes, everybody poops -- but not everybody poops fourteen times a day. 

By the time the gastroenterologist came in, I was sobbing.  He sat down and said, "Well, the good news is Prednisone isn't the only option anymore.  There's a whole new class of drugs out there than the last time you were sick.  Sulfa is a thing of the past, and they've come up with more tolerable ways to get the 5-ASA where it needs to go."

I said, "Can you take it when you're pregnant?  Because I really, really want to have another baby." 

He put his hands to his temples and said, "No.  We are not having this conversation.  We're going to get you stable.  That is the only thing we are going to do now."

I do not remember the rest of the visit.  I imagine we talked about drug options, I had blood drawn and he sent me home with prescriptions for mesalamine and cholestyramine resin.  All I had heard was that I was not supposed to get pregnant, and as you know, I only had two modes when it came to maternity: nary a thought of children, or wanting to be pregnant yesterday. 

The thought of Sabina being more than two years older than her younger sibling felt intolerable.   At that time, I perceived every unhappy moment of my childhood as a direct result of my siblings being eight, eleven and fourteen years older than I was.  And that sibling who's eight years older than I?  We hadn't discovered each other yet.  I mean, I knew about Lo, but we had never been in the same phase of life at the same time, and I had no reason to believe we ever would.  Before she left for college, her interest in me was limited to my ability to assemble snacks.  "I'll time you," she'd say, as if that somehow made it fun. 

The day after that awful appointment, something unthinkable happened: the gastroenterologist called me on the telephone to apologize for the way he had spoken to me in his office.

I'll give you all a moment to regain consciousness.

Yes, a doctor called me to say he had been wrong.  "I was way too harsh," he said. "Would I want my daughter to conceive while on mesalamine?  No.  Would it be safe?  Probably.  But you're entitled to want a baby, just like any other woman.  And I had no right to dismiss you out of hand."

So there I was, on a drug that had not yet kicked in, living on Ensure and overcooked carrots.  (I don't care how many flavors Ensure adds to its repertoire.   They all taste the same: like the can they come in.)  I looked cadaverous, and yet, in two weeks I was pregnant. 

And I was terrified. 

I can honestly say I did not relax for one moment of that pregnancy, even though as sometimes happens with autoimmune disorders, I was back into remission by the end of the first trimester.  Daisy was born at thirty-six weeks and two days: long enough to weigh a respectable six pounds and five ounces and have a healthy amount of lung surfactant, but not one moment longer.  I truly believe she was trying to make things easier on me.

For the first four weeks on the outside, Daisy did nothing but eat and sleep, sleep and eat, and sleep some more.  Her eyes were almost always closed.

At some point during the fourth week, she opened her eyes and saw that it was Not Good.  Daisy was a much fussier baby than Sabina had been, but made up for it by having eyes like stars.

Daisy did not like her bassinet.  She did not like strangers.  She did not like her bouncy seat.  She did not like the car.  She did not like to be held in any position that was comfortable for the person doing the holding.  Oh, sure, I was a handy food source and LB was tolerable company.  But there was really only one person in her life who could do no wrong.

Guess who?

Happy 16th birthday, Daisy!  I'm so glad to be in your society.

 

Urnvy

Today I was watching an internet service provider ad that illustrated a metaphor of other ISP's robbing their customers blind, and in one scene two thieves walked right past the homeowner carrying a seven foot-tall urn.  I was transported to the place where advertisers never, ever want you to go -- a million miles away from what was happening onscreen. 

"Urns," I thought. "I'm never going to have urns like that."

