Q: what happens when...

...a five-year-old tries to slice bread from a loaf with a butter knife? (photo to be posted later of massive bread carnage)

Bless his little heart, once I finally convinced him that he could make me lunch and, in fact, it was certainly his turn to do so, he really did it. He made me a cheese sandwich and even got me something to drink. Then he oh-so-methodically cleared off our little TV tray table, put it close to me, and put both our lunches on it.

My sandwich could have used condiments, or even some lettuce, but let me tell you, it was delicious in the way only a sandwich made by a serious 5-year-old boy can be.

(and I was able to keep knitting)

Yet another dog-owner rant

So this gal calls me last Friday afternoon. I've taken the afternoon off, initially to go to Stitches West with Dharma, but then she had to get ready for a last-minute trip to see/support her mom. So I decided to just sit at home and knit my Knitting Olympics socks.

So of course the phone rang... a lot. This one call was especially irking, as the gal kept changing her story. It was her dog; it wasn't her dog. It was her grandmother's dog; but it was where she lived. Well, she lived with her grandmother, but... blah blah blah. Finally, it came out that the damned dog is like 2 years old, and--ta-dah!--not neutered, and got out and was picked up by the pound. She "can't afford" to get the dog out of the pound and pay for the required neutering, so she basically was calling for a handout from Lab Rescue to pay for the neutering. Um, what about clinics? What about getting it done at 6 months when you should have? What about personal responsibility?

Honestly, this one steamed me up almost as much as the family who had the dog from 6 weeks old and now, at 8 years, couldn't keep her because they were moving to L.A. Where no one has dogs, I guess. Freaking LAME.

This is why rescue volunteers burn out.

Remembering Maggie, and Sylvester.

My dad and stepmom's dog just died 2 nights ago, very suddenly and unexpectedly. My dad had dropped her off at my sister's house, and by the time my sister came home, she had apparently already had at least one strong seizure. By late evening, she couldn't stop seizing, so, with my dad's tearful agreement by cell phone, the vet put her down. She was 14 but in terrific shape and a great dog.

Except for her bark. When they got her, the house they were in was fairly remote, so they trained her to bark every time she heard a noise (and esp. an approaching car). As they moved farther and farther into city limits, and as she stayed with me and my sister, this got incredibly annoying. She wasn't just a loud barker, but an ear-piercing and impulsive one. Other than this, she was an awesome dog and was well loved. My dad and stepmom are bereft.

What made me blog about this today was seeing a note on another blog of two cats, for sale, cheap, so that their owner could get a decent nights' sleep. It made me realize how easily one forgets the irritating habits of one's pets when they are gone.

I was never a cat person, but Sly was a pretty special cat. From the neighborhood tom x my friend's black cat Serena, Sly was always a fearful little black-and-white fluffball. For several years, folks didn't know I had a cat, because he tended to hide when people came around. But he always, from early on till the day he died, had the most irritating meow--scratchy and insistent. I can laugh about it now, but there were years when he interrupted my sleep at night. I initially closed my door. Then he'd scratch at it and meow. Then I'd open the door and squirt him with water. So he got smarter (as smart as the little lunkhead could be): he hid behind things and meowed. I believe he thought that if he did manage to wake me up, I'd go ahead and feed him. I can't remember how long it took to get him out of the habit of midnight meowing, but it does make me laugh in retrospect. He would also insist on lying on me as I slept. If I was on my side, he'd drape himself on my hip, asleep atop the Himalayas. If I were to move in my sleep, I'd most often be rewarded by sharp nails digging into me, especially if it were summertime and the covers were thin. Not so very pleasant way to wake up.

Other than this, he really was a great cat. If you petted and scritchled him for along time, you could get him to drool. Some folks found this unpleasant. I always thought it was a great compliment. Ah, Sly, you are missed.

Rest in Peace, Maggie. I do hope the pain in my dad's heart (I haven't heard him cry like this since his mother died) eases with time.

Creature comforts.

I had forgotten how completely lovely it is to wake up to the smell of fresh-baked bread. Aaah. I'm going to be using my bread machine a lot more.

(btw, the title of this post is also a great short film by Nick Parks. Check it out.)

The weekend, part 3

At the knitting market, G was snacking, so I kept him pretty far from any yarn. (He was in the stroller.) He was warned not to touch yarn, but I knew his impulse control, so I thought I'd stay on the safe side. In general, he was in the aisle but near me (with GameBoy).

