I'd Say it Was a Carnival.

Raffle baskets are a difficult concept for a 4 (3/4) year old.  All he saw was a HUGE basket with Legos piled high inside.  He walked by it, stopped to smell it, touched it a bit, wiped his drool off of the table it was set up on and dove into the carnival games.

We went to the kids' school Fall Fest Carnival last night.  In case you missed that in my warm up.

I was feeling generous in my "support the school" spirit and purchased way too may tickets for any 4 and 2 year old to work through (especially at 6pm).  We fished for plastic fish.  We weighed our odds and grabbed ducks out a pond.  We threw rope circles on to the horns of a plastic bull.  We sent disks down a pegged board, trying to get 5 prize tickets.  We picked our suckers from the Lollipop Tree in hopes of finding one with the right color on the bottom.  Many, if not most of the games had an element of 'chance' to them.  BB and Michael ignored this...just enjoying the process of handing over a ticket and then never really understanding that they could have gotten more prize tickets, had they Lady Luck gone their way.

At least I thought that was what was going on.  Once we had done all the games, BB announced it was time to head over to collect his prize.  He headed in the exact opposite direction of the actual prize table.  "BB, it is over here."  Then I saw where he was headed with his 30 prize tickets.  The Lego Raffle Basket.
"BB, those are a special, different part of the night.  The adults bought tickets and put them in each basket for....a chance at winning.  They may not call our names." (and your mother never wins anything...so don't hang with me, kid.)

This did not go over well.  While I think he got the message that we may not win, he never fully absorbed the game rules.  I think it had a hard time making it through the layers of his imagination that had him taking home that box of Lego sets.

We got him over the the prize table.  To make matters worse the only way he could get what he wanted was to pool resources with little 'Miss I've Been Pouting and Crying and Making Daddy's Life Miserable for that Last 15 Mins While Mommy Talks to People.'  She didn't honestly get any of the economics of the night, so she never knew she gave My Husband permission to hand over her prize tickets to BB.  50 tickets got them a cowboy hat.  to. share.

Then the raffle started and BB and his his best bud caught wind of this.  The two of them got front row seats.  My Husband was done with the night and took Michael to the car.  I waited with friends and BB until the Lego Basket came up.

You know this story doesn't have a happy ending.

Perhaps, the worst part of the whole thing was the face and attitude of the boy who won.  I imagine that he didn't realize what the heck was going on any more than my kids did, so I give him that.  But seriously, kid, you just won THE LEGO BASKET.  THE LEGO BASKET.  He calmly stood to accept his prize.  His face registered no joy, no interest, no enthusiasm...at. all.  He calmly took it, nearly falling at the weight of the box, and sat down.  Where was the passion?  Come, on!!!  If you would have looked across the room, you would have seen what passion looks like--Sad, hot tears on the face of a little boy clinging to his mom's legs.  It wasn't pretty.  It got loud.

We had a great night.  No, seriously.  It didn't end well.  It ended loud and angry.  People had very hurt feelings.  We feel things around here.  We feel them deeply. We feel them for a long, long time...well into bed time.  Well after Mom and Dad have shut the doors and turned off the lights...the passion continues.

This morning, everyone woke up happy.  No one is mentioning the night before.

It was a carnival.


p.s.  I nearly forgot...our house is still for sale.

Frightening

A really nice byproduct of having a blog is the ready made filing cabinet for my memories.  Today, I looked back at what I did last Oct.  Apparently, I was on speed.  On Oct. 29, 2009, I was making birthday invitations for a party six weeks away.  Hum.  I do have the cookies on my mind for Oct. 29, 2010.  But the party planning is nowhere on my agenda.  (although BB does talk about his 'theme' and gift list daily hourly.)

I have no idea where we will be for his birthday.  And, I have not yet committed to a 'friend' party.  I'm in denial that I will have a five year old.

And, ya, know....our house is still for sale.

CaNdY!!!!!

First.  Our house is still for sale.

Apparently, Halloween is becoming a holiday we celebrate for weeks on end.  The kids have already been to two "Fall Festivals."  Both of which involved CaNdY.  Bags of CaNdY.