It's sounds silly and hardly worth comparing to the pain of realizing one is never going to be a ballerina, a fighter pilot, a circus performer or the person who patents a system for car windows to roll up from the bottom instead of from the top down, but I had assumed my adulthood would include giant urns.  They rounded out the plans I had for my future.  This future:

I saw this painting "in person" once in its 87.6 x 87.6 inch glory, I'm not sure where.  It may have been on loan at the Chicago Art Institute (very likely, but I can't find a record of where this painting traveled in the late seventies and early eighties), or maybe even at at the Louvre but I did see it in person -- and many, many times in books -- and it filled me with longing.  I wanted to walk into it and live it.  I could never be one of those four girls, but perhaps I could have a hand in creating my own version.  I could have four daughters, dress them in matching pinafores, and people would say, "Hey, just like in that Sargent painting, you know the one."

Over the years I realized that I was quickly and easily achieving what one might consider the more difficult part of the painting: the four little girls. According to Wiki, my four girls even share some personality traits of the girls in the painting (though I hope some of mine will marry).  But today, watching that ad on television, it occurred to me that I am never going to have the part of the painting I took for granted: the urns.

It's not a matter of having the room: Leah and Larry's living room cries out for enormous urns, as did Ashraf's, and as does that house in Chicago we still own (Dieter and his family, our tenants, do not have urns or four daughters).  And it's not the cost: I'm not married to the idea of having priceless antique urns.  I'm sure I could find nice-looking imitations at Pier 1 or Cost Plus.   

The problem, as it is so often, is Olive.  Heavy urns would be true hazards in our house.  Instead of The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit I'd be more likely to recreate something from the unpublished works of Edward Gorey: O is for Olive who fell head-first in an urn.  Or perhaps an alternate ending to Gorey's The Hapless Child, where the protagonist is crushed by heavy falling porcelain instead of getting run over by her own father.

What about fake urns that are really made of tin or some equally light material?  Possible, but then I envision the living room as an off-scale and incomplete bowling alley, with the two pins lying on their sides more often than not.  Mommmmmy, Olive's knocked over the urns again...

After reading about the painting's history and the interpretations of the critics, I realize I see it much differently than Sargent may have intended.  I see no melancholy there or foreshadowing of bleak futures, and certainly not, "four corners and a void." 

The daughter in the back who we see in profile is obviously my Daisy, and the sister right next to her is Agatha, narrating what the painter is doing, in real-time, for her sister who's too shy to look directly at him.

In fact, here's a photo of Daisy, looking very Boit-ish, taken by Agatha.

For the past several months Agatha has been working on her own painting from the photograph, and she's allowing us...

...a sneak-peek...

...at the work...

... in progress.

She's made me promise to let you know it's not done yet. 

I'm not sure what makes me more proud: Agatha's talent, or the fact that she looks at her sister's face and thinks, "I would like to spend many, many weeks painting her."

But back to the Sargent painting: that's Sabina on the left, making her own way, giving Sargent a bit of a stare-down.  She may be about to correct his technique.  And seated on the floor, we have who is indisputably Olive.  If you look closely, you can even see she's doing askancers-askancers.

I'd say she looks as if she's about to jump to her feet and give one of those urns a giant shove, but considering that the urns are still on display in Boston, this must not have been the case. 

Perhaps she was content to simply pull Dolly's hair from the roots.

A Whole Bunch of Stuff Including My Birthday

All the little Sullivan children have started school now. One would think this would mean an easier schedule for me but it somehow doesn't. We've got that same parent's night, meet-the-teacher, orientation stuff as the rest of you, but at four different schools.

Olive has had her second of two half-days (I know what you're thinking, and yes, it's difficult to work a nap in on those half-days), and tomorrow will be her first full day. Yesterday was a hair-pulling, sea-gulling day, but today was not. Olive has a new teacher this year. She'll miss Teacher Caroline, but I can tell Teacher Julie is someone Olive will quickly grow to love. High affect. Sparkly. Happy-voiced. And already wise to Olive's behavioral triggers.

There's a chance we will be hiring someone to help out with Olive a few afternoons during the week, for that difficult 4-6pm time slot when siblings are doing homework, adult humans tend to experience low energy, and Spectaculans get their second wind. It's too new to discuss, really. Several phone calls and a meeting of all concerned parties will need to take place first. In other words, a flurry of activity that will temporarily make my life harder in the effort to make it easier.