I was looking at some yarn in a booth and a woman leaned over and asked if she could give G candy. It was just after lunch but I didn't want him to have too much, so I said she could offer something little. "A Tootsie Roll? Or a Kiss?" she asked. "Either one--he'll tell you what he wants," I said. She leaned over and offered, and he accepted one of them. Just after that, we were leaving and he handed the candy back to her and said, "I don't want this." I said, "Say, 'no, thank you'," and he did.

At another booth, I got into a discussion with a gal about her methods for dying her self-striping yarn and G was facing down the aisle and a little bit farther, nearly in front of the next booth. I had bought him a hot dog and put ketchup on it, so I wanted to make darn sure the ketchup didn't get anywhere near the yarn.

The next thing I know, I'm hearing over the loudspeaker: "Attention. There is a blond boy in a stroller in the aisle with a hot dog. His mother is NOWHERE IN SIGHT. Can someone please claim him?" Apparently, he had called out to me and I hadn't heard him (he wasn't far, but it was loud in there). Oops!

After the market closed, we were heading toward the outer doors, and I spotted several round tables with chairs for folks to drink coffee and relax (and knit). I sat down and pulled out my knitting. G brought up the candy thing. "Do you know why I gave back that candy?" "No, why?" "Because I didn't know her. You said that if I don't know someone, I shouldn't take candy from them."

This was from an incident at our library from months back. We were at the checkout machine and an older man shuffled by. He leaned over and said to G, "Have you been a good boy?" and tossed a wrapped green candy on the desk, and continued on. I snatched it up and whispered in G's ear, "We are NOT keeping this candy. We don't KNOW him." And he still remembered that incident. Wow. (I think he also didn't know I had talked to the woman and OK'd it. It was from a huge bowl of candy and I figured if it had been tampered with, that would have come out already.)

That kid has an impressive memory. But the attention span of a gnat, I tell you.

The weekend, part 2.

Sunday, we woke up late-ish but made pretty good time. As 9AM rolled around, I decided it would be expedient to bring breakfast (cold cereal) and eat at church. Good thing I did, because by the time we got there, it was 9:30 already and the bell choir was already practicing! G decided he'd rather hang out during practice and eat with me after instead of eating by himself in the Sunday School area. He was very quiet during a much needed practice (we still managed to mess up the first song in the performance). We had breakfast together, cleaned up, and got my choir robe on, and we waited for our friends so that he could sit with them and I could 'process' in. And we waited. And waited.

Uncharacteristically, they were late. I got him settled with a friend and sat down, and they arrived within a few minutes, to his utter delight. He attended "Children's Time" which was a little less than enthralling, I'm afraid, for them, and then happily ran out for Sunday School.

The second bell piece went well. It was entirely done with mallets, which is unusual for us, and I did pretty well, just missing one part.

After church, I went to a meeting, and then we went home to get ready to head down to Stitches West to see if I could spend some money at the Market. And I did, even though it closed 2 hrs earlier than I had expected. I showed restraint but am quite pleased with my purchases:









part 3: coming up...

The weekend, part 1

Friday, G's school was closed for Lincoln's birthday. Y-kids was open, however, so he arrived with a packed lunch and anticipation of a fun day. We were both surprised to see his friend J there, but then realized on most holidays, their Y-kids classes combine. J is a sweetheart, and immediately asked if they could have a playdate. Sure! I figured her mom and I would be picking up at the same time and could work it out then.

When I came to pick him up, J was still there, so we waited for her mom to come. By that time, they'd hit on the idea of a sleepover. J's mom was hesitant and said she'd call at 8 to see how things were going. Instead, at 8PM she and her husband showed up with sleepover supplies. G and J were playing just fine together (while I got lots of stuff done, hooray), so I set up the IKEA tent and they laid out their sleeping bags.

Well, J dropped right off to sleep, but G pestered me for many hours with "I can't go to sleep!" I ended up threatening to take away some toy, and he finally stayed put... till 4AM, when he woke me up. He went back & forth for about 1/2 hour and then finally fell asleep. At 7:30AM, when I got up, they were both up and trading off reading to each other. (Awww!) J got picked up after some pancakes and we hung around till about 12:30.

