Countdown

My brother's in the army. Have I ever told you that?

Technically, he's a full-time supply sargent in the National Guard, but I guess that's army enough, so I'll just say he's in the army. I'm not very familiar with the world of the military so you'll have to forgive me any slip-ups in jargon or understanding for a little while. I know enough to know that BDUs are not underpants and that they are tan now instead of green.

In a week he'll be leaving for a chunk of training so he'll be ready to go to Iraq. We've known about it for a while, but I haven't wanted to say anthing for two reasons: 1) I hoped the government would changed its mind about sending him and 2) my brother tends to be rather reserved and I often say too much of the wrong thing where he's concerned.

But he's going now, so he'll have to wait a year to lecture me if he doesn't like what I say.

I don't hate that he's going and I understand why he'd want to go. I wish he'd picked a job as a dentist or an insurance adjuster instead, but I've long ago realized that he is a different person from me.

He is reserved to a fault (I'm really glad he told me he was leaving ahead of time instead of just sending me a postcard from Dubai) so he doesn't always tell me the stories of things that he's done or seen. One of the hardest things about this deployment (ha! I do know some military words.) is that he will be adding another layer to his life that he won't talk about.

I wish I could go with him and see the things he sees, but the chances are very good that I would only get him in trouble by saying or doing something stupid. I hope he tells me about his time there, though.

He's going with his best friend and this makes me feel so much better. I am so glad that he won't be there alone. I felt this way when he got married--I was so glad that he had someone who would know when he was sick and who would make sure he took care of himself.

So, we're doing the countdown now. I'd like to see him before he leaves, but my dad said that we shouldn't make a big deal out of it because it would just make it harder on him. I'm sure he's right, but I think it will be hard for him either way and I'd like to shake his hand before he goes. I know he's just doing his job, but it's a brave thing and I'd like him to know that I respect what he does. At the very least I'd like to offer him some advice. Like never go with a strange man on a camel, even if he does offer you lentils.

Well, I'm sure that this will all be over soon and that in thirty years or so it will all be a distant memory. I'm sure that I can be a big girl for a year. I know that at least a couple of you have had loved ones deployed for long periods of time. Is there any advice you would give him as he prepares to leave?

Soft

I was leaving the library today when a man stopped me in the parking lot.

"Do you live in the area?"

Why, yes, I do.

"Did you loose power today?"

Why, no, I did not.

"The power was out for about four hours just a block from here. It was terrible."

Terrible? Terrible, really? I'm wondering how bad it could be. Perhaps he was in the middle of some do-it-yourself brain surgery when the power failed and he was left with exposed brain matter for the afternoon. I have a hard time imagining the circumstances that could have left someone describing a brief power failure on a day with mild weather as 'terrible'.

To him I would say, Rise up, Man. You are shaped in the very image of God, descended from explorers and adventurers who sailed oceans, crossed prairies and hewed out a living in a wild land. You are the son of men and women who came to a wilderness and created a new nation, climbed mountains and journeyed across deserts and survived long, unforgiving winters. You are the child of a people who risked it all, lit a fire under themselves and went to the moon and back.

Some days I think that we are not as fully human as we were meant to be. No TV or internet for a whole afternoon? That would crush the spirit of most men, I suppose.

Transitions

It's been a month of transitions. We've moved from Psuedo-Spring, which is only spring because it is Less Wintery outside, to Real Spring. We've moved from Preemie Baby to Real Baby. We've moved from Hermits Entrenched to Errand Runners. We're actually getting out and seeing people. Henry has discovered that there is a world outside of our house and he seems to find it rather shocking.

We went to the NICU reunion last Sunday. I think it's the hospital's way of letting parents know that it is really, truly OK to bring your babies out among people now since RSV season is over. I think that for many parents it was the first time they were able to show their babies off. I met two of the moms I was on the ante-partum unit with at the hospital. Their babies looked amazing. I hadn't seen one of the babies since he was next door to Henry at the NICU. You can imagine how he's changed! There's a big difference between a four pound baby and a 14 pound baby.

Now that spring has come and our worries about RSV have passed (for this season, anyway--and you can just shut up about swine flu because I'm not listening)I'm starting to feel like Henry is a normal baby. I am still washing my hands like a crazed raccoon, but perhaps with less OCD frenzy. We can go out, have people come over, and let the older two kids mingle freely with other children. Normal. Sigh. Now I can start obsessing over how little sleep we're getting.

Now for the pictures.

Thomas has this crazy, over-the-top affectionate personality. When he loves you, he loves you more than anyone has ever loved you and when he hugs you, he hugs you more than you have ever been hugged before. He hugs Henry like this every day. Every time he does it we have to remind him that we hug and then we release. Don't lay on him, Thomas. I don't know that he'll ever figure out how to give a normal hug. He reminds me of that character in the movie Tommy Boy. "Brothers don't shake hands; Brothers gotta HUG!"