We've had some interesting "quiet times."  Instead of doling out CaNdY slowly, or hiding it, (and eating it myself) or buying it back, I am letting the kiddos eat it all.  At one sitting. 

Or, rather at their own pace.  As it turns out they actually pace themselves.  To their mother who has never really understood delayed gratification and has a mild addiction to food sugar, their behavior is odd.

But because of this addiction, and some emphasis on, ya know, nutrition, we never rarely have candy in the house. I figure once a season they might as well go crazy.  It is an odd move in today's parenting world.  I'm not sure if it is a conscience decision on my part or lazy parenting...either way, we are enjoying this week(s) of CaNdY!

8:00am to 2:00pm with 3,4,5 yr olds

If you know me, the title alone should get you in your car to bring me a glass of wine.  It has been a long day.  I volunteered for it.  The first half of the day, that is.  Then the field trip got moved to the afternoon.  And, three hours turned into five.
The greatest lesson I learned was that my nearly five year old is a) normal and b) is doing just fine.  While still unable to sit still and a bit bossy, he exhibits many other good qualities that I am, in fact, happy about.

And, p.s. our house is still for sale.

I live up to my name...

Yes, I'm sure you were looking for an actual post.  One with words and updates.  Perhaps, just a thoughtful reflection on an event.
Sorry.
I redecorated, instead.
The blue is too much like my high school color.  But it matches the blue on the ladder better than any purple I could find create. Rest assured I will play with it a bit more.
Our house is still for sale, so I am redecorating my blog to release my creative energy.

I Don't Do That

I have a review for work this afternoon.  Last night as I was filling out the form, I realized that I don't actually have a job description.  This past year I have done bits and pieces of what was asked and what I felt like doing.  While I will try to clarify my role today in the review, it doesn't completely bother me.

As I was thinking this over I read a chapter in the book Bittersweet by Shauna Niequist.  She talked about how she needed to define her own job description.  Especially, when it came to motherhood.  She wrote about how helpful it was to write out not only a list of what you do like to do, and have to accomplish, but also a list of what you don't do.

I'm pondering this thought.

I realized I don't make Halloween costumes.  That one is coming off my list of "things I feel I should do."
While it might seem that my creative energies would be all about the costume creation.  Halloween always sneaks up on me and I feel pressure rather than enjoyment.  Apparently, there are other things I'd rather be doing during the month of October.

Job descriptions are reviewed on a yearly basis so we'll see what next year brings.  But right now, I am giving my self permission to buy a costume, should it come to that.

It would also be mighty helpful if the costume wearers liked to a) wear costumes and b) could make up his mind.

Reunion

Whether my parents intended it or not, my most influential and important extended family, isn't family at all.  We don't share any common genetics, or last names, or great grandparents.

What the first generation shares is common professors, and meals in a shared dining hall and stories from college housing...fraught with mild mischief.  Nine people...some of whom married each other, some never married, some married from "the outside"...went on to form this group.  Over the past 40 plus years, they gathered for parties and  long weekends where they camped at each others houses.  They shared casual get togethers and wove their lives together as tightly as any DNA could have.

Only one person beyond the first generation holds a degree from the college campus that started it all.  The second generation has been dragged brought  back for more than one homecoming and we could tell the folklore of the campus art and even share stories from a magical Pink House.  We are busy bringing up and bringing in the third generation of this family.

This weekend is my 15 year reunion for my college class.  My husband and I met there our junior year.  He lived for two years in an honor house with many men.  I lived with roommates I no longer keep in touch with and then by myself...in blissful heaven for a year.  I spent my college days in the, now seemingly ridiculous, pursuit of athletic dreams.  My teammates and I had lost contact with each other by 1996.

Due to my the influence and mythic importance I put on my parent's friends, I have always had vulnerable spot when it comes to the topic of college friends and my lack there of.

The men from my husband's college house all (nearly all) married women from our college.  The women get together every year.  I don't know if the men do, but they will all be together at the reunion this weekend.  Through the magic of Facebook, I am 'friends' with these women.  Their get togethers make me a little sad...jealous perhaps.  Frustrated that I didn't know what I would be missing out on when I passed on their offers of friendship 15 years prior.