I had been invited to a stamping party, to make 2 cards and shop for stamping supplies. It was a small party (just 4 plus the dealer), but there was lots of nosh and conversation, and man, I do enjoy this stuff. G played at another friend's house till cards were pretty much done, then shuttled over, and we all got packed up and started getting ready for dinner.

But dinner was not to be, at least not for our family. There were by now 4 kids playing, and reports kept coming back of misbehavior, entirely on G's part. I dealt with it till it was clear that he just couldn't rein himself in, and packed up to leave. My seventh circle of hell started from dragging him out of the house, and continued down the street, forcing him into his carseat while avoiding blows and kicks, and then, once we arrived home, more kicks. Once inside, he was put in his room. In 3 minutes, all was calm. Maybe should have left earlier.

We had a quiet evening and I got some knitting done.

I got glasses.

After we dropped off my gear at GHATD on Saturday (33 women! Folks turned away at the door and before the event! Yeah!), and helped 3 women dress, G wasn't interested in putting on warm things and helping in the rink. So we left and went to get some dinner and go to Target Greatland at the nearby mall.

Did my usual cloud-headed wander in Target, and in the pharmacy area, I happened upon a display of reading glasses. Knitting in fine yarn has been difficult lately, and I've been thinking of maybe getting a pair. I looked dutifully at their "if this is hard to read" chart and ended up with 1.25, the weakest pair. Picked out a pair I liked (that didn't look too dorky--what is WITH the big, dark frames?), then realized I couldn't look over them to see far. Ended up grabbing a pair of frameless skinny glasses that I could look over.

I wore them knitting and WOW I love them! This from a gal who has never worn glasses. G laughed and said I looked like a grandma. Hey, I'm OK with that.

I got glass!

We were practicing lifting the puck at hockey practice last night, and I managed to hit the plexiglass a few times. Woo!

Then, of course, the coach had me demo (sssshh, Cheddah!) and I could hardly lift the puck at all. I practiced some more, then.... ow, my shoulder! Muscles I don't use that often, I guess.

Practice was fun but not that hard. We did get to scrimmage, though, so that was cool. Things were a little odd in D--we just could not manage to get marks and stay on them. The goalies did a great job, though, and Amy was hilarious talkin' trash--she once did the "name game" song with my name as I was trying to shoot (it was effective).

Boo hoo, no more hockey till March 5, and then that's it for me for the season. Just after I patted myself on the back for schedule a March 10 weekend away and missing no hockey, 2 games were rescheduled for that weekend. Argh.

Transparent.

Had an interesting dream last night. I was leaving my house (but it wasn't the house I own now), and turned back to lock the front door. I was pulling down this wide window-shade kind of thing and considered not locking the front door. Would someone really try the handle and walk in? My mom was with me and strongly discouraged leaving the door unlocked. Then I looked to the left and found a really wide opening that wasn't very high. An old mail slot, I decided.

Later, when I was in the house, I went looking for the mail slot on the inside, supposedly to see if any mail had come through. I walked past some boxes, down a short hallway whose floor wasn't finished yet (it looked like sheetrock. on the floor!), and found--first, a gorgeous master bedroom. Shiny polished hardwood floors, 2 big closets, and a really nice view out of huge windows. Wow! Then I went slightly farther down the hallway, and found a huge living-room kind of room, with several leather couches in it (and I said, "I knew I had more furniture!") and more polished hardwood floors and plenty of room for a pool table.

Pretty obvious what I would like, eh?

Many thoughts on the Olympics.

So, before I crawled onto Graham's bed last night, I rummaged through my sock drawer and found my two medals from the Gay Games III and IV (soccer, both). I brought them into Graham's room and we talked about the Gay Games and my (participatory) medals. Of course, he asked to wear one, and chose one carefully. Asked me why one had my name on it (because I paid the extra money to do that). I cried when I realized how much it had meant to me. I had an ID tag that said "Athelete." This is a big deal for a relatively non-athletic girl. (I was always in the Band instead of P.E.) I told him about my friend Wendy, who won Women's Singles (Division B) in GGIV, and that she got a gold medal. We talked about gold, silver, bronze medals.

We talked about what sports are in the Olympics (and I had a hard time coming up with more than 5 winter sports). We talked about what the Olympics means--that you're the best in the world.

