NO WHINNING
For a couple weeks, Grace preceded whatever she said with “no.” So she’d ask for “No Buddy” (Woody), or “No milk,” or whatever.
This week she switched from “no” to “le.” “Le Buddy,” “Le milk.”
She is obviously French.
*Get it? Because she’s a Francofile. HAHAHAHA.
In 1999, Will and I moved to upstate New York, near Hudson. We lived on the second floor of a farmhouse. Three weeks after we moved in, Hurricane Floyd hit the eastern seaboard. According to wikipedia, Floyd was a category 4 hurricane, which is pretty serious business.
My memory of Floyd:
it rained.
Will’s memory of Floyd:
severe winds, downed trees, and the impetus for writing post-apocalyptic stories.
Huh.
Irene, a category 2 hurricane, is expected to hit New York (among other places) today. I hope it’s closer to my memory of Floyd than Will’s.
Alternate post title: Look, I actually finished something!
(This is not one of the official pattern pictures, but I love it SO MUCH. Sam is a ham.)
I designed this sweater for Sam, based on this one, his all-time favorite.
It’s knitted bottom-up, in the round, with a round yoke. I used Blue Sky Alpacas Skinny Cotton, on size 6 needles.
I’ve been working on this sweater for like a year and a half! Good grief. I mean, I took breaks to do a bunch of other stuff in there, but still. Finally, it is DONE! Now I just need to finish the Dagmar sample for Grace–she keeps growing and I had to rip out the size 1 I’d started to reknit as a size 2.
Dag & Dagmar on Noir Knits
Dag & Dagmar on Ravelry
The drive-by parenting epidemic has returned! It’s been a while, but well-meaning strangers are making up for lost time!
Here are two examples.
1. Sam likes to take the stairs, and have me take the elevator. It’s a thing for him, a little piece of freedom that he feels he is tricking me into giving him. When we meet at our floor, he is unspeakably proud of himself. I love letting him do this. A couple of weeks ago, a neighbor held the elevator for us. Sam took off up the stairs and I pressed the button for our floor. The neighbor, a man about my age or a little younger, said, “You’re letting him take the stairs by himself?” I said yes, I was. “You shouldn’t do that.” I should have ignored him, but instead I said, “Oh really?” and he took that as an invitation to explain to me that “all kinds of people” live on my floor. I informed him that I myself have lived there for eight years. Somehow, instead of taking this to mean that maybe I know more about my neighbors than someone who lives on a different floor, he decided to tell me that some of them “smoke crack!” I laughed my ass off and said, “I really doubt they’re going to offer any to my five-year-old.” I mean, honestly. If you are addicted to crack, you don’t SHARE. What a ludicrous idea.
2. Sam does not like leaving speech therapy. Specifically, he wants to stay and play in the waiting room after his sessions. On Tuesdays this is a problem, because we only have half an hour to get to Burbank and pick up our CSA box. Today he was determined to stay and play with some boys who were building with the blocks, and I had to literally drag him away and hold him in a chair to get his shoes on. The woman who was with the boys (I don’t think she was their mother, though that’s really not relevant) came over and told Sam that he could play with the boys after his mom put on his shoes. Um, no, lady. He can’t. That’s why I keep telling him we don’t have enough time to play today. So SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU’RE MAKING IT WORSE.
And that is why I hate everyone.
I believe absolutely that there are inherent differences between the sexes. Physical differences, of course, and differences in the way our brains work. But I’ve always assumed that most of the “typical” differences in behavior are environmental. You know, boys liking Star Wars, girls liking horses–that sort of thing.
Here’s the thing: Sam was probably two and a half before he so much as noticed that I put him in different clothes every day; sometime after that, he began objecting to certain articles of clothing that he found uncomfortable, and when we started buying him shirts with licensed characters on them he began showing a preference–but he’s never exactly been into clothes. Grace, on the other hand, was requesting specific items by about 15 months, and sometimes asks to change clothes several times a day. She has OPINIONS about clothes. She also loves dressing up, and prefers to wear all the superhero capes at once, ideally with her flower crown and big orange glasses. Viz.
And horses. Now, Sam likes riding. He has a natural seat and also thinks he is the Lone Ranger. But Grace has, at 19 months, the horse obsession that I think I developed when I was about ten. Last night Will was out and I watched the 2005 Pride and Prejudice. Grace woke up around the time Will got home. I assumed she just needed some milk, but she sat up with me and finished the movie. Toward the end, a carriage goes by offscreen. When the credits rolled, Grace sobbed and sobbed for the “horf.” I gave her a Marguerite Henry book, and she read it with my sister for a bit and was finally persuaded to go to bed when I told her she could bring the book. She lay there, petting it, for about ten minutes before tucking it in and climbing in next to me to go to sleep.
In conclusion, what the hell do I know.
Dear Sam and Grace,
I don’t really think I’m asking too much: if I put on a movie for you, I just want you to SIT AND WATCH THE MOVIE WITHOUT ASKING ME FOR SOMETHING EVERY FIVE MINUTES.
I have spent most of today giving you my undivided attention. In just one morning I weathered two amazingly huge (loud, violent) temper tantrums. And that was just ONE of you. I’ve built castles. I’ve cooked breakfast, and lunch, and brought countless snacks. I have not eaten any of my own food without interruption. I’ve driven up to Pasadena, over to Burbank, and back home. I’ve been food. I’ve cleaned up spills, changed diapers, fixed toys.
I’m exhausted. I’m drained. I’m unable to focus. I just want the option to sit still for a few minutes and do something–anything–other than wait on you two.
So I said yes to a DVD. And then spent another half hour being harassed with demands.
I quit.
Love,
Mama
There are loads of fairy tales that aren’t for children. I mean, heck, most of the classic fairy tales are totally inappropriate for children! But the modern fairy tales that are written for teens and adults usually fall flat with me. There’s just too much of an effort to subvert things, and I’m kind of sick of reading stories retold from a feminist/villain/minor character’s point of view, and I don’t like Neil Gaiman that much (though Stardust, his fairy tale, is probably my favorite of his books–go figure).
A couple of weeks ago I got an advance copy of The Near Witch in the mail. It’s written by one of my internet friends, Victoria Schwab, who I think is approximately the most adorable person on earth. I was kind of nervous to read it, because I like Victoria SO much and I wanted to like her book too.
SPOILER ALERT: I liked Victoria’s book. In fact, I kind of loved it.
There is something incredible about her prose. I don’t know how to describe it except to say that I felt like someone was telling me a story. You understand what I mean, don’t you? I felt like I’d been taken into the confidence of the storyteller and let into this world to watch the story unfold.
Here’s what I want from a fairy tale: magic, setting, and if I am very lucky an emphasis on the importance/power of stories.
Here is what I got from The Near Witch: all of that.
The only thing I didn’t love about the book was the romance, which is a small subplot and was not sufficiently distracting to be a problem. And here’s the thing: I am really hard to please when it comes to love stories. This one didn’t do anything wrong, it just didn’t capture my interest. And that’s okay.
Other reviews are comparing Victoria to Neil Gaiman. I can see the similarities. Near has some things in common with Wall, for instance. But just between us, I think Victoria is the better writer.
Plus, she bakes something called chocolate cake cookies. If I ever eat wheat, dairy, or sugar again I am going to make her give me the recipe.
