Fricknits

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!)

My Funny Valentines

Once, in college, some friends and I sat down over wine and Keebler Chachos to discuss All that Was Wrong With the World.  The fact that, despite our mother's assurances, the dumb girls were still getting all the guys, the demise of "Twin Peaks," and whether or not it was worth it to mount the inner-thigh machine (you know the one) in the student rec center were among the topics at hand.  And also, the theory that female characters in film and on television seemed to almost always exist to give the male characters some sort of motivation or crisis.  But there's another much-maligned character I'm thinking about today- the male love interest's best friends. They're always whisking him away to a Vegas bachelor party rife with strippers, booze, and an inconvenient murder.  (You might replace Vegas with Mexico, the strippers with video games, the booze with Keebler Chachos, the murder with a big bag of stolen heroin- whatever.  You know the drill.)

I guess my life isn't  exactly cinematic, then, because  Mr. Frick's friends rank among the top reasons I had for choosing to spend my life with him.  Granted, for Valentine's Day they did show up at our front door with pantyhose over their heads and kidnap him away for a day of Rock Band, paintball, beer, and diner food, but no strippers, heroin, or indeed Keebler products were involved (to my knowledge).  To this girl- whose best friends were always boys, who yearned for a brother, and whose idea of flirting has always been the old ice-down-the-back trick (noogies work well, too)- the Guys are all that (and a bag of Cinnamon Crispana).

Eric the Lionhearted (Cran Kool)- He'll hold your head in his lap when you're all boozy from your bachelorette party.  He'll stay up all night baking a birthday cake for your three year-old when he finds out, last minute, that said three year-old thinks that the surprise baby shower being thrown the next day is actually a birthday party for him.  He writes beautiful love letters to his wife (sorry, girls).  He runs marathons like it's going out of style, is a passionate advocate of eating locally, and is quite likely the most generous person I'll ever know.

Tim, my new BFF (Paris Kool)- He's the kind of teacher you hope your child will have every year from Kindergarten through college- he's that patient, wise, funny, and smart.  Although he doesn't like to admit it, he's one of the strongest people I know, having experienced unthinkable loss and having the grace to appreciate all of our bumbling efforts at understanding, helping, and coping along with him.  Every day I walk into work and he's still there in the classroom next to me is a day I have to resist running in and hugging him just for still being there.  OK, sometimes I don't resist.  And you know sixth graders- The rumors!

Chris, my Love (Kool Forest)- You should see him with the Biscuit.  One night I came home from a late meeting at school and found him singing Thomas the Tank Engine songs and doing a little jig, all for the amusement of my cranky little guy.  He never fails to show up with a gift (small hand-held fans are called "the Chris fans" in our house).   He organizes fantastic parties, digs Tori, and has the most mahvelous eyes.

Brothers, best friends, opportunities for Mr. Frick-sanctioned flirting (watch your backs!)- I love you.

All the while I was knitting these hats, I couldn't get a line from a movie out of my head.  The very movie that inspired the discussion about women's film roles.  And so, at the risk of becoming just as irritating as Patricia Arquette: "You're so Kool.  You're so Kool.  You're so Kool."

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.

The Nicest Nest

Biscuit keeps asking me to read Olivier Dunrea's Ollie these days.  The Dunrea books are really cute, if completely formulaic.  This one's about a gosling, Ollie, who "won't come out" of his egg.  That is, until Gossie and Gertie, his buddies on the outside, finally give up asking him to come out and tell him NOT to come out.  Reverse psychology for preschoolers.

Fricklet seems to be following suit, though it's not for lack of a lovely place to land.  His room may just be the most fantastic spot in the house, full of crafty goodness.  This post is for all you voyeurs out there.

This time around I was wiser to the ways of Etsy and avoided the lure of the mass-made "crib sets."  I bought a bumper from Jesseca over at Quilt Baby.  I think it looks just lovely there by the window, together with Fricklet's Blankie, now backed and tied by my lovely friend Doris, don't you?

Coordinates quite well with One Fish, Two Fish, and that sweet little Wee Wonderfuls bear that my lovely Adri made. (She's in labor right now, people- as I type this!  Send smooth delivery vibes!)

Now, I apologize in advance for the many shades of green you may turn when you see this next photo.  Steel yourselves:

Recognize it?  Greening up yet?  Check out the other angle:

People, I had no idea.  Really.  I wasn't being coy when I commented on that post that I'd stop reading her blog if she didn't take commissions.  I wasn't trying to bribe her when I sent her that orange Cork yarn. The fact that I've nominated her for the MacArthur Genius Award and offered her my second-born child (she refused) is completely irrelevant.  This was a completely random act of incredible generosity on Ashley's part.  People, I cried when I opened it.  Oh, how perfectly this quilt coordinates with Tulane, handmade by the lovely, the talented, Maritza. Oh, how happy it makes my heart.

