Light and Momentary

On the needles

I've been having this wittering conversation with myself:

Say, we should knit a sweater for that baby!

Yes, we should! But we shouldn't buy any more yarn because the bins are full right now.

Right. There's plenty to choose from in the worsted/DK bin.

...Except it all needs to be hand-washed. It's against the rules to give a hand-wash-only sweater to a non-knitter. Especially if it's for a baby. Her mama would not be happy with you.

Right. Can we knit something out of the DK superwash? Or the sock yarn?

You'd have to stripe the maroon/pink/lime DK yarn together with the earth-toned DK yarn. Which, sorry, no. And we only knit sock-yarn sweaters for babies we actually gave birth to.

Right. Okay. We'll have to think about that. [some time later -- an interval ranging from ten minutes to two days] ...Say, we should knit a sweater for that baby!

Over the weekend I didn't want to work on any of the seven projects I had on the needles (that's kind of an embarrassing admission) and so I went rummaging through the Really Old Leftovers bin. This bin is mostly occupied by the remnants of novelty yarn purchased in 2003-2004, before I fell down the knitting rabbit hole and became a person with strong opinions about double decreases (S2KP FTW, baby -- none of your SK2P for me). In addition to the bits and pieces of eyelash yarn and Plymouth Eros, I found yarn left over from the second baby sweater I ever made.

This yarn, a nice cotton-wool blend that can go in the washing machine, leapt into my hands. It was crying out to be made into a Baby Surprise Jacket. "How could you leave me with those synthetic fibers for so long?" it wanted to know. I gave it a reassuring pat and pulled out my size 6 circular needle. Then I...um...ordered one more skein of yarn because running out would be a Big Drag. (It was on sale. And I will totally have room for the leftovers when I ditch that regrettable eyelash stuff.)

I cast on the requisite 160 stitches and was mitering happily along when I discovered that Elizabeth Foss is (serendipitously) organizing a BSJ knit-along. (Some details here if you are curious.) If you have been thinking idly about knitting a baby sweater, this is a fun one: all garter stitch, two seams, brilliantly constructed and infinitely adaptable. You can leave it plain, add a collar, add a hood. You could even add a cathedral-length train in honor of the royal wedding if you were so inclined, though the baby's mama might wonder what exactly you'd been smoking. It sounds like fun, don't you think?

Like Newborns

This morning I read that bit of 1 Peter that tells us to be "as eager for milk as newborn babies," and I've been thinking about it all day. (The picture shows a brand-new Pete -- he'll be six tomorrow.)

I've been remembering the way that newborns accept no substitutes. When they're hungry you can't distract them or cajole them: they want one thing and one thing only.

I've been thinking about newborn diligence, the way they'll nurse for 20 minutes, 10 or more times a day. They've got a big task ahead of them -- imagine if you had to double your weight by Halloween! -- and they'll only grow if they keep feeding.

I've been thinking about the contentedness of a nursing newborn, the way their urgency gives way to satisfaction. I've been remembering colossal baby burps and sweet milk-drunk smiles.

And I've been thinking about the pleasures of providing for a newborn: the perfect reciprocity of an empty baby and a full mama, and the delight I've known watching a little one get exactly what he needs.

I'm not doing so well seeking out the "pure milk of the spirit." I get distracted and grab some bubble gum instead. I'm usually in a hurry -- a baby wouldn't grow very quickly on my current feeding schedule. In fact, a baby might wind up with failure to thrive on my current feeding schedule. I've been missing that joyful symbiosis: the Provider, overflowing with bounty, and the vessel, receiving it patiently.

The butterfly command

I emailed my computer-savvy brother to see if he could help me with a work problem. He could. I wrote back to thank him and asked if we could still be friends since I like vi better than Emacs.

"Well," he said, "we can still be siblings."

He's a big-hearted guy, my brother. I think the xkcd guy might agree with him.