Tomorrow OFD (my dad) will be having some minor surgery. Nothing serious, but I'll be making a few solo trips to Milwaukee over the next week. It will be, as OFD puts it, his first surgery in 80 years. The last time he had surgery it took place on his family's kitchen table and involved ether. He has bad memories of the ether, but Lo, Hen and I have all assured him that ether has been abandoned in favor of a rag soaked in chloroform. We're good children that way.

One of two things will happen with regard to what promises to be a very busy several weeks: 1) I'll be too busy to blog, and will choose to spend leisure time knitting, napping or staring into space or 2) the extra adrenaline will leave me with energy that's hard to turn off, and I'll blog more than usual. One of OFD's favorite aphorisms is "activity generates activity." I've found this to be true. When I have one task, it weighs on me and makes me feel terribly put out. That task becomes the most noxious expenditure of effort ever, and I frequently say things like, "A nice person like me shouldn't have to do this." This is why I have six children instead of one.

OFD also likes to say, "He who is bored is boring," and, "It can happen to the best of us, but it usually happens to the worst of us," but I digress.

Some of you may have noticed that I no longer have ads on this blog. The time came for contract renewal, and I decided I'd rather have my sidebar back than $23 every two and a half months. I never did find out the answer to the eternal question of how much traffic one needs each day to make ads really pay off, but it's more than 158. Or maybe it's not about numbers -- maybe ten daily readers would be enough, if those ten readers desperately enjoyed clicking on ads for household cleaning products.

But you don't want to hear blog business and the logistics of trips to and from Milwaukee. And I'm guessing you don't want to hear about the two hours I spent at the DMV renewing my license the other day. I know you --you just want to see my birthday presents.

LB's present to me was that extra night at the bed and breakfast in Independence, MO and looking the other way during what has been a High Yarn Acquisition time period. He also brought home a steak for me from Outback Steakhouse last night, with the extra bonus of bringing Olive with him so I could sit home and knit in peace. This proved for a difficult ride home, because Olive has a love of red meat that exceeds her love of ice cream and she can smell it at a hundred yards away. LB had to spend most of that drive home preventing Olive from diving headlong into the brown paper takeout bag.

Perhaps my biggest gift from LB is his willingness to do double-duty with the children and no doubt miss some work over this next week, so that I can go to Milwaukee and fulfill my role in the hand-wringing entourage. And then when I'm back home, he'll listen to me complain about how all the Perlmans except me are completely insane and he'll massage that spot on the back of my neck that connects to my skull, and that other spot on the left side of my back that acts up in times of stress and has bothered me on and off since I was 22 years old. When I ask him if I'm as taxing and impossible as everyone else with whom I share DNA (my equivalent of "Does this dress make me look fat?") he'll respond in a way that makes the question dissipate gently -- and unanswered -- into the air. I would never say that LB completes me, nor would I want him to.

He dilutes me.

But onto presents you can actually see. My mother-in-law knit me a fetching little skirt, of Noro Kureyon.

For those on Ravelry, you can heart this skirt here. You can also look at her detailed pattern notes here, should you decide to make a lanesplitter skirt for yourself.

My in-laws also sent me a large amount of both Noro Silk Garden and Silk Garden Lite...

... and the new Noro book.

Sending me a knitting book is risky because I tend to snap them up as soon as they come out, but I did not have this one. I love everything in it, and am currently working on this kimono sweater using the Silk Garden the in-laws sent.

I'm at that glorious point of no return -- that phase of the project where you know you're going to finish it, and it's not going to become an embarrassing little pile at the bottom of a knitting bag. I'm planning on doing long sleeves, with cuff bands in garter stitch.

My parents have a tradition of sending a birthday check in an amount equal to three times your age. I immediately spent my $138 by ordering the yarn to make this sweater, from the same Noro book. And in the same colorway as the model.