Here's a handsome kid. He looks like me. Only cute. And unbeatably five years old. Don't play this kid in checkers unless you're ready to get schooled. He plays with the big boys.

Here's Henry with his auntie. He finds her both fascinating and alarming. Most of us do, too.

Before Thomas was born, Rachel was adamant about NOT being called 'Auntie'. So, of course, we called her 'Auntie Rachel'. But after seeing her beautiful nephew, she quit caring. Spoiled all our fun. Here she is with her newest nephew, Henry.

Henry is now practicing sitting on his own. He does pretty well. I cannot wait until this kid can amuse himself. I'll be really excited about it until I find out exactly what he finds amusing. Then I'll wish he would just sit still again.

And now, Anna. I realized as I was going through my copious digital pile of photos that I need to take more pictures of Anna. She's finally figured out how to pedal a bike. I took a few photos of her demonstrating her new skill. In every one of the pictures she looks like her grandmothers. How odd to see them looking so young!

Henry's baptism is scheduled for Mother's Day. I am overwhelmed that we have made it this far. When I think of where we started last year in July, to Henry's birth at the end of August, I have to hold my breath when I realize how far we have come. We've come to this Spring by the seat of our pants, but we've made it and I'm glad.

We took a few pictures of Henry when he was in the NICU. I didn't share many of them here because they are so complicated to look at. On one hand they are so sad. There is this small, frail baby hanging on to life surrounded by breathing equipment, IV tubes, monitors, buttons and plastic. But at the same time, he is so fragile and so lovely and so tough. His ability to come through these challenges is so amazing. I'm thinking of posting them some time so that you can see how far he has come. I look at them and I am sad, but I'm also amazed at what people can come through when they are loved and cared for.

Baby Toys

It's been a busy week here at The Little House and I've certainly had my hands full. Too full. Henry has had a cold and I strongly suspect that he's working on an ear infection. He has been cranky and awake and I haven't gotten a single thing done all week. I'm looking forward to next week being much nicer since a virus simply can't last forever. So, I'll sip my whiskey and soda and dream sweet dreams of Next Week.

There's been something that's come up in my world that has really put a burr in my underpants. Needless to say, I've been unsettled in my mind and I've had a hard time putting it aside and moving past it. I'm not someone who spends time being upset in any meaningful way and so this has been something of a shock to my system. Of course, I can't talk about it, not to anyone, and I REALLY can't post about it on the INTERNET so it has been my burden to carry. I've been praying for peace and for my mind to be at rest, but it has been hard.

But I'll move on now to something I can write about. I want to hear what you have to say about Baby Toys. I was playing with Henry the other day and it occurred to me that he would be out-growing his baby toys soon ('soon' being a relative term) and that I would have to figure out what to do with them.

Most of them I don't care a whit about, but I was surprised to discover that I have a pretty strong attachment to some of them. My memories of the children playing with one toy or another are so strong that I cannot imagine parting with that toy. To get rid of it seems to be getting rid of a tangible part of my memories of The Babies that I don't know how I'm going to do it. I know that most moms have boxes (and boxes?) of impedimenta of their children's babyhood. I am just not sure that I want to keep lots of old things in boxes. I doubt very much that any of my kids are going to grow up and want any of it so I'll be keeping it mostly out of sentiment.

In the past I have taken pictures of things like my old stuffed animals so I could keep the memory and still let go of the item, but I'm not sure that technique is going to work for this situation. I'm wondering what you do? What do you keep? What do you give away? What do you throw away?

In the meantime, I made sure to take a picture of Henry playing with one of my favorite baby toys of all time.


I think it's called a Whoozit. I bought it for Thomas when he was a baby because he HATED being in the carseat with a red hot fury. I found that the only way I could keep him happy was with toys--lots of toys--or he would scream, scream, scream for however long it would take to drive some place. I would pile baby toys in the passenger seat next to me and whenever he would fuss I would toss another toy into the back to keep him happy. This toy was great. It has lots of loops for little fingers to grab onto so it was easy to hold and would keep him happy for quite a while. All of the kids have enjoyed it. I look at it and it brings back those early months of parenting like nothing else. For better or worse, I suppose!

Hospital: Redux

Ok, so I'm getting really sick of the hospital. If our Children's Hospital gave frequent flier miles for every visit, I'm pretty sure I could take my whole family some place warm for the rest of the winter.

