Fricknits

Four

Has it really been another year?

This growing up is hard, my dear.

When I picked you up from your first "big kid" day at school, you ran into my arms as usual, but not with your usual grin and exclamation of "Mama, I'm so happy to see you!"  Instead, you buried your head in my neck and clutched my shoulders and were silent.  And my heart just sank.  Because when I first walked in the classroom door I saw those two older boys behind the gym mat they'd turned into a fort.  Saw them shaking their heads at you, saying no, you can't come in.  And even though your back was to me, I could tell by the tilt of your head and the slump of your little shoulders that you were asking please, may I play.  (Because you always say "may" and not "can," just like me!)

I'm proud that I managed to keep my cool through the ride home and until Daddy showed up, but when Uncle Timmy called and I told him the story, I did cry.  It wasn't just the exclusion or the sadness in your hug, but also the sweetness of what you said as we got in the car, that "those boys didn't want me to come in today, but they will let me play tomorrow."  Once I managed to breathe through the tightness in my chest, I realized that that very attitude is the remedy to the problem.  You didn't cry, scream, or run away.  You chose instead to believe the better of your peers, and to look forward to another day.  As Daddy said when we talked later, it was me, the mama, who was wounded.

So happy birthday, little love.  My Nursery-schooler, my brave boy, my beauty.  May you always be so strong, so sweet, so optimisticly sunny of disposition.  I am so very proud of you.

More pictures and details of the Chevalier Mittens, perfect for fending off life's bullies, here on Ravelry.

Mother's Day

Here are some flowers for you.

For those of you who are mothers, who called your mothers today, who miss your mothers today, those who know you'll be a better mother than yours was and those who know you'll never be that good.  For those for whom the word mother is a curse, a prayer, a sigh, a blessing.

Here is a duckie for you, too.

For those of you who still love to play, who share your toys, who turn cartwheels, who stick out your tongues on occasion.  Who still eat snow, jump in puddles, and get dirty.  Who think balloon animal-making is one of the most mystical and magical things a person can witness.  Who occasionally still scrape knees, ask for lollipops at the bank, and color on placemats in restaurants.

Here are my babies.

Who will sit happily in a cloud of fiber, whack gamely at a pinata in a handknit sweater for a photo, and occasionally...just sometimes...give me a little time to knit.

Happy Mother's Day!

(Two of the above images now available as cards in the shop!)

We Interrupt This Blog

...for a dragon battle.

I promise I'll be back, if a bit charred around the edges.

My Hoarder's Heart

The other day, the Fricklet and I ventured out to the grocery store (a post in and of itself...) and when we returned, Mr. Frick  met me at the door with a nervous expression and said, "Okay, you're not going to like what you see in there."

Of course I pushed him aside (using the baby as a cow catcher of sorts) and burst into the living room.  And I did not like what I saw in there.

See, a hugely pregnant summer at home with a non-napping three year old had broken down my Parenting Principles and I'd resorted to small acts of bribery.  Namely: Dum-Dums.  Dum-Dums, I maintain, are a perfect form of bribery because they're so small- just a tiny amount of sugar that could get the Biscuit to agree to sit in the grocery cart (oh, you would have laughed to see me trying to hoist all 42 pounds of him in there), endure a trip to the bank, or go quietly from the playground when Mommy had had enough.  One day I opened the "hider" (Biscuit's word for the cabinet over the fridge, which also contains messy paints and extra Play-Doh) and found that there were no Dum-Dums left, so I sent Mr. Frick to get some more.  And because it is Halloween season, there were only bags of 200 available.  And because he is Mr. Frick, he thought it would be...well, I'm not sure what he thought it would be, or if he was thinking at all, but he gave the ENTIRE BAG to the Biscuit.  And so that's what I found in the living room.  The Biscuit, sitting on a pile of 200 Dum-Dums.  And so the bribery jig is up.