Looky!  It even makes a lovely backdrop for the artwork this little guy's inheriting from his big brother.  These little animals were handpainted by a local artist.  Hippo butt!  Giraffe butt!  Monkey...face!  Well, they can't all be backsides.

And here we have a sizeable stack o' handknits.  Lurking beneath the Haba toys (Chinese plastic is OUT, or have you heard) are two lovely bibs and one burp cloth all handknit by Amisha.  Basking in the glow of the monkey lamp are two hats handknit by Haley (holy alliterative handknits, Batman!) and one skein of Artyarns sent by Heather for an as-yet-to-be-determined Frickletknit.  Suggestions welcome!  Hidden behind the handknits is a small CD player loaded up with this album sent by Kelly.  There is a track on this album called "Your Attitude Towards Cuttlefish."  What's yours?

And finally, grandpa came over and hung the artwork this weekend, which was also a gift from my *rightthismomentinlabor* friend Adri.  Plenty of visual stimulation here for everyone.

So Fricklet?  DON'T COME OUT!

Let's see if that works.

 

Vesuvius

Thanks to those of you who have written wondering if the Fricklet is yet with us here on the Big Outside. Not yet, friends!  However, the doc told me yesterday that he thinks I could "go at any time," which prompted the name of this post.  (Thanks, Tim!)  In case thinking about dilation and effacement and cervical softening gives you the heebie-jeebies (and if it does, I apologize for the beginning of this sentence), here's another way to interpret this post's title:

Mmmmm...Manos leftovers masquerading as Mountain of Melting Ice Cream.  Now that's an eruption I could get behind.  (Happy coincidence: this ice cream's name, Neapolitan, comes from the city closest to Vesuvius, Naples!  I love it when a post comes together.)

The due date's the 23rd.  The Biscuit was 8 days early.  My days of pickles and ice cream draw to a close.  Guess I'd better get 'em while the getting's good!  Fiberlicious!

Three

Has it really been a year?

Happy birthday, Biscuit Boy.

The Love Letter Sweater

The first time I met him, he set his hair on fire.  As time has passed, accounts differ as to how high the flames leapt, whether or not this was an intentional bid for my attention, and what-(ahem)-may or may not have been being lit.

He loves little walleyed Boston Terriers to distraction, and with sincere apologies to Bob the Ravelry dog, I do not.  (To explain: His beloved Nannie down in Georgia has owned several, named Miss Penelope, Miss Matilda, JEB Stuart, Yankee, and Maude.)  He promises that if I go first, he will fill the house with them and name them all Julie.

He pronounces everything I cook (when I cook, which is rare as he has taken charge of dinner so that I can sit and knit after the Biscuit goes to bed) "the best thing I've ever eaten."  Even if it's spaghetti with sawdust-in-a-tube cheese on it.  However, he did, as a single guy, used to eat baked beans from the can with some BBQ sauce thrown on top, so most anything's an improvement.

It is nearly impossible to get him to pose for photos, because he feels he needs to pantomime doing something for the camera.  Like carving a turkey.  Or being blown sideways by gale-force winds.  (Trust me: you don't want to see the outtakes.  Okay you do, but you don't get to.)

I love him, I do.  So even though my hospital bag's not packed, and the crib's still not assembled, and the Biscuit's baby book taunts me from the box on the dining room table, how could I not knit him this sweater?

(Cobblestone by Jared Flood from the latest Interweave, second size knit up in Classic Elite Skye Tweed in "Dungeon" with nary a modification.  More details can be found on Ravelry here or just ask!) 

B is for...

Big Announcements: Yesterday as we sat by the tree and dusted colored chalk off of our holiday finery (the Biscuit got an easel), my sister handed us each one of these:

Bouncing Babies: Each ornament had something different inside, but all signs point to It's a Boy!  Check out what she "stashed" in my ornament.  As if I needed the hint.

Blue:  A Boy cousin for Biscuit!  And blue, blue, blue yarn that I jumped up and immediately pulled from the stash.  I am definitely going to make one of these and some of these go without saying.  However, I'm welcoming any ideas for a sweet little sweaters.

Blurry: Top to bottom that's STR Mediumweight in Stonewash, Koigu KPPM in some number, Lorna's Laces in Icehouse, and Hello Yarn Fat Sock in Gentle.  (Sorry about the blurs.  It was a rather blustery day.)

Befuddled: Guess what else B is for?  In the longstanding tradition of Baiting Me, (though I love you dearly, my little Bird) my sister told me that the baby's name will begin with B, and offered the following completely inadequate clues. 

1.  If you are a watcher of television, listener of radio, or reader of newspapers, you see/hear this name frequently.

2.  It has something to do with a geographical feature, but not one you'd necessarily see if you opened up any old atlas.

I'm totally bewildered.  Bamboozled.  Bemused.  But no longer a-mused. (And no, it is not Bush.  She likes Baiting Me, not making me cry.)  A little help?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?