We've been a bit under the weather these days. Anna had a slight fever one day; Thomas had a fever a day later. I thought we might get lucky and that Henry would escape with just a passing cold or fever, but sadly that was not the case. Saturday we started to see a little congestion with Henry. Nothing serious, just a dry cough now and then. Sunday he was doing a little more dry coughing, but it was still nothing that even hit my radar. By Monday, however, I was hauling him into the clinic to see if that weird wheezing noise was anything I should be concerned about or whether is was a result of a harmless cold--you know the type--a snotty nose draining in the back of the throat or something like that. He'd thrown up a fair bit of phlegm the night before, so I didn't think it was outside the realm of possibility. The doctor listened to his lungs and declared them clear.

To make a long, long story short, by that evening Henry had stopped breathing properly and was restless and wheezing hard. He would try to cry and end with a dry, barking cough which only made him cry harder. I tried all the usual things and then spent a couple of hours dithering about on the advisability of bringing him to the ER. I was reluctant to spend several middle-of-the-night hours in an ER, subjecting Henry to all manner of unpleasantness, only to be told that he was 'fine' and to 'keep an eye on him'. Finally, I decided that I wasn't going to sleep anyway and Henry certainly wasn't getting any rest, so I might as well bring him in and be told that it was 'nothing'.

Nothing, indeed.

I've found that there is something worse than sitting for hours in an ER waiting to be seen by the doctor on call. What's worse is going up to register your baby and getting a whole lot of attention all at once by everyone who's available.

It turns out that croup causes a lot of excitement when small babies have it.

The doctor told me her diagnosis and all I could think was, "Croup? Seriously? Didn't Anne Shirley fix it with some humidity and ipecac?" I thought it was sort of like whooping cough--one of those antique illnesses that no one got anymore. Apparently they do.

We were finally able to come home after 13 hours and a LOT of medical intervention. He was given two doses of a steroid, among other more dramatic things, which is making him a little restless. He still has a wheezy cough, but he is able to breath without too much effort. They predicted that he will be right as rain in about five days, give or take. Despite my own bone-crushing cold and fever, I am still awake, listening to him breath and fuss a bit in his sleep. I am tense, though relieved, that the worst of this illness has passed.

I'm sure there are those of you who know all about this sort of thing and would have handled the whole incident with poise and aplomb. I envy you. This was likely the second most frightening thing that has ever happened in my life and I hope to never, ever have to repeat it. I'm an optimistic person, in general, but this time I am seriously out of sunshine. O.U.T. If Pollyanna were here, I'd push her to the ground and maybe take her lunch money.

Sometimes it seems like I have a long, long life left to live. Sometimes I wish I were already 90 years old. I think that by the time I'm 90 I'll finally be able to catch my breath and relax.

Looking For Spring: Random Thursday

We've been quiet here at Chez Sarah these days. Mostly we're hanging on, waiting for winter to finally end. We've had some days that looked promising, but I have a feeling we're going to get whipped back into winter in another week.

It was 40 degrees today and I was in my garage, spray painting a headboard for Anna's Big Girl Bed. Anna was dressed in her hat, coat, mittens, and rain pants. I was chilly in a long sleeve shirt and some bib overalls that I swear used to fit me when I was in college. She was running up and down our driveway, describing to me in detail everything she was doing and everything she saw. She came up the driveway and went around the corner of the garage where the rain gutters leak onto the walkway to the house. I heard a muffled cry and I put the spray can down to see what had happened. Anna was sitting on the wet ice with her legs bent every which way. I asked her if she was hurt and she sighed and said no. As I was helping her up and over the thick ice she said, "I'm tired of the Slippery Season, Mommy."

I know, Honey. I know.

The headboard isn't going to work out, by the way. I had it all painted and put up in Anna's room when I came upstairs to make up the bed. I guess it had been too wet or too cold when I painted it because the paint was coming off in big flakes. The paint can says that it should be warmer than 50 degrees with lower-than-raining humidity for the paint to work best. I guess that means I have to wait until JUNE before I'm allowed to spray paint anything. I love living in Minnesota, but LORD the weather is discouraging.

Another random Bit of Nothing: A week ago or so we were having another one of these strange half-thaw sorts of days and I sent the kids out to play. A day later the Twin Cities was hit with a heavy snowstorm that landed inches and inches of snow within a few hours. I was so glad I had kicked their butts outside when the weather was nice until I heard Peter getting them dressed up to go play in the fresh snow.

"Where are your yarn mittens?"

"Outside."

"Outside? Where did you leave them outside?"

"I don't know. By the tree?"

We look helplessly out the window at the SEVEN INCHES of fresh snow that lay on the ground where only mud and ice had been the day before.

Some days I'm not sure God really meant for people to live here, but that doesn't stop us from trying.

Grieve

I knew from the beginning that Henry might be my last baby. Apart from having high-risk pregnancies and harrowing deliveries, we felt like three children would be a good fit for our family. We hadn't decided for certain, though, and had planned on leaving the door open for a couple of years to see if we might find that our family had room for another child after all.