Agatha made me a painting of my two spaniels of joy:

If you knew them in person, you'd be able to fully appreciate how well she captured their personalities: from Pam's hyper-vigilant expression that veers from alarm to indignance and back again, to Clover's faraway gaze (which is either deep thought or confusion).

Thank you to all who sent Facebook birthday wishes! They make me feel very appreciated and loved... and like I really need to be better myself about sending them to others. Those little notes matter.

Blooming

I heard on the news this morning that Chicago's cooling centers were now operational, for those who do not have air conditioning. Chicago also has warming centers in the winter, and it occurred to me that the cooling centers are probably the exact same places as the warming centers: the lobbies of office buildings. That fact that I live in an area that requires both warming and cooling centers seems somehow wrong. At the very least, there should be a few days in which one requires neither heating nor cooling, but apparently we've decided to skip all that this year. And by all that, I mean spring.

These lilacs were buds yesterday and wilty today. The poor things didn't even have a chance in the 90 degree heat.

The lilacs in the front yard are apparently more hearty. They also smell better.

I thought this was lavender, it being lavender and all, but it doesn't smell like lavender or like anything else in particular. It could be that the soapy, purple smell I associate with the word "lavender" isn't what real lavender smells like. Or that this plant is something else entirely that in no way intends to impersonate lavender and resents my implication. Flowers are huffy that way.

The peonies are now in bloom! They are so pretty that I feel like I should be doing something about it. I mean, other than taking their picture and showing them to you.

I have no idea what this is. Not even a guess.

Here's one more flower: it's a Daisy, taken just the other day (right before her 8th grade graduation dance). Some of you have seen this picture on Facebook, but some of you haven't. And we can't have that.

Now, this looks like an irregular, haphazardly striped length of wilty nothing, but I know exactly what it's going to bloom into. After I finish the body of this scarf, I'll pick up stitches along both sides and do about an inch of garter stitch in Rowan Kidsilk Haze lavender. That will change everything, making the scarf lie flat and giving it an immediate shape.

Then I'll pick up stitches along either end, triple-increase and make a long, ribbed ruffle instead of fringe. How I will be able to make this happen in time for scarf to be washed, blocked and dried by Friday morning, my personal deadline, is a whole 'nother question.

While U Wait

Yesterday I gave Olive her first dose of Vitamin Z, and then we all sat around her on the couch and waited for something to happen.

After about thirty seconds of watching Olive enjoy the T-Mobile ad, it occurred to me that given that Dr. Four-In-Hand told us not to expect to notice any changes for at least ten days, it might be a good idea to focus my attention on something else for a little while. Anything else. It's time for a happy list: not a simpering with gratitude sort of list that makes you unsure of whether to hurl or lactate, in which our planet is anthropomorphized and which ends with the phrase blessed be. A cautious, guarded, self-conscious, ever so slightly splenetic little list.

A Knitters-Knitters list.

1. When I'm sitting on the toilet and Pam Spaniel pushes the bathroom door open with her nose, walks to the garbage pail and verrrry slowly removes an empty toilet paper roll. She gives me a sidelong glance behind her ear-hangs-low position, trying for all the world to master the insouciance of a hide-in-plain-sight attitude. Oh, don't mind me: I just had to retrieve this cyclinder of cardboard so that I can shred it into small pieces and leave it lying around the house. As you were.

2. Laundry. I love laundry for the very reason that many of you probably dislike it: it never ends. There is always laundry to do. To roughly paraphrase Jesus, The laundry is always with us. A very wise friend of mine once told me that in times of extreme anxiety when one has no psychotropic drugs in the house, just do the next right thing. And the next right thing is always laundry. This small pile is courtesy of the boys and Olive.

3. This original artwork, given to me by my Aunt Marilyn and hanging in my beloved laundry room. I don't think I need to explain why this picture makes me happy.

4. The rare occurrence of a knitting project that holds my attention from beginning to end.

I especially like the portion of this scarf with the intarsia vertical stripes. It makes me think of fingers, or more specifically, phalanges. It reminds me of the episode of Bones where Temperance is trying -- awkwardly -- to amuse a crying baby. Finally she waggles her fingers at the baby and says, "Phalanges! Dancing phalanges!"