In the end we aren't going to the reunion due to our schedule.  The trip to my home state can only be done so many times in one month and the reunion got cut.  I would have loved to be there.  A decade and a half has healed many insecurities and settled me in my own skin.  I was looking forward to seeing familiar faces again and catching up in person.  I was interested in meeting people I should have met 15 years ago.

Then it hit me as to how it is slightly odd that so much emphasis is placed on these four years of our life.  I decided to cut myself a little slack.  Since 1995, I have been a part of numerous groups with whom I would love to catch up.  I wondered what makes our college years so poignant and holy?  It isn't 'ba hum bug' or even insecurity that asks the question...I just wonder.

I will never have what my parents have with their college friends.  What I have is a person here and a dear one there.  My friends and soul mates are spread out across the country.  Stories and moments scattered and sent.  Memories from Habitat training classes and my work colleagues at my first 'real' job fill me with joy and energy.  I cherish my seminary classmates and perhaps that is where my reunion energy will land.

All of this wistful looking backwards has taught me that friendships take time, cultivation....they don't just happen. When they do, one should take great care with them and be very grateful to be apart of it.  Even if you are in the second generation.

This is a lesson I learned in college.

Um. Yah. Yah.  Be sure to listen to the song as well.

Traditions are Important

Have I ever told you about our night time rituals?  We have the basic dinner, then play outside with Dad until Mom calls you in routine.  This is the point where I imagine our family splits from anything you'd see on prime time family sitcoms.

The kids head to their rooms to get ready for a bath...but instead of heading directly to the bathroom for a shower or bath, they take a turn into the living room for what we like to call, "The Naked Dance Party."  (only the children are naked)  Like any good tradition it developed over time.  What once was a simple spin around the room before bath has morphed into a full on dance event.

I turn on music...our favorite mix is my ipod playlist simply titled, "Run."  It is a mix of Will.i.am, Black Eyed Peas, Queen and U2.  Very soothing before bedtime.

The kids dance around the living room for about 15 mins.  BB has a lot of ballet moves. Graceful leg kicks and plies turns. Arms held above his head.  EG/Michael has more of a "hands in the air, wave them around" feel to her dance.  She also really likes spinning as a raw art form.  "I dizzy, I dizzy, I dizzy....OHHHHHH, I going to fall down."

My husband and I dance as well.  We laugh a lot, too.

Then they take a bath or shower.  The kids try to get back on the dance floor but we corral them into underwear and pjs.

I thought you'd enjoy this visual. 

I've been gone a bit, I felt I owned you something special to hang on to as you head into the weekend.

Annnnd....We're Back.

Today is the day we visit Michael and BB's classrooms.  I will bring the stroller so I can carry the mountain of school supplies we need to bring along.

I will be going as a Cyclops (that's the monster with one eye in the middle of its forehead, right?) as I have a rather large pimple right between my eyes.  I am concerned about popping it, due to its location.  I would hate to get an internal infection into my brain lining and thus die from a pimple.  (I swear my DAD told me this myth at some point.)

I can not get into my hotmail account.  The amount of use this one application in my life gets is frightening...especially when I realize how much information I have stored within the annals of my account.

Welcome to September...here we go!

Michael

Everyone handles stress differently.  I get that.  I'm open to a range of coping mechanisms.  There is the teeny, tiny possibility that we might be pushing EG a bit too far over the last week.

She started potty training.  That's a whole other entry to come, but let me say that the whole "no more diapers for me" breezy attitude she portrays on the exterior, is cracking.

Add to this, she starts a preschool program next week.  It isn't that many hours, nor am I making a BIG-First-Day-of-School deal out of it.  But again, while she may talk a big--two year old, I know how preschool goes because I've seen my brother go--game...I think she's a bit overwhelmed.

Enter Michael.

Over the weekend she declared that we all must call her Michael.  She would not respond to any of the traditional names we go by.  Not. One.  Only--Michael.  She began to refer to alter-ego in the third party.  "Michael needs to go potty.  GET OUT.  Michael can do it by himself."  After a while she did things she thinks Michael does.  Include "swimming" and "diving" off the couch (feet first--don't worry), going to school and riding a bike.  She also made her brother play the role of Michael's siblings.  (Because this is a real family, so we must be authentic in her mind.)  So, poor BB would alternate between going along with it and snapping at her.  I let his out bursts go because, Michael tested our 38 year old patience level...let a lone the 4 year old's.  Because....she really got into character...for hours at a time this would go on before a mild crack in the veneer, and EG would reappear.