After our misadventures this summer, however, it would be irresponsible to take the risk of becoming pregnant again. It was a miracle that I stayed pregnant for so long after my water broke. And I don't say that lightly.

What happened for Henry came very close to being very bad. I can't imagine how this could have ended differently and still have been "okay", even though it has been difficult to go through. The decision has been made for us, it would seem. And even though I knew from the beginning that this could be my last go at having a baby, I find that the idea makes me pretty sad.

I wonder if women are always a little sad, or wistful, when it becomes apparent that they've had their last fuzzy headed baby. A friend from college was one of 13 children and when her youngest brother was three, it became clear to her mom that this would likely be her last child. And she was sad. After 13 babies, one whould think that she would be a little relieved to close the door on nighttime feedings and toilet training, but I also think I understand. Of some things, there is never enough. How could you ever have enough of that warm little weight snuggled on your chest, fluffy baby hair rubbed against your nose? After three or thirteen children, it is still the End and I guess you always wonder who that "One More" child would have been.

I certainly feel the loss of the healthy pregnancies and babies that most women expect to have. I try not to think about it too much because it just upsets me and I'm not sure there's anything to be gained by getting angry or sad or feeling like I've been cheated. It is what it is and I'm satisfied by the good outcomes my babies have had. But I need to let go of the fourth baby I felt entitled to choose along with the healthy pregnancies and the robust newborns and the carefree cold/flu season.

It will be a long process, one that starts with moving my baby girl clothing out of storage and into the home of someone who can use it. I walk by those tubs in the basement marked "Girl: 0-6 months" and I know that they will have to go. If you loose your left leg, do you still keep the left shoe when you buy a new pair? There won't be another girl to save it for and I find it as unnecessary as the proverbial left shoe.

It should go, and it will. But not yet. Most of it will likely get saved for my sister in law Rachel, but I am strongly repressing the urge to give it to my friends who have baby girls already. I love seeing the hand-me-downs running around on little ones and it might be too much to have to wait for Rachel to have a baby (who may have only boys!).

Having the choice made for me is one part blessing, another part burden. I'm not sure which has the greater share. After some distance from the events of the summer I'll be able to close this door with greater clarity and peace. I think I'm looking forward to that.

Also!

I put on my pre-pregnancy pants today. While this would make normal people happy, I have to admit that it made me a little sad. The only reason I can fit into these pants three weeks post-partum is because I never had a chance to get very pregnant to begin with.

Things like this come up from time to time. I'll notice what I've lost in Henry's early birth and with my weeks in the hospital. I'll be able to let go of what should have happened eventually, but until then I'll have to simply be sad or angry on occasion.

Here's a small example: I live in Minnesota. It's winter here about six months out of the year and spring and fall another three and actual summer is only three months long. I went into the hospital in mid-July, right before my birthday. I was discharged at the beginning of September and got to enjoy a week of summer weather before getting smacked with hard core Fall. The high for today? Mid-sixties. I want my freakin' summer back.

Spinning Plates

We're having a quiet day at home today. We're trying to settle into some kind of familiar routine, despite having a battery of childcare helpers coming while I recover from Henry's c-section. Our kitchen is still torn up (and thus the whole house) from the remodel and nothing is where is should be, including the plumbing, and this is contributing to a sense of disruption. A quiet day at home together is just what we need.

Any surface appearance of normality is purely an illusion for me, though. Most of my family is here with me, but it's not the same as it was. It's strange how Henry has changed our family even though he's never been here with us. I don't think our family will be the same while he's still in the hospital.

I don't feel as torn and guilty about Henry's hospital stay as I did when it was Thomas spending his weeks in the NICU. But days like today when I could go to the hospital and spend time with Henry, but instead choose to stay home with the rest of my family are a terrible balancing act. I need to weigh Thomas and Anna's need for time with me against Henry's need to have me there with him, bringing him pumped milk, holding him skin-to-skin, and hearing my voice. I can't be at the hospital every day, especially not while I am depending on someone else to drive me there and pick me up. But today I am choosing to stay home. Peter could load the kids into the car, make the 25 minute drive to the hospital, bring everyone home and then reverse the process to pick me up in a few hours. But instead we are here, just hanging out.

We'll go tomorrow and I won't be able to go Tuesday. Wednesday I'll go, but I don't know what is happening on Thursday and Friday. And I don't know what will happen when my Helpers go back to their work and I'm home caring for Thomas and Anna again during the day. I'll most likely drive to the hospital in the evenings.

This will only last a few more weeks (Five more? Maybe?) before we are all able to be home together. I'm so glad I won't always have to make decisions about who needs me most. At least not every day.

Baby Mine

I can't wait until I get home so I can post an updated picture of Henry. He is so beautiful.