5. This picture of my eldest, taken ridiculously early last Sunday morning: 11a.m. You can see how tired she is from being dragged out of bed at that ungodly hour.

Fun optical illusion: if you lay your hand across the bridge of her nose and look at her from the eyes up, she looks like me. And if you cover her eyes and look at her from the nose down, she's the map of LB -- right down to the ridiculously long femurs and foot-tread that makes her sound heavier than she is (not shown).

6. Olive in her new hat. The fact that Olive has this hat. The way in which she acquired this hat.

When I picked up Olive from school on Tuesday, she was wearing the hat, and the surprise of seeing her like that -- all behatted and shaded -- sent me into cuteness conniptions right there in the parking lot. Olive's favorite aide had given it to her, as a way to block out a little of the sensory world that's been overwhelming her these days.

Olive loves the hat and will wear it all day long -- but only on the days when she is assigned to that particular aide. Otherwise, the hat is a reminder that she is not, at that moment, with her favorite aide, and it must be yanked off and stomped upon.

7. The mental gyrations I go through to justify why I don't own blocking wires. I like to tell myself it's because I'm a callous-fingered, resourceful sort of knitter who doesn't require fancy tools. I tell myself I enjoy pinning. Really it's because blocking wires, though not expensive and no doubt handy, are just not a sexy purchase. When I go yarn shopping I'm easily distracted by the very special skeins of hand-dyed yarn combed gently from the underbelly of libertarian yaks who live and breed in a small section of Wyoming that does not observe daylight savings time.

8. The miracle of blocking. As you can see, the Dancing Phalanges scarf is currently in traction, still under general anesthesia. I think the scarf will come out nicely -- all light and airy yet surprisingly warm -- but we won't know for sure until it regains consciousness. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial.

We Now Interrupt this Extensive Dirge for Complaints of an Entirely Different Matter

Sabina (my eldest) developed a sore throat on Sunday night and stayed home Monday from school. Now this isn't all that unusual -- having six children at four different schools means there's usually someone around here curled up on the couch with a noxious cootie or two. But then yesterday after school, Olive came inside from playing pot (for those of you newer readers, "Pot" is when Olive plays on the back porch with a large pot of soapy water, a spatula and a wooden spoon). She said, "Uhuhuhuhuhuhuh" which is Spectaculan for, "I don't feel well and it isn't the issue that was bothering me previously." Sure enough, she had a fever. I gave her some Advil, then noticed that it hurt when I swallowed.

We all went to bed early. Olive woke up twice with episodes of gagging on mucus, and LB--as usual--did the evening duties of bed cleaning, new jammies, and Advil dosing. He has always been Mr. Night when it comes to the children, but this time I couldn't have helped him out if I wanted to . When I tried to get out of bed in a feeble attempt to look like I was helping, I'm pretty sure I stepped on my uvula.

Olive and I got up for the day in time to send Dana out to wait for the bus (I'm fully expecting him to come home with a sore throat, too), and then I called LB, already at work, to ask him to come home. Olive and I sat in front of Regis and Kelly in a state of catatosis.

Maria called to ask after Olive (I am always amazed at the people who care for Olive, whose interest and participation continues when they are off the clock). She had many good suggestions for things we could do about Olive's anxiety when she goes to sensory gym. Though Olive loves the gym, she becomes unhinged if there's anything different that day, like a different child at play there, or if we need to use a different room.

Maria mentioned that she once worked with a boy who would wear ear plugs in new and (to him) frightening situations. Then they would replace the earplugs with cotton, until he became used to the new activity and could handle the sensory information of that new place. At least, I think this is the conversation we had. I couldn't speak much--not because of laryngitis, but because I keep gagging on the inside of my throat. Once LB got home I headed straight to bed with Advil, chloraseptic losenges, a glass of my beloved seltzer mixed with Orangina, and my stuffed pig and I slept solidly for three hours.

