Knitting in Your StraightJacket

Does looking at something terribly cute REALLY help to allay psychotic rage? Let's just presume that cute heals. So, here's today's dose.
But, really, I am here to talk about these socks. C'mon, it's still raining in New England, surely ya'll want to hear the story?Yesterday, thing2 found these in a box we packed last Sept. just before moving from our yurt to our house. We (meaning ONLY my husband and I) built this house all by our lonlinesses and it is an experience I hope to never repeat. However, my summer was jam packed with more stress than simple post and beam hammer and nails. Last year, just before a show that was meant to be my first in years, we had a terrible event in our house wherein thing2 ending up pouring a pitcher of very hot water down his front. Since we were in a temporary house, our wood water heater was not set up for faucet use. Since we thought there was a slight possiblity that the kids could hurt themselves with too hot water, we made a rule that only adults could prepare the baths. They spent the summer like little royal children - having their baths prepared for them. But, the night before the show, I looked at thing2 and said, how long since you've taken a bath? Mom, he whined, I am too tired. This was true but so was it true that thing2 had hit the lovely 10 yr. old phase of anti-bathing and it was showing in dirt and sweat marks all around his neck. Nope, I said, you must have a bath. He pouted, stomped off to his prepared bath, slammed things around - and, then, I heard a cry that I will never forget - NEVER. The cry that every Mother hopes to avoid, you who know it know of what I speak, the one that grabs your intestines and shakes your core screaming 'something is really wrong'. It seems that thing2 was so tired, he forgot he wasn't supposed to use the hot water himself. I still feel guilty beyond being able to be in my skin. I still hate myself for being so worried about what other people would think, that I overlooked what was really important. I still wake sometimes and hear that cry and have to go and stand next to him watching him sleep while tears pour for what seems an eternity.

The worst part was that he was really hurt bad. 2nd and 3rd degree burns, people. And you know, burns are a pain that one cannot politely describe. The second worst part was that our local small-town ER made it very clear from the start that they thought this no accident. They zeroed in on my hubble, locked the door, and began coaching me about domestic violence. People, I know there are creeps out there who hurt their kids. I was a hotline volunteer for years for parents anonymous and the battered women's shelter. I understand the reality. But, when your kiddle is hurt and you already feel like a loser for not having your wonderwoman cape on and preventing anything bad from EVER happening to them - this kind of accusation really sticks ya. Particularly while your son is on a morphine drip and is going into shock. I nearly clubbed the er doc, threatened to sue him so much he'd have to give me his underwear, unlocked the door myself, and insisted they call in a pediatrician. Two days later, things getting worse for the little kiddle, we were tranferred to heaven on earth (Shriner's Children's Hospital in Boston). I swear, if our country ever gets it together and plans a reasonable health care system, they should cookie cut it from that place, where the nurses are awesome, the doctors are more, and the whole place exudes a feeling of 'you're going to be okay, now that you're here'. And we were, after one last rough night of touch and go, kiddle started to fight like hell and we were outta there in a week. But, on the way down, when I couldn't get a hold of myself in the ambulance, I was thankful I'd had the foresight to tell hubby to bring me some of my homepsun for the ride. The driver was trying to lighten things up a bit so we got in a race. He drove 80 to Boston and I knitted the left sock like a fiend. He won because I was distracted, but the socks were finished by the time kiddle was done with his first night there. He wore them every day for a couple of weeks until I forced him to take them off to be washed. He stashed them, instead, in a box for moving and , that, is the story of how you can successfully knit a pair of socks and have no recollection of it a year later. Just for good luck, I'm not making kiddle bathe this week if he doesn't want to. I challenge someone to walk up to me at Fiber Frolic and proclaim him dirty. Go ahead, try it.