I got to hold him on my chest last night when I came to visit. They've taken him off of that clunky breathing machine and now he's on a low-pressure nose-prong type device that gives the least amount of breathing assistance. I like it much better because it's less intrusive and seems much more comfortable for him to wear.

Now that he has a smaller tube I can actually see his little face! They took off the hat he had been wearing and I've been able to see that he has a fair bit of dark, wavy hair, too. His face is wrinkly and he looks like a teeny little old man. He is so sweet.

In somewhat related news, they are holding the Republican National Convention just a couple of blocks from the hospital we are staying in. I'm discharged tomorrow (ack! Who will take care of me now?) so for the next week I will have a very hard time getting back here to spend time with Henry, when I am able to come at all. I'll have driving restrictions for two weeks as I recover from surgery.

I think that most of our friends and family who have been coming to care for the kids are going to continue to come to help out as I recover. Can I begin to tell you how lucky I am? It is hard to swallow your pride when you first begin to really depend on other people to help you. It is hard to realize that you simply cannot do what needs to get done on your own. But when you move past that, you are nothing but grateful that you have people who love you so much and who are able to give you the help that you need. We have all of these people who have helped us freely with no expectation of repayment. What more can a person want in their life but such wonderful people like these? Henry is so fortunate to have such a group of people waiting to welcome him home.

The Good News Is. . .

I'm still pregnant.

The baby turns 25 weeks old on Thursday, which is good news, too. And I'm still pregnant.

Complete hospital bedrest is a strange thing. I get to stay in bed all day, watch what movies I like and have people who bring me glasses of cold water. I've had a healthy portion of company most days (those are the good days) and I get plenty of peace and quiet. But it's driving me a little crazy that I have to be here and that my children are missing me at home. I wish there was some way I could make this easier for them. I wish I could make it easier on Peter.

That said, I am strongly hoping that I get to be pregnant for a long, long time still. I honestly cannot imagine what it will be like after five, seven, nine more weeks of this strange new life, but for now, I've got one week down already. If I can keep from getting an infection, I will have many more weeks to go.

I'm hoping that tomorrow night Peter and I will have a little quiet time to go over all of your excellent Baby Name Suggestions and that I will get to post our List. I really appreciated all of your thoughtful ideas. I can't wait until we have a solid short list of names to think about!

More Knitted Love

Excuse my blurriness.  We're having an evening thunderstorm (hold the tornadoes, please) so there was poor light for photographs and my flash just washed out the cabling.  I went with slightly blurry.

This is the sweater I'm knitting for Anna.  It's from that book using Canadian Regal yarn.  I couldn't be happier with how it's turning out.  The pattern is a pleasure to knit and I'm very curious as to how this will fit!  This is my first Big Cable and I love how simple and intuitive it is, after a fashion.  I can see how cabling can get addictive.

I bought the yarn at a small, but excellent, yarn store in Two Harbors, MN.  I think it's called (help me, Rachel) Playing with Yarn or Playing with Fiber.  Such a nice store, but no web presence to speak of.  I like the yarn a lot.  It's very sheep-y.  I frequently have to pull bits of straw out of the yarn.  It's never enough to be obnoxious or to mess up your gauge.  Its' just enough to make you say, "Baaaa" as you knit away.  For me it brings up fond memories of playing in the hayloft as a child.  I'm hoping that the wool will become softer after I wash and block the sweater.  It's not horribly scratchy, but it ain't no merino!

In baby news, I'm still pregnant.  I had my second OB appointment today and I seem to be right on track.  I'm measuring about 18 weeks, which I should, and as of last night I'm wearing maternity clothes which my doctor assures me is normal.  I think I felt the baby move a bit yesterday, though I never like to say for certain until the kid is pummeling me in the kidneys at 30 weeks.  I'm really starting to look forward to meeting this new little one and seeing what s/he is like.  

This is our last (planned) baby and I'm having mixed feelings about waving the Baby Years good-bye.  One the one hand, I really enjoy having older children.  I REALLY enjoy older children.  I love my babies, but they don't get to be much fun for me until they're about 18 months old or so.  I'm looking forward to all of the great things you can do with older kids like this or this or this.  But there's something sad about ending this period of our lives.  It's probably because I don't really know how great the next stage is going to be or I'd be more excited about that than I am sad about leaving night-wakings and dirty diapers behind.

Well, in any case, I guess I have to stop having the babies at some time.  If I don't stop myself, Nature will certainly do the job for me!

Size Matters

Lately I've been feeling cramped in our house. We've lived here for over eight years and I don't remember ever feeling so penned in.

We bought our house when we had been married less than a year. It felt unwieldy then. The two of us rattled around wondering what we were doing with so much space. We hoped to fill it up with a few children, so we enjoyed the space while we could.