When I woke up and my throat was, once again, on fire I allowed myself to wallow in self-pity review the situation. I am thankful that LB was able to come home today. If he'd been in Barrington or the Loop, it would have been very hard. I'm grateful--more than you will ever know--to those of you who comment regularly. And those of you who comment occasionally. And those of you who give a thumbs up on Facebook, and those of you whose identity I'll never know because you're as quiet as a pasture of gentle llamas but I can hear you breathing.

Then I was done being grateful and allowed myself a few punches at my stuffed pig. Why can I not get a break? Why is it that even while you are dealing with out of the ordinary problems, the regular old problems like sore throats and viruses continue? It should be more like bowling. When "virus with sore throat" sees that you are tossing your polyurethane ball at "anxiety attacks in my autistic nine year old," it should wait politely for its turn before tossing an eleven pound ball directly into the pyramid of pins that is your family. That's just basic bowling courtesy.

I remembered an expanse of time this fall. There were IEP's to attend, and some of my children were adjusting to the change from homeschool better than others. Agatha had finally shaken a stubborn ear infection, and we got disturbing news about Clover's heart. I must have been healthy myself, because I remember making a new recipe -- a fruit and nut studded bread -- for Rosh Hashana. I didn't know it at the time, but that evening of roast chicken, apples and honey and LB trying to pronounce Hebrew: that was my break.

I wish someone had told me.

Did I Do That?

Last week I saw Jaleel White on The View dispelling rumors about his own death.  He made the point that with a celebrity like Brad Pitt, no one's going to start those rumors because they'd be too quickly disproved.  But it's not hard to imagine that an unseen Urkel had quietly slipped off this mortal coil, when these days he's behind the camera and not in front of it.  I was, as I'm sure are most of you, very glad to hear that Steve Urkel (and by proxy, Stefan Urquelle) is among the living.  But it did make me think I should blog again, and soon.  Some of you may not know that Olive was off for Spring Break all last week -- a week when my other children were all in school.  In fact, Olive's off Monday and Tuesday of next week, also.  The two of us together are not unlike Steve Urkel and Carl Winslow, with Olive causing a wake of mayhem and me trying desperately to contain it without falling into it.

Last weekend LB's parents came to visit for Daisy's confirmation.  Here's Daisy with Grandad.

The boys, before they had a chance to get dirty.

Grandad with his boys.

Here Daisy is being baptised, right before confirmation (please excuse the grainy quality of my cellphone camera).

It's okay if you're a little confused.  We all are. 

That same afternoon I went and stood in front of a neighborhood deli holding a can, wearing a rainbow apron and collecting money for Keshet.  One might expect I'd suffer some sort of religious whiplash or risk damage to my spiritual transmission, but the two activities dovetailed seamlessly.  It was a cold day, but the festive atmosphere of Pesach ensured some generous donations.  One man put a ten-spot in the can and said, "I'm no shnorrer!" 

My partner in "canning" was the outreach coordinator for Keshet, Steve F.  He congratulated me on my daughter's confirmation and never once asked how I came to have a child in Keshet, or for that matter, how it came to pass that Jen Sullivan knows what a shnorrer is.  He's a rare person, that Steve -- a combination of social and inclusive without ever being invasive -- and he kept me company the whole time.  According to my calculations, he'd spent at least six hours standing that day before I even showed up: first as Sunset Foods and then at the deli.

Meanwhile, I've been working on that endless, ten-stitch blanket.  It's almost done, but I'll wait until its blocked in all its multi-colored, ruffled glory before I post photos.  Clover's had her three-month physical and her murmur is unchanged.  The vet said she's "doing as well as can be expected."  Pam Spaniel is now bigger than Clover by a good three pounds, but she knows who's in charge.  Every day Pam lies in patient discomfort while Clover bathes her entire face, including her eyes.