When the crackling happened in "Michael's life" you could see us all hope that the phase had passed. "Whew, that's over."  (short patience levels here...as if a two year old will let anything this good go in a days time.)

Yesterday, BB called it quits.  In a fun unity front between BB and myself, we tag teamed EG most of the day.  "Only EG can ride in the new car seat."   "Oh, bummer, only EG can go outside."  "Oh, sorry...the neighbor kids want to play with EG..."  We made up all types of things only EG could do.

So she switched it up.  Ditching Michael, she became 'A Baby.'
(That turned out to not be any fun.  Especially, when I cuddled her and then told her babies can't move.  I set her down on the couch.  BB informed her that really new babies can't even turn over so she should just lie there if she wanted to be a "true" baby.  Bless his little soul.)

Then she became 'The Mommy.'  (yes, I am SURE 'the' is capitalized in her mind.)  This role required BB to be the baby.  After dinner last night, Saint BB was allowing EG/Michael/Baby/The Mommy to feed him his bedtime snack of water in a bottle** and crackers.  When he got off the chair, tired by the day, to mercifully head to his room, The Mommy bellowed from across the room.

"Baby, you crawl to bed. Babies crawl."

BB looked at his parents with a resigned expression, and said, "Ok, Michael...I mean, The Mommy.  Good. Night."



**It is his normal water bottle. I haven't completely lost my mind.

Wrong Number

Monday I had about five calls on my cell phone before noon.  Only one person ever calls my cell phone...and she wasn't callin'.  I was in and out of lessons for the kids and didn't recognize the numbers so I didn't pick up.  (big shocker to anyone who knows me and my apparent phone phobia.)

I had two messages from a man who spoke in a dialect and speed that made it nearly impossible for me (or anyone, I have to imagine) to understand what he was saying.

But, apparently it was important.

After the fourth call, I picked up.  "Hello?"
"Blah, blah, sorry, garbble, garbble, wrong number, Blah, mumble."  click.

This happens every so often on my cell phone.  The messages always seem important...urgent.  So, today, a whole 24 hours plus later, the Mumbler and his multiple missed attempts to contact Someonejustnotme is on my mind.

I kinda what to know what was up?

August 23

Two years.

It may have gotten away from us...

Our Yard--August 2010

See you soon.

I'm taking a break from Work in Progress...rest assured that the 'work' continues, but the blog will be silent for a bit  There will be stories to share...trust me--stories are guaranteed.  In fact, setting aside a few of my latest posts...if you would, pray for us.  :)

**I find all the new visitors so fun...take a look at the Traffic Feed at the bottom.  Such exotic locations.  :)  Welcome!**

10 Years and Many Blossoms Later...

Six years ago, we inherited three nikko blue hydrangea plants.  They were first purchased for decoration at our wedding reception in 2000.  Our reception took place at my parent's home and our "theme" was blue hydrangeas.  The plants bloomed at our wedding, and with the aid of my mother and some plant acid, the blooms were the ideal blue-purple color.

When we moved south to a more suitable growing zone for the plants, my parents lovingly drove them to our new home.  We planted them along side our house and began the endless process of trying to replicate those blue blossoms.

It was harder than it looked.

That first year we went to a seminar at a local nursery on the care and maintenance of hydrangeas.  We learned that the direction and size of our yard may not afford the best sun to shade ratio for our plants.  They are planted in a row and the first plant, the one that gets the most sunshine, is noticeably the largest.  Due to life and other pursuits, we never did amend the soil with acid...mostly because our main goal became the pursuit of a bloom, any bloom...in any old color.

Each year we would think of a new way to winterize the plants.  These particular variation of hydrangea bloom off of the "old growth," so it becomes important not to disrupt the buds over the winter and to protect the plants against freezing.

We bought fencing and wrapped each plant...gently filling the bins we created with straw.  We gently handled each stem, arranging the straw--just so.

When that enormous amount of work didn't produce any results, we wrapped up the whole of the plants with fencing and filled them (less intentionally) with straw.