Thomas came along and our house grew a little smaller. We still had plenty of space, but our house was starting to feel like a better fit. One of the rooms upstairs went from being an office to a nursery and everything was great.

Then Thomas grew and little Anna came along. The last office disappeared and Thomas was moved from the nursery into the bedroom next door. Our den/guest room on the main floor turned into a playroom and the house started fitting a little more snugly.

I know that this house is going to feel smaller before it starts to feel bigger again. The kids will start taking up even more room as they grow and develop new interests. And in truth, by modern standards, this 1959 home is on the small side. But we don't want to leave. Financially, this house is a good fit for us, we like our neighborhood, and we have friends nearby.

We aren't a family that is prone to clutter, though the kids create storage difficulties of their own. Our basement is full of out-grown clothes that will once again be useful. Small children seem to require some amount of variety in the toys that are available to them, particularly when they spend very little time absorbed in videos.

I keep wandering around our house trying to figure out what I can get rid of to create some more space in which to live. I eye our little upright piano speculatively ("Perhaps they could learn to play the violin instead?") and I make routine passes through the toy room to weed out underused playthings. I try to discard any kitchen accessories that don't get used regularly.

What else can I do? What are some of your space-making tricks?

Exercise

So, I have a question for the Internet.

What constitutes "exercise"? Really, what is considered health-promoting exercise and what's just messing around?

I'm wonder if I'm actually getting any.

I love runners. I totally admire the kind of crazy that takes a person out in freezing cold or blistering hot weather to run and run and be in pain. Even the indoor track runners are a marvel to me. They look so uncomfortable, like they are in total misery, but still they continue to run around and around the same, dull indoor laps. I can tell they are getting exercise. They are sweating, their faces are twisted into tight grimaces, and they are red all over.

I will never be a runner. It isn't that I haven't tried, because I have, but I just can't get over the misery. It doesn't feel good. I feel so miserable after attempting to run that I need to have ice cream to help myself recover.

I like to walk and hike. I don't mind spending a half hour on our elliptical glider. But I want to know if these things count as exercise like running counts. Or vigorous swimming. Or cross country skiing. I don't need to be a sculpted Apollo; I'd just like to be healthy and live to be eighty. Or ninety. I can go for an evening walk with P and the kids and I don't feel sore. I feel like I've gotten out, enjoyed the fresh air and moved around a bit. After a half hour on the elliptical, I feel tired, but energized and refreshed. I'm even a bit sweaty. But I don't get on and work terribly hard. I'm not out of breath and I'm taking a relatively easy pace. I try to enjoy myself. I feel better the next day for having done it.

What about you? What do you do for exercise? Does it sound like I'm getting any exercise at all or do I need to work harder?

In Praise of Garter Stitch

God, I love garter stitch.

There's nothing like a little garter-y goodness to just mellow a person out. Knit, knit, knit, Turn, knit, knit, knit. It's just so good and entirely satisfying.

This week I've felt like I've had a burr mill grinding in my head. There's no very good reason, I suppose, but sometimes things get stressful for me very quickly and I don't have the time I need to relax and let it go. These times are often referred to as "Dinner Prep" time or "No Nap for Thomas" time. I'll start the day just fine, but after a couple of hours of trying to get Thomas to be quiet for two minutes together I get stressed out and worn down.

This week I have discovered that nothing takes the edge off like a little garter stitch. And whiskey. Perhaps a lot of whiskey. Just kidding. Now quit looking at me like that. Stop.

My good friend is expecting a baby at any minute. While I've already finished the sweater and other Standard Baby Accessories, I've been giving a lot of attention to the modern Baby Bib in Mason-Dixon Knitting. It started as a way to kill time while eagerly awaiting the arrival of Baby Nuevo and has blossomed into a full fledged garter stitch obsession. Elizabeth Zimmermann was a smart woman. I love wool with an undying love, but there's a new flame in my heart that burns all the quicker for being made of cotton. Cotton garter stitch has seen me through this week of winter-blues like a hired professional. And cotton garter stitch makes a darn fine bib.

This weekend I hope to take a nap and contemplate how it is that I've never realized before how great garter stitch is. I wonder why it's been so much more comforting than knitting in the round. I am usually a big fan of knitting in the round and turn to it first for Knitting-type Comfort, but this Garter Stitch Fling has been something else altogether. After I've pondered these mysteries I plan on eating some fresh baked bread and drinking some water--you know, for a change.

Have a good weekend!

The Winter of My Discontent

I used to like winter. Love it, really. I went to college in Duluth, Minnesota and never once flinched at a snowdrift, not even when winter was nine months long and the drifts reached the dorm roof. I didn't mind the layers, the bulky clothes, the hats, mittens or any of it. I never really minded the mess that comes from months of dirty snow and salt piling up along roads or crusting up under cars. It just feels good to not be hot. Who could mind a little freezing rain?

