ian cooks

Anyone who knows me knows I hate to cook. So maybe it's Ian's survival instinct, or Charles' good influence, but in spite of me, the kid is turning into a chef. The last few days he's been microwaving chicken nuggets (hey, you've got to start somewhere), and cutting up celery for snacks. Ian swears slicing and dicing is easy. And fun.

Okay, I can buy "easy." It's the "fun" part I don't get. I find all that slicing and dicing so unrewarding. I hear that some people find it meditative. And that some get a warm, fuzzy feeling from nourishing their loved ones. I don't. I cook (occasionally), but I don't enjoy it. It just feels like a whole lot of work for something that's gone in a few minutes.

I do like baking, though. I like the smell of baking, the feel of baking, the taste of baked goods. I have baked with Ian since he was small, so maybe I have had a tiny influence on him. But the idea that cutting up celery is "fun"? He sure didn't get that from me.

spring

Ian brought me a pocketful of crocuses yesterday. He picked them on his way home from school, from a mini-garden that someone (perhaps Resurrection Church?) created in one of the little square tree enclosures on the sidewalk next to their parking lot.

Normally, I would admonish him about picking flowers that don't belong to him, but this time my heart wasn't really in it. The little nosegay was so cheerful, such an uplifting sign that spring really is here, and so completely unexpected. I mean, I never get flowers. It was such a loving, sweet - thoughtful - gift, that all I could do was thank him, give him a (really mild) reminder that in the future, flowers should be left to be enjoyed by everyone, and stick them in a jar of water.

a big old yarny mess

My poor husband. He went into the living room Saturday morning, and was practically attacked by the yarn scattered around the room. The basket pictured is just one he filled with knitting detritus. I admit, I'd been working on swatches for The Knitting Guild of America's Master's Level I course until about 3 in the morning, and was not inclined to clean up after myself at that hour.

In my defense, not all of it was mine. Okay, so I am the only one who actually brings yarn and knitting supplies into the house. But once they're here, I'm not the only one who makes use of them. Ian and Seth have found many uses for my skeins. Yarn bombs are a big hit. So are yarn "laser" grids, in which the boys crisscross yarn throughout the house and then shimmy over, under, and around the strands like it's some acrylic-based museum security system. (They're not allowed to use the good stuff.)

So, I repeat, the yarn ... not all mine. The needles on the other hand ...

Charles wants me to sign an affidavit accepting responsibility in advance in the case of his accidental death by knitting needle puncture wound.

cat people

I wasn't raised with cats. I grew up with dogs. And although I've lived with cats for the past 22 years, I'm still getting used to how pushy they are.

When you feed a dog, it follows you to the kitchen, sits patiently, and watches you with hopeful eyes, trusting that you know what you're doing. Not cats. Or at least not my cat.

When Merrie is ready to eat, she gets your attention. I mean, really gets your attention! Whatever you're doing has to stop. Immediately. You're on the computer? She'll climb on the keyboard. You're getting dressed? Kind of hard to do when her claw is caught in your stockings. Sleeping? Not after she starts nipping the soft flesh under your arm.

Once you finally get moving, there is no meek following into the kitchen. Merrie leads. She winds herself around your feet, tripping you and getting herself kicked in the process, but she doesn't care. She's on a mission. There's a meal to be scored.

She guides you to the food, (which is at the opposite end of the kitchen from her bowl), because clearly, as a human, you are too stupid to find it yourself. And while you are ripping open the pouch, or popping open the aluminum top, she is purring like a crazed feline coach: "Faster, quicker, speed it up dummy!" Then you try to actually get her food into the bowl, and it's a miracle you come away with all your fingers intact.

When it comes to cats and food, it makes me wonder why female dogs are the ones referred to as bitches.

"ode to spring": a really, really, really bad poem

This vision right here
is reason to cheer:
Winter is losing its grip on the year.

The snow is melting
And there instead
The crocus shoots up its leafy head.

And although Winter
has yet to pass,
Spring is kicking its icy ass!

But being completely serious ...
Those crocus spears up there? One of the most beautiful sights in the known universe.

meet ian

He's artistic. He's creative. He's obviously too young to grow facial hair. So he improvised. The cool blue soul patch? It's a foam letter "U" from one of Seth's puzzles. A few minutes later, it became a pirate earring.

This is classic Ian. The in-your-face pose. The inside-out t-shirt, because details like putting your clothes on correctly are just too mundane for this kid. That's my boy. That's my Ian.

patience is a virtue

The other day big sis said to me that she wishes she could knit or crochet, but she doesn't have the patience for it. I'm not sure if I responded or not, but I know what I was thinking: I don't have the patience not to knit.

I can't watch TV without doing something else at the same time. I learned a long time ago that unless my hands are busy, they're going to be filled with food, which will then make its way into my mouth and settle permanently on my thighs. I can't stand waiting for Ian to be dismissed, or sitting in a doctor's waiting room without something to do. Reading is one option. Knitting and crocheting is another. 

Last week, I had to attend a terminally boring professional development conference. I used the morning session to catch up on paperwork, and the afternoon session to work out a pattern for a crocheted flower I want to put on a necklace. One of the women sitting at my table got really excited and told me that I need to put flowers like that on pony tail elastics, because she would totally buy them. She said she wears a pony tail every day, and currently spends $12.00 for similar elastics that look cheap and machine made. Looks like my patience for knitting and crocheting (or my lack of patience for attending to nonsense) could serve me well.