I've been dutifully taking my Vitamin P.  My mornings still stink -- a web search of "morning anxiety" tell me I'm not alone -- but two in the afternoon is much better than it used to be.  Funny thing: while I've been putting one foot in front of the other, people around me have been making enormous leaps.  Olive now taps me on the shoulder to initiate sign-language requests.  Namely: you give me something to eat!  

No one has changed as much as Miss Baley Anabel.  The big girls and I went to Milwaukee this weekend for Mom's birthday and Baley was there with a bevvy of new tricks to show off.

First of all, new teeth:

Clapping!

How big is Baley?

Making sure Hen knows his place.

The adoration of the Baley.

Best of all, Baley has some news to share.  Despite much babbling and a few new words under her belt, belly-message is still her primary means of communication.

The new baby is due in October!

The girls and I send our apologies to Hen and Andra for not saying good-bye when we left Milwaukee.  We wanted to...

 ...but it just seemed too cruel to contemplate, under the circumstances.

Ten Lights

1. Hearing that young fellow Pitbull count to four.  Uno, doh, treh, cuat....

2.  Knowing Kelly Rippa also watches every single TV show with "Real Housewives" in the title and is willing to admit it.  Not sure how I feel about admitting I watch Kelly Rippa though.

3.  When Pam crawls along the spine of the couch, plops herself down, rests her chin on my shoulder and sticks her nose in my ear...

...and what happens when I stand up.

4.  The imminence of the total eclipse of the family that occurs on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, that most romantic of holidays.  I.e., LB has the day off, and Olive does not!

5. Turning a corner in a knitting project and knowing this will be one of the lucky few that gets finished... scratch that.  I ended up picking up the project to photograph it and realized it's Not Happening.  Instead I'll be happy about finding a new pattern I'm excited to try.

6. Finding a photo still in the camera that I missed the first time around.  Here's Miss Baley at her first Boxing Day Latkefest.

7. Agatha indulging me with a photo before leaving for her first art opening.

8. That thrill of seeing the label with her name at the top, looking all official. Turtle, Acrylic on Canvas.

9. Keshet Sunday School has resumed, once again putting Miss O. in weekly contact with her beloved Aliza.  Olive greeted her with a gentle head-butt that means, "You may hug me now."

10.  Being tagged (I haven't been tagged for a meme in a million years) and tagging others.  Duyvken, Crazymom Tats, Kmkat, Coffee Lady, Polli and Mama Em, I'm looking at you!

A Very Baley Thanksgiving

Here is me. 

Here is me with my immediate family.

Here I am with my favorite aunt.  She told me to say she didn't tell me to say that.  But she totally did.

Here are my Very Perlman grandparents.

 

Here is Emily, my second cousin third cousin cousin once removed daddy's cousin's eldest daughter.

Cousin Emily and Uncle Joe are both from California.  Apparently, this is the face Californians make when getting their picture taken.

We are all eating. 

Eating, eating eating.

Here's a passle of my cousins.

They adore me.

We R 2 Cool 4 U.

I am so clever.

Whackawhackawhacka, Pammy!

This is an important bottle: it's the first one I've had where I did all the work, and it's somehow related to that totally out-of-the-blue no-fair surgery I had a few weeks ago.   

Apparently, I suck.  This must be good, because everyone is applauding.  Again, Aunt Jen is hovering over me as I type.  She wants you all to know she held the bottle.  She really did.

Mommy asked Daddy for a foot-rub at the same time that Grandma asked Daddy to help Grandpa go down the step leading into the living room.  Daddy disappeared to the mens' room muttering something about Hobson's Choice, but clearly, he was thinking of Morton's Fork.

Not the compromise Mommy expected.

No one likes to say good-bye to me.

One last squeezers-squeezers.

A most pleasant Thanksgiving had by all.

One Day

I have decided to leave off that bout of guilt that always followed my morning nap.  I now see it as a blessed ritual, a necessity.  It's not sloth; it's Resting Up.