And then I had kids. And winter became a whole new ballgame. Yeah, you know what this post is going to be about. It's February. It's time.

This has really been the winter that has made me hate the whole season. This winter will last nine months long, if it doesn't see me in my grave before the end of it. This is the year I've come to understand that Cabinus Feverus is a horrible virus and it can wipe out whole communities. I'm about to paint a black X over my door: "Pass ye not this way". I'd tell you to stick a fork in me, but I'm frozen solid and you'd likely break your fork.

I don't know what the average temperature has been this winter, but it's been hovering around Negative Below Freeze Your Butt Off. I actually feel like I'll never be warm again. Usually in January I start getting sick of being cold and will start nudging the thermostat up a degree or two. This year I haven't bothered because there simply is no hope for frostbitten limbs. I'll simply have to wait for my nose and fingers to fall off like the cat's tail did that one horrible winter back in '88. It wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been petting her at the time.

The reason the cold has been such an issue this winter is because it's been too cold to send the kids outside. Which means that we're starting ColdWatch: Week 6--weeks and weeks of not. going. outside. for anything but the mail and a quick trip to the grocery store. My children are 2 and 4. I'm not sure I can fully illustrate what this means for them, but for me I can safely say that I most closely resemble a surly black bear covered with the matted hair and filth of a winter's slumber. Only this bear didn't get to hibernate and had to change diapers and entertain whiny cubs instead. Lord, I hate it when the cubs whine.

It's snowing again as luck would have it and I'm about half way out my door now with my hair drier. I need an extention cord first, but I'm going to see if I can do something about the weather. At least you don't have to shovel rain.


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I can't say much for their logic, but you can't fault their humor.
Minnesotans for Global Warming

Well, to be fair, it's really just the Global Warming Song video that's actually funny. Though I have no idea why the main guy speaks with a southern accent.

The Cult of High Ideals

Every parent is an idealist. I think that it takes a certain amount of idealism and, dare I say, optimism to even attempt parenting. You start out in faith, believing that you can have a baby and raise a child and that it will go well. You believe that the odds are in your favor, at the very least. You look around you and see that all sorts of people raise children and have varying amounts of success and believing the best, you begin.

After beginning, you get smacked in the face with a big case of Pragmatism. I have found that Reality, harsh mistress that she is, carries it in her handbag and freely beats new parents about the head with it. You thought parenting would be difficult certainly, but your baby would never have a pacifier. YOUR baby would know nothing but the close, breastfed warmth of a mother's touch. Fast forward to ScreamWatch 2003 when you've sat in sore nipple misery as Colicky Baby #1 decides that nothing will soothe like some recreational sucking. You find yourself wondering how late Target is open and whether you can get there in time if you ignore traffic lights.

Similarly, you firmly believe that your infant would NEVER partake of anything other than homemade, organic baby food puree. Yeah. . . so you see where this is going. And for the most part I have made peace with the compromises I've made during the course of raising these two babies (as far as we've come, at least). Sure, my son clocked some serious pacifier time with his high need to do something, ANYTHING with his mouth--this really hasn't changed, talker that he is--and my daughter never saw a Nuk until I weaned her. I'm ok with that. Many things haven't turned out the way I've expected. Many, many things have been better.

But one thing that I've had a hard time coming to terms with is "Screen Time". We don't have a television, per se. We have a computer set up in the living room that we use to watch movies on. And, theoretically, I can accept a little video time every day for Thomas. He started watching some videos when he turned two and Anna was born. Mostly he watched the same three or four Thomas the Tank Engine movies again and again. He watched about an hour a day, sometimes an hour and a half if I was feeling overwhelmed. For the last 12-18 months, I've scaled it back to a half hour to an hour a day. I've tried to be very selective about the shows he watches. I pick shows that move slowly, tell a story, etc. He watched Mr Rogers for a while, Blue's Clues, and some podcasts about animals and home improvement. The three movies he's seen have been Mary Poppins, Cars, and PollyAnna. Lately we've started watching a video series called Signing Time. Anna has been watching with him.

It's been great, really. Both of the kids have been so excited about learning the different signs. I almost don't even feel bad about letting them watch. But I keep having this nagging, guilty feeling whenever I see them watching a video. It has more to do with my ideals than with what I actually think is appropriate. I worry that letting Thomas play with Google Earth or watch Blue's Clues is going to turn him into a drooling imbecile. I worry that they are going to loose all intellectual curiosity and that they will never learn to enjoy The Magic Flute. I'm afraid that they will grow up to spend their lives on their couches (or mine!) watching hours of daytime television with no end in sight. I feel comfortable with what I'm letting them watch and I almost feel ok about the amount of time they spend in front of a screen. But there's a part of me that wonders if there might be a better way for them to spend their time, even if it's just eating dried Play-dough under the kitchen table.