But here's the funny thing that's revealed itself over the past couple of weeks.  He doesn't really want to eat them.  He dumps out the bag and looks at them.  He puts them into other containers, like the salad spinner, his Legos box, and the baby swing.  He sorts them by flavor and color.  He opens the wrappers to look at the colors and then closes them up again.  He asks you again and again which is your favorite flavor, and just when you think he's going to offer you one, he says, "I will save it for you for later" and returns it to the bag.  He carries around little lollipop bouquets, reciting the flavors again and again.  He even pretends to KNIT with them, as pictured above.  Is the "S" word coming to mind?  What can I say but, "That's my boy!"

I have a hoarder's heart.  And this first month with the Fricklet has proven that in so many ways.  My nighttime nursing chair is right beside the ELFA unit that holds most of my stash, and I find myself gazing at it in the wee hours, daydreaming about projects that I could use it for.  And that, for now, is enough.  Because my hoarder's heart also knows that every moment I have with this baby, even the agonizing ones, is one I will later pine for.  Because the Fricklet is very likely our last baby, I have already changed my last newborn-sized diaper.  I have  snapped certain little already-outgrown suits on a tiny body for the last time.  I have chosen my last name.  I have had my last "first look" at the face of a person I made.  And I know these "lasts" will just keep coming over the next few months.

Sometimes I catch myself saying, "I can't wait until..."  Like I can't wait until the Fricklet truly smiles at the Biscuit.  I can't wait until they're both sleeping through the night.  I can't wait until I've really got this nursing thing down.  And I really have to stop myself from wishing away this time.   Because unlike yarn, these are not things you can buy or track down on Ebay.  Once they're gone, they're gone.

...but I can't wait until I can get some more frickin' knitting done.

I Met Him in a Swamp Down in Dagoba...

...where it bubbles all the time like a giant carbonated soda.
S-O-D-A soda.

I saw the little runt sitting there on a log.
I asked him his name and in a raspy voice he said Yoda.
Y-O-D-A Yoda.

Well, I left home just a week before
And Ive never ever been a Jedi before
But Obi Wan, he set me straight, of course
He said, go to Yoda and he'll show you the force.

Well I'm sleep-deprived but I cannot complain
Since this costume rescued my blog temporarily from lame
Yep, it was Yoda
Y-O-D-A Yoda.
Yo-yo-yo-yo-Yoda.

Sweater pattern here, blogged here, Raveled here.
Hat pattern here, with a groovy soundtrack!
Lyrics thanks to His Weirdness.

I loved the guesses!  Glue bottle cozy?  Christmas stocking (gah- gotta get on that one)?  And I do plan to make that Back to School Vest someday.  But the Yodas have it this time.  My winner, I decided, would be the  commenter whose place in the commenting line matched up with Biscuit's Halloween haul, correct answer or no.  Since there was no guarantee we'd even get him to go to one house, the number could've been zero!  However, our little clown did get into the groove and earned himself 28 treats, which makes my winner L-O-L-A Lola!  How incredibly perfect!

Crafty historical tidbit- my mother made this clown costume and I wore it when I was four.  She's an interior designer, and the fabric was something she'd used on a custom ceiling tent in someone's house in...yes...the 70's.  Can you imagine?  It has a hat, but the Biscuit does not "do" hats.

Thanks for playing!

Tell me, Clarice...

...have the lambs stopped screaming?

Wisdom, Humor, and Baby Feet

Those are what is getting me through the day.  Not that things are bad here- I know how incredibly lucky I am.  But there is the sleeplessness. (This is the two-to-three week growth spurt, right???  Tell me it is.)  And there is the laundry.  (Though the house still manages to smell like sour milk and how in the heck many burp cloths can we possibly go through in a day?  This kid's a geyser.)  And there is the nursing pain.  Look away if you're squeamish.  (No, I'm not going to show you photos.  But still, I'm a bit...chewed.)  Which is where the Humor comes in.  The other night as I was wincing my way through a latch-on, wearing what I affectionately call my tutu, the following scenario:

Me: I don't get it.  I did this for 13 months with the Biscuit.  How can I be so bad at something I've already done for that long?

Mr. Frick, without missing a beat:  Well, our President's been at his job for six years.  So there you go.

...and then he added... I hope that's going on the blog.