He crumpled. He bawled. He wailed, "I want to be the best in basketball! How can I be the best if I'm not in the Olympics?" Another Parenting Moment where I struggle not to laugh as I put on my Understanding Face and explain that 5 1/2 is very young to participate in the Olympics, and that he can work very hard on his basketball and see if it's possible to be an Olympian later.

Then I talked about the Knitting Olympics, which starts tomorrow. I told him what it's about, and that I'll be knitting in it. He gets excited. "Can I knit too?" Sure, I tell him; you can knit on your knitting spool. "I want to make a sweater," he announces. Um, the spool just makes a 1" tube. I encourage him to make a snake or a worm. He's not that interested.

So tomorrow night, I'm going to try to teach him to knit (garter stitch) with the biggest needles he can hold (IOW, not the size 50s I got for my birthday!) and see how he does.

It should be exciting! Let the games begin.

How my brain works (and doesn't)

I use a headset at work for the phone. I worried for a while that hanging up the handset would hurt someone else's ears, so I hung it up gently (but quickly, as a coworker hangs her phone up very violently every time, and it hurts my ears). Just recently, I figured out that since the microphone/input from my end is at my mouth, I can't hurt someone's ears by hanging up the handset violently. Le duh, but that's how my mind works (or rather, doesn't).

At hockey on Sunday, I was one of 3 playing D. It was great fun, but I kept losing track of whether I was the next one subbing out. Liz reprimanded me at one point, "Dude, don't deke the bench," which, for my non-hockey-playing readers, means "Don't skate up to the bench as if you're going to sub out and then not sub out, as it just confuses folks and that's not cool" (Liz is very succinct). My brain could handle playing hockey (most of the time), but the subbing? I just couldn't track it.

The only way I can keep track of which way we're going is to look at the goalies as I skate in to line up for the face-off. Once we're playing, I'm good, but before that? Not on a bet.

One of the things I'm learning as I get older is that certain things just don't work well for my brain, whereas others work fine, or even great. And that that's OK. I have to compensate for some things (e.g., make lists, check our library checkouts online, put sticky notes by the front door). It's annoying, but there you have it: deal with it, and don't deke the brain.

The kid's shaping up.

I started the quarters thing--actually coming into his aftercare just after he arrived on Monday & Tuesday--and it's working well, I think. He's earned 3, 3, 2, and 2 quarters. He just doesn't like to cooperate with cleaning up! So he loses a quarter for that.

And as per usual, he wants to take the money he's earned and buy a $19.99 jack-in-the-box. (It's Curious George rather than a clown, so that's good, but $20?) I started figuring out how many weeks of perfect behavior that would take, but it made my brain hurt. I'd match funds with him, as I've done before, but I think $20 (or even $10) for a jack-in-the-box is stupid. And it really scares him! (rolling eyes)

But I am pleased that he is behaving way better than before. That's worth $2.50 right there.

It's the little things.

I was lining my food waste bin this morning with newspaper, as I do every week after garbage/recycling/greens waste pickup... but this morning was special. This morning, I managed to get the paper in so that Dubya's face is at the bottom of the bin, looking up at me as I pile on moldy food.

It's going to be a good week.

Sometimes it's good to share the pain

We went to our local library last night, as is our custom. I was upstairs in the nonfiction stacks, with G seated nearby, "reading" a Japanese anima comic book. I was looking for a pressure-cooker cookbook to use with my new pressure cooker, and another woman wandered into the aisle. She wandered out again, and my mind said "I know her," but I couldn't place her. She wandered back in. I thought a minute, and came up with it. "You're Zoe's mom, right?"

She brightened up, and smiled. I think she'd been doing the same thing. I told her who I was and G's name, as I hate fishing around for names myself. We shared some "what grade is s/he in" questions, and she mentioned that although Zoe is in the Pre-K class she and I had just been raving about, she says she doesn't want to go to school each and every time.

"Yeah," I said, "G said that every day, starting about 3 1/2 years old, for at least a year. 'I don' wan' go to school!' he'd rant. Once he got there, he was fine, but he always whined when we were going."

"Oh my gosh! I'm so glad you said that! I was feeling guilty, since I'm at home these days and I send her 3 days a week." She went on a bit, and then, as she left, she said, "You have really made my day!"

Go on, share the pain. Sometimes it's a good thing.