Why we do soccer

Bearing-Erin has a post up in response to my "If I Only Had A Brain" lament from yesterday, explaining why she thinks soccer is a Very Bad Choice for large families. Our kids are in soccer for a few reasons:

1. They all enjoy it. They never complain about eating dinner quickly to scramble off to practice. They like spending their Saturdays at the soccer field.
2. We think team sports will teach our kids lessons that individual fitness activities will not.
3. The benefits outweigh the hassles. I don't live in my car -- not even close.

Yesterday's game schedule was the ugliest of the year -- that's six Saturdays in the fall season and six in the spring. This Saturday, for comparison, the boys have games at 9, 9:30, and 10. That we can do. The following Saturday we have games at 1:30 and 2:30. We can do that too.

It would certainly be possible for soccer to take over a family's existence, but I think Erin is throwing out both baby and bathwater here. (Or the soccer socks with the wash water, or something.) We don't do travel teams. We play in a league where the emphasis is squarely on fun, sportsmanship, skill-building, and teamwork -- not winning, not showboating. Parents have to sign a pledge not to be jerky and obnoxious before their kids can play, and mostly it works. There are no games on Sundays, ever. Teams are built based on geography, so that all three practice sites are ten minutes or less from our house. (The 25-minute drive I mentioned takes us to the complex where they all play their games on Saturdays.) This is the sixth year we've had kids in this league, and every single time I have emailed a coach to say we'll be missing a practice or a game, he has responded graciously. It's not a high-pressure high-competition approach to soccer at all.

The reality is that life in a large family is complicated, no matter what activities you choose. I've tried some of the strategies Erin proposes for keeping activity schedules manageable, with mixed success. I've had the piano teacher come to my house for three back-to-back lessons, but keeping the toddler out of the music room and reasonably quiet for 90 minutes isn't easy. I've scheduled swim lessons for all the kids on the same night, but two of my kids have now mastered all the swimming skills they teach at our pool. (Swim team = exponentially more hassle than soccer, IME.) I've put kids into a single martial arts class, only to find that they have different levels of interest and ability and the karate class becomes a source of tension. I'd never say that another family shouldn't do those things -- I'm only saying they've caused me stress just as soccer has.

Making our soccer schedule work requires some creativity for us as a one-car family with kids on three teams. We eat more simple dinners during soccer season. Sometimes I have to ask other families if we can carpool, or if they'll switch jobs with us on game day. If I'm at the field alone with Stella, I can't be the linesperson so I'll try to trade with the person who's slated to bring snacks. Sometimes our soccer players have biked to and from practice, or their siblings have taken the city bus to evening activities because the van was heading to the soccer field.

We also keep tweaking our system. On Wednesday of last week I came home from the evening activities run and I said to my husband, "I am never doing that again." I had taken three kids to overlapping activities -- one to soccer practice, one to karate, and one to CCD. I'm sure there are moms out there who do the same amount of driving around and take it right in stride, but that's not how I want to spend a beautiful spring evening. Elwood said, "I don't blame you." We got out the bus schedule and made a plan: the 14yo can walk or bike to CCD now that it's so light in the evenings, while the 11yo takes the bus to Dad's office so they can walk together to karate from there. I can handle soccer practice, no problem. In fact, taking Stella and Joe to Pete's soccer practice is fun, because they get some playground time together. Stella's a fan of soccer practice despite the carseat time it requires -- all three of the practice sites have nearby playgrounds.

My least athletic son surprised me when he asked to play soccer again this year after a few years away from it. He struggled at first, but he's holding his own these days. It's been fantastic to see him persevere. Another one of the boys has had the same coach for three years now. I love to see how hard he's willing to work for Coach Jon, how motivated he is to get his things together and get his siblings moving so he can be early for practice. My youngest son comes home from every practice full of observations about the other kids and enthusiasm for the team. Registration for for next year was back in February and we asked whether they wanted to play again. All three of them said yes, definitely. No question about it.

I am sure there will be days next year when I feel stressed about soccer. There will be times when I am running late and someone forgot his shin guards and oh wait which uniform was he supposed to wear today and how long has the gas light been on in the van and is it really my turn to bring drinks already? (I hope I won't ever again forget to bring the boy who's got the next game, but I'm making no promises.) We think, though, that the good things about soccer are really good. We think the hassles are worthwhile, even in a large family.

