A Real Mother

As of late, my all-knowing and wise almost fourteen year old has begun to critique my parenting. "oh," she'll say when she doesn't get a response she wants, "that's stellar parenting, mom" with the mom part coming out all bitter like sour grapes. Since thing 2 is nicer than that, generally, he forgoes such things. Except, of course, for these few minutes I have set aside (while cooking dinner and doing a few other things to boot) to post a bit. The scene: he's practicing juggling and his little brother is practicing annoying him by stealing the balls when they roll out of sight and hiding them. Here, and I quote, was what I heard whilst trying to thing up a title for this here pathetic entry, "A real mother would make him give me my balls back." Oh, and a look of total superior disdain when I giggle snorted and proved I am, alas, less mature than an 11 yr. old boy. I'm also, apparently, gross. The flattery is astounding tonight, folks.

There has been much chaos. There have been a few total meltdowns, and there has been grocery shopping for the week. No spinning for the Sunday Spinster, today, but I did just put away last week's spinning. The rainbow was a few batts I found in my 'reject' pile (who knows where my logic goes sometimes) and I totally love it. Don't know what I'll do with it but - at the moment I am just going through some old batts and spinning them up in hopes of a shred of inspiration. The Watercolor (purple, blues, and white) is always a satisfying spin and this shred of pink was just a day when I felt like getting pierced or tattoed but decided to stay home and spin something out of my comfort zone instead (note here that I am a chicken and have a mortal fear of my own blood and sharp, pointy sticking things).

There has, at long last, been progress on thing 1's sweater vest. I knit the bottom in the gold. Then, I spent long moments figuring numbers on a turkish colorwork pattern to do in some hand-dyed brown to gold with an ivory design. I knit about 8 rows and (finally) had to admit to myself that it looked like gnome vomit. In ribbetting the whole set, I realized I didn't even need the colorwork. The colorwork is, in itself was in the hand-dyed yarn. That is why I love dying. I like a knit that does the work for you. So, even though I don't generally join clubs (because I am kinda wierd and a tad anti-social) or swaps (because I am so neurotic that I would likely obsess about what to send and end up sending a crate of chocolate chips and a crayon-scribbled apology, I've decided to throw my hat into the dye-no-mite swap. You heard it all here - from a FAKE mother!