After the last Sullivan child has boarded the bus, Clover and I position ourselves on our favorite couches.  I turn on the television and we pretend we're watching Live with Regis and Kelly.  Within moments, we are deeply unconscious.  The cessation of Regis' voice usually wakes us, and Clover and I have a dilemma: we should get up, we really should.

Or... I could change the channel and we could pretend to watch The View for an hour.  If, by the end of morning, I've managed to transfer a load of laundry from washer to dryer, I tell myself I have done my part.  Clover reminds me, "From each according to her ability..."

The phone usually doesn't ring before noon.  Today's first call from school was to tell me one of my children had thrown up on the playground.  Now I'm off to the races.  After we returned home and I managed to extricate my child from the strap of her enormous satchel and deposit her in bed, call #2 came in.  Had we chosen a preferred date yet for Olive's IEP, and, while we're at it, did we manage to arrange a vision and hearing test for Olive through The District?  This reminded me that The District had not returned my last phone call, asking about this very matter.  After making my apologies to the Keshet director, I called and left another message for The District.

Time to buy groceries and pick up Olive at Keshet.  I pour myself a large cup of coffee first, to have in the car during the drive.  Remember this: it will be important later.

At Keshet, I learned that Olive's highlights for today included having diarrhea twice, but making it to the toilet for the second bout.  Yay, Olive!  This is more exciting than it sounds. 

When we got home, I re-whacked my shin getting out of the car: the shin I injured when I slipped and fell on the bathroom floor.  Precious seconds tick by as I hop around the garage, holding my left leg and cursing.

After I unload the groceries, greet Sabina and check on the patient, I realize I missed the phone call from The District.  The District turns out to be the nurse at Hickory Point Elementary School, who did not remember Olive until I said the word "eczema."  Once she remembered, she became inspired and cooperative about finding ways to test Olive's vision and hearing.  I called back the Keshet director, who was relieved I'd managed Task One but reminded me I still hadn't given her our IEP dates yet.

Now it was time for Olive and me to go see Maria.  I packed our usual kit of pull-up, wipes, plastic bag and incentive fruit roll-ups, then decided to bring a Diet Coke for the road.  As I belted Olive in, I noticed my coffee cup was not in the cup holder where I'd left it.  Instead it was on the floor next to the drivers' seat, upright, and both cup holders were carefully filled to the brim with cold coffee. 

When?  How?  Ah, during those moments right after I hit my shin, when she was alone in the car.  Olive cackled maniacally as she watched me blot the coffee with the dishtowels I keep in the car just for moments like these.

As usual, Olive behaved for Maria.

When we got home, it was time to help everyone with homework.  Homework time is a lot like home-schooling, except at night.  You have to check over everything, and if they are in 6th grade or under, you have to sign their notebooks every night to prove that you saw their completed work.  (The urge to editorialize in the margin is strong, but I resist.) 

LB and I take turns with this checking and signing task, but tonight he went to Sabina's parent/teacher night while I sat on the couch with Olive.  We watched a game show called Deal or No Deal.  I paid close attention from beginning to end, but I still have no idea how the game is played.  Suitcases are opened to frantic applause, levers are pulled, money is won and lost, but there are absolutely no trivia questions.

Just to keep things interesting: during homework time, I noticed one of my lads was tossing a shiny new quarter into the air and catching it, over and over again.  I asked, "Where did that quarter come from?" and he said, "A boy named Matthew gave it to me for no reason."

Does this sound logical to you?  Me, neither.

Since he had conveniently forgotten Matthew's last name and when, during the day, this transaction had occurred, I had a dilemma.  Take my kid's word for it?  Trust him to return the quarter to Matthew?  I'll never know what really transpired unless Matthew's parents angrily flag me down at the next Curriculum Night, demanding their son's twenty-five cents.

Instead, I take the quarter and put it in Olive's Tzedakah can.  I tell my son, "This way it'll go to needy children in Israel.  I think that's what Matthew would have wanted, don't you?"