I Need A New Brain

A few years ago I remember thinking, "If I have three kids in Scouts and three in soccer my head is going to pop off." This morning I was ferrying kids around, congratulating myself on the firmness with which my head remains attached to my neck despite the presence of three kids in Scouts and three in soccer. And then the wheels fell off.

The oldest had an all-day Scout service project on the northeast side of town; he was supposed to arrive at 8. The 11yo had a 9:00 soccer game on the southeast side of town; he was supposed to be there at 8:40. I was thinking we'd be pretty close to on time when I discovered the 11yo was still in his pajamas. This delayed us but not dreadfully, so that I got the 14yo to his service project at 8:15 (no biggie) and the 11yo to his game early.

He came running back to the van after a few minutes on the field. "Mom!" he panted. "I need to you to run home and bring me a hoodie and hat and gloves." Running home from the soccer field isn't much of an option -- it takes about 25 minutes each way. Luckily I had gloves in the van (thanks to Stella, who thinks a lady shouldn't leave home without her Spiderman gloves). I asked the coach if I could leave my coat on the bench for Marty to wear when he wasn't playing. "He's playing all four quarters today," the coach told me.

I headed home and told the 8yo to get dressed in warm layers. It was a nasty morning, chill and gray like November if November had fading forsythia. My plan was to catch the last few minutes of Marty's game and warm him up with a cup of tea at the nearby Panera. Then I'd drop Joe off for his 11:30 game and let my husband take over, picking up Joe and getting Pete to his 2:00 game.

Except it didn't work out the way I planned. The 11yo's game was cut short on account of rain and humiliation (for the other team -- Marty's crew won 8-0). Instead of seeing the last few minutes of play I found Marty alone, soaked and tearful. (FAIL FAIL FAIL. I reminded him that he could ask another parent to call me if something like that happened again, but still: FAIL.) He perked right up with that cup of tea, though, and I was feeling like things were back on track when Joe said, "How's Pete going to get to his game?"

You guys, I don't think I'm a stupid person but sometimes I have this hole in my brain where logistics should go. Like, I bet a dozen different times I've misread a bus schedule and waited at the stop for a bus that was due only in my imagination. What shall it profit it a woman to know the difference between "eximious" and "exiguous" if she cannot read a calendar?

I'd brought the wrong boy. The 11:30 game was Pete; the 2:00 game was Joe.

Days like this are when I question our choice to remain a one-car family. I raced home and handed off the figurative logistics hat to Elwood. (I donned the figurative dunce cap instead.) I apologized to Pete for making him late, and assured Stella that she didn't have to go anywhere else in the car for the rest of the day. (She's not a fan of three in Scouts and three in soccer either.) I think I could use a fortifying cup of tea myself. I'll have to see if we have any De-Stupidifying Delight. Or Brain Re-Organizing Brew. I'd like to take some of the real estate currently devoted to dinosaur factoids and re-assign it to logistics.

I'll let you know how it goes for me. Meanwhile I'd love to hear about your absent-minded exploits. Tell me I'm not the only one who's showed up at the right time with the wrong kid.

Funk

I've been kind of down lately. There are a couple of unbloggable things weighing on me, and that's why this space has been quiet but for the occasional serving of mishmash hash. Also, I decided that for Lent I'd write each day in an actual paper journal (I know! so retro!) and maybe I'm just journaled out.

I've been unusually tired, so much so that I wonder if I'm anemic or something. My attempt at a bike ride this afternoon left me so breathless that I went immediately to the natural food store to buy myself some Floradix. It's that same kind of bone-deep unfixable exhaustion that I associate with the third trimester. (Nope, not pregnant. Just tired all the time.) Alas, it was closed.

As you all know, I am embarrassingly drama-prone. This tendency sometimes causes a funk to explurple itself into a FUNK. (Explurple is a word I just made up to describe the thing that sometimes happens in the microwave, when you heat something doughy that expands and expands until it has burst forth from the confines of its dish and spread all over the place, hellbent on microwave hegemony.) Over the weekend I found myself thinking woeful dramatic thoughts about what a hash I have made of things in my life.