And then there's the Wisdom and camaraderie and just plain, "Yeah, I know" that you guys shared with me after my last post.  I've been reading your comments and emails to Mr. Frick (who is very nice about all the weeping) and going over them in my mind and heart.  As one very wise friend, Abi, put it, I've experienced a loss, as odd as it seems at this time of great gain, when we lose something, we grieve.  It really helps to know how universal this experience is, so thank you. 

My three-part program for dealing with my sadness has been to:

1.  Write him a letter for the last page of his as-yet-to-be-assembled baby book, telling him my thoughts at this time of his becoming a Big Brother.  This was extremely therapeutic.  I highly recommend it.

2.  Marry a SuperDad who comes equipped with an army of handsome "uncles" (scroll down) for the Biscuit who have submitted themselves to the sprinkler, become adept at "let's play farm," introduced him to Redskins fan-dom, and basically surrounded him with wonderful role models and love.

3.  The magic word: Grandparents.

Oh, and the baby feet.  Seen enough?  How about one more before I go.  There's laundry to do, after all.

(PS- You've seen all of these socks before.  No FO's here, no siree.  Except for the blue ones third from the top.  Nova made those!  Thanks, Nova!)

Heartbreaker

On our way out of the hospital, we shared an elevator with a drug rep (I'm assuming here, but the big briefcase and suit kind of gave him away).  "Oh," he said, shaking his head, "your life is about to change."  Maybe it was the no-shit-Sherlock look on my face, but he quickly amended that with, "Unless this isn't your first?"

Now, everyone says this.  "Your life is about to change."  Heck, I say it.  It's one of those things, like "Wait until your father gets home" and "Take smaller bites" and "Your face will freeze that way" that you swear you'll never say, but there the words come, tumbling from your pursed-up parental puss.  And no one who has yet to give birth really gets it.  And those who say it know this.  But they say it anyway.  Because really?  God, is your life about to change if you're having your first baby.  But never, ever, I swear on a pile of vintage wool, would I ever say what he said after I told him we had a three year-old at home:

"Ha, ha!  About to be knocked off that throne, huh?"

Huh?

I wanted to kick him in the Big Pharmaceuticals, if you know what I mean. 

When the Biscuit was born, I was a wreck.  Insane.  I cried all the time.  I cried because nursing hurt.  I cried because his toes were so small.  I cried because someday, some teacher would be mean to him.  Some kid would tell him he couldn't play.  I cried because I was out of these little oatmeal raisin chocolate chip treats I had from Whole Foods on which I sustained myself for weeks.  But with the Fricklet, most of my crying is reserved for how much I miss the Biscuit.  How much I hate to tell him no, I can't "do Play-Doh" right now, because I'm feeding his brother.  Or the following scenario, which broke my heart into a million ba-dillion pieces: 

Biscuit came into the room in the morning, little feet thumping over the floor, wearing his p.j.'s with the trucks on them, and came to a halt at the foot of our bed.  It was the first time he'd seen us there, with Fricklet asleep between us.  And he looked at me with those big brown eyes and asked, "Is there room for me?" 

Hear that?  That sound like a glacier breaking apart?  That's my heart.

Biscuit, just so you know, you'll always be the first.  And on the way to the hospital, while your Nama drove like a bat out of hell and the contractions were coming closer and closer, guess what I was doing?  I was finishing up the yoke on this sweater for you.  Because you taught me everything I know about being a mama.  Because you are gentle and kind and smart and sweet and beautiful.  Because there will ALWAYS, ALWAYS be room for you, even if I have to squeeze myself down into the tiniest ball.  There will always, always be room.

Thank you to all of you for your kind congratulations and for continuing to cyber-visit me.  It's been a huge source of comfort to still feel connected!  I've been catching up on my blog reading bit by bit, though it's hard to comment these days.  If I do, please don't mind if I go all Flowers-for-Algernon on you- one-handed typing is HARD.

Project details can be found here on Ravelry!  I'll get it into the FO's album tomorrow, for those still on the waiting list.

Blank Canvas

Where ordinary people see sweet newborn feet, I see a blank canvas.

*Photo credit to B-Bear, grandpa extraordinaire.

Full Moon Fricklet

SJF
Born Wednesday, September 26, 6:22 pm
8 lbs. 1 0z.
21"
And after all that waiting, almost born at the reception desk, he was in such a rush.
So loved.