What do you do with your kids, and why?

Holiday Knitting Revealed

We've reached the part of the show where the veil is removed and I bring forth the knitting I've been secretly working on the past few weeks. Ta-da!
And again, Ta-da!:


To be fair, this picture was taken pre-blocking, which improved its appearance quite a bit. And despite ample preparation time, I was only able to wrap one mitten for my mom this year. In my defense, I was using a very bad pattern written by someone with hands the size of Sasquatch. In the end, I nearly had a mitten completed when I decided that, no, my mother was not able to hide coconuts in her hands and that the mitten would not fit her. Even after blocking. So I nobly ripped it out, all of it, and started over with a mitten in the child's size. I was tempted to just knit the mittens and pass it off as a Christmas present, but I knew that they would simply sit in the hall closet, waiting for the day when a seven foot lumberjack came by looking for outerwear. Colorful Nordic outerwear. With artfully knitted snowflakes.

I'm about a quarter of the way done on the second mitten. I'll confess that I find it difficult to knit these mittens, not because it's hard technically, but because I find following a chart to be tedious work. I like a lot of repetition with my knitting. I like to be able to memorize what I'm doing and to just do it. I like a little detail to pay attention to, but at the end of the day when I'm coasting on the last fumes of energy, I don't want to spend it on following something with a lot of detail.

Sometimes I look at the knitting put out by the likes of the Yarn Harlot and I think, "Really? Is that FUN for you? Because I would be eating my hair after the second row." I wonder if it's a function of having small children. Maybe I'll be able to concentrate better when they're older and need less of my attention. I want to ask Stephanie if her knitting has changed since her children were small. Is she able to tackle more complicated projects now? Is she better able to follow a chart?

I bought a Dale of Norway shawl to knit for myself last summer. I got through a few rows (which I had to reknit, seriously, four times before I got it moving along) and I gave up. It was not technically too difficult. After I quit I even figured out a way to make it a little easier to follow, should I pick it up again. But the thought of following the chart and slogging through the whole pattern makes me want to sit on the floor and bang my head against the coffee table. I wonder if it will ever be better. I want to love the charts, but part of me wonders if my ability to focus on something will ever come back. I guess I'd better start taking fish oil more regularly. And maybe start working on finishing that mitten! My goal is to finish it before the end of winter. We'll see if I make it!

I'm One of Those

That's right--my Christmas cards--they're nearly done. We're short two or three cards and we need to buy more stamps (already ordered off of the Post Office website--Hi, USPS, we hate your website as much as you seem to hate us!), but other than that it's nearly complete.

In the past, I've rolled my eyes at Christmas decorations hanging from the stores' ceilings and grumbled occasionally about the over-commercialization of the holiday season. Whatever. I like to try the Grinch on now and then, but the truth remains that I love Christmas. I love it. I love the whole friggin' season. The lights, the glitter, all the shiny objects decorating everything that stands still for longer than ten seconds--I love it all. I cannot get enough of the tacky light displays that radiate enough heat to melt snow in December.

I love the unbridled consumerism, if that's what you want to call it. Picking out presents for my family has to be one of the high points of my year. The majority of my Christmas shopping is done by Thanksgiving because I almost always stumble across gift ideas in August. Every year we accumulate gifts in our basement in anticipation of Christmas and then on a weekend in early December, we haul up the Gift Box from the basement for an afternoon's Wrap-a-Thon. Wrapping paper, tissue, and gift bags go flying and a couple of hours later we emerge, picking Scotch tape from our hair with a pile of gifts on the counter. This is the one time of year we can buy things for loved ones without making anyone feel awkward.

You know what else I love? The Christmas stories. I love the whole Love and Generosity Towards Your Fellow Man theme that runs through every one--A Christmas Carol, It's A Wonderful Life, Rudolph, The Miracle on 34th street--or whatever that movie's called. This is when we get down to what living this life is all about: other people. This is the best time of year to remember that it's in giving that we find joy and in selflessness we find meaning. I hear a lot of voices from our culture saying that it's the other way around: that in getting we find happiness and within ourselves that we find significance, but I think that we all know that for the lie that it is.

But, most of all I'm so glad to have this time to remember when a little baby came to change the world. As much as I adore the trappings of the season, it is sitting in church on Christmas Eve with my family, singing the songs and hearing the Christmas story all over again that is the heart of the season for me. As a child and now with children of my own I hear the story and remember that God puts a great treasure in fragile jars. And in the wonder of that I can appreciate more fully the gift He gave us on that first Christmas.