Remember the Gong Show? I need a miniature gong for the moments when the woeful dramatic chorus starts doing its thing.

So. A little extra sleep, a little extra sunshine, a big bottle of Floradix, a heaping helping of patience. That's my plan.

Idea Scramble

As the internet is my witness, I am not buying Angry Birds. I have the free Angry Birds, and the free Angry Birds Seasons, and the free Angry Birds Rio. My latent obsessive streak is surfacing, and it's not pretty. It's not enough to beat all the levels; I want to get a three-star score on every level.

I do this occasionally with computer games: in college it was Tetris and in about 2003 it was Super Methane Brothers. (My kids love to watch a parent play Super Methane Brothers. In a world where video games have 3D graphics and scary-realistic CGI characters, their favorite is a clunky game from 1993. I think I like it that way.)

Today I got an email from the associate chair of the department here in town where I'd love love LOVE to get a job. She asked me to do a guest lecture for her in June, one I've done versions of multiple times before. OH I hope I can do a good job with it. Isn't it cool that she wants me to come talk to her class? I'm excited, and already a little nervous.

I am finally uploading a picture of my finished sweater. The pattern is available now (Rav link) if you are itching to make one of your own. (You know you want to!) I am almost entirely pleased with it. The front edges tend to curl, a problem I expect I could remedy with another couple of garter ridges in the edging, but the thought of re-doing the font-of-crazy picot bind-off leaves me a little weak in the knees. If a masked gunman appeared and said, "Quick! Redo the picot bind-off or I'll shoot!" --well, I'd need a little time to think about my options.

April's play will be Cymbeline, I've decided. Jody expressed some interest in reading along -- anybody else? It's more fun to read Shakespeare if you can chat about it with someone else.

Sunday Night Strategizing turned into Monday Night Strategizing this week, but I've got a post up here. I keep waiting for the spring energy burst to hit me, but so far I'm just getting smacked in the face with waves of lethargy. It's supposed to be sunny and warm later this week, which might be just the thing to perk up my spring-loving self. We shall see. I do not think I will find hidden stores of energy if I stay up any later, so I will wish you a peaceful night. Back soon.

First Quarter

It's so easy to decide to make plans, and harder to follow through. I'm going to try to keep posting about my resolutions for 2011 so they don't just vanish into the swamp of good intentions gone awry. My resolutions post is here if you're curious.

I'm hanging in there on the sugar front and doing terribly with the running. I've started having hip pain with running, and I think I need to schedule an appointment with my doctor to talk about the risks of arthritis (my redheaded grandmother, who seems to have shared many of her genes with me, had crippling arthritis in her hips that led to bilateral hip replacement by the time she was in her early sixties and almost three decades of immobility afterward -- not a path I want to head down) versus the benefits of weight-bearing exercise (I have some risk factors for osteoporosis) coupled with the benefits of exercise that I actually accomplish. I mean, I think about heading out for a bike ride or going for a swim or hitting the elliptical, but running is the only form of exercise that I actually show up for consistently. Hm, perhaps I should add that to my SNS list for the week.

I'm on track with Mass attendance, though it still seems a little weird to count it. I guess finding a way to track it is part of how you build a habit. I took a break from SNS posts but am getting back into that groove. I have just made an executive decision that this week will be an MMS (Monday Morning Strategizing) kind of week, in the interest of getting to bed at a reasonable hour.

The Crazy Shakespeare Project is not going too badly, though I lost some momentum when January ended. I roped the Reading for Believers ladies into reading The Winter's Tale with me, which was fun. Anybody up for an April Shakespeare play? I'm thinking about Cymbeline or Two Gentlemen of Verona.

OH, I find it hard to stay off the computer for the afternoon/evening. That transition from quiet into loudloudloud is a hard one. I guess that's the point of this exercise, to be honest about where I need a kick in the pants. And I've been faithful about getting off the computer by 11, but 10:30 would be better.

All right! Second quarter, here we come.