After a few years of that protocol, and nearly no change in bloom production, we gave up.  The fact we had two young children and a mess of "other things" going on, might have pushed the plants to very last of our concerns.

For two years we have just left the plants alone.  They are what they are.  We admire their beautiful green foliage.  We are suprised and happy to see one or two blooms on each plant.  They are always a light pink...perhaps a fuchsia.  We talk about the plants...wondering if they would be best served in another location in our yard.  We think about adding something to the soil.  Something else always needs to get done instead.

This year, as we have directed most of our energies inside--on making our house seem larger and de-cluttered--I hadn't made a loop around to all of the garden areas.  A few weeks ago, when I decided we needed to water and deflower my hostas (a family quirk...I do not like the messy nature of the hosta flowers so I cut them off.) I came across this bounty on our hydrangeas.

Each of the three plants has multiple (5 to 7) blooms.  I was enjoying the flowers and rich green leafs as I started to water.  Then, I spotted this.

And, it isn't alone.  On a separate plant, there is another blue blossom.  Lighter in color, but still blue.

For reasons that are perhaps only understood by my husband and myself, those two blue blossoms bring tears to our eyes.  I stood in our yard, moved to tears by their beauty and all they symbolized.

Ten years later, after much fussing and growth, in spite of poor soil quality and lack of sunshine, after trips to seminars, and lessons from experts along with multiple, exasperated cries of "I give up," there they were: two blue blossoms.

With great joy and much love, I celebrate today.

Happy Anniversary, Mr. Work in Progress.  I love you, and give thanks for the life we are working to create.

So Fancy. So Famous

It was a teenage birthday.  Perhaps my 16th.  My Mom and I drove to Minneapolis to attend the Seventeen Magazine's fall fashion show at Dayton's Department Store.  The event took place on the 8th Floor and it was to be my first (and perhaps last?) formal fashion show.  I remember the center aisle set up in the grand, wide open 8th Floor.  I remember lights and the stage.  I remember feeling very old and very important.  It was so out of body, that I can't recall many of the details.  I don't know what I wore but best guess might have been an Esprit or Benetton sweater. I do remember it as one of my more special birthdays, one I was surprised my Mom came up with .  (shopping is not her thing and she did her best not to overly encourage my illusions of grandeur.)

The other very important part of the day surrounded the guest appearances of the cast of Head of the Class.  They took part in the show.  Coming on stage and giving short interviews.  It was my favorite TV shows while I was in high school. So, you'll join me in mutual squeal when I tell you this next part.

We must have sat in our seats for a while following the fashion show, I imagine I wanted to take it all in.  Once we got on the elevator, the crowds had cleared.  (and upon reflection, this may have been the real reason we hung back...) After a few floors we were alone in the elevator when it stopped and the doors opened...and guess who got on????  I think it was a number of people from the cast, but I especially remember Eric Mardian standing very close to me.  It was a very "Happy Birthday to Me" two minute elevator ride.  He slumped--so cool, so in character--against the elevator wall.  In my mind he wore shades, and was just impressed to see me as I was to breathe air near him.

I think she was there as well

and I hear them talking to each other as I fondly remember our significant elevator ride.  It never occurred to me to ask for their autograph.  (Did I, Mom? Her memory is decades better than mine.)  Then the elevator car bounced into position and they exited ahead of us.  I hope I smiled at them.  I imagine I might have looked away--pretending this type of thing happened everyday.

Life in Minnesota didn't afford many star sightings.  Now, a number of my classmates could report on Tom Cruise's time on the lakes.  But I only have second hand stories on such-"he came to the door in his towel"-moments.

To me, my elevator ride with The Head of the Class, was pretty darn fun.

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***I wrote this entry because The Hollywood Housewife is celebrating her 10 years in LA.  I thought it would be fun...

What Did I Miss?

It is all in God's time.
God has a reason.
Everything happens for a reason.
My prayers were answered when we got a new car...dishwasher...found money...someone helped us...
I'll have to pray about that...
I will pray that God takes away that pain.

After the conversation with my parishioner--let's call her Jane--I wrote a long email to my friend and colleague.  In her response to me she mentioned my own prayer life.  Did Jane's comments bother me because they hit close to a truth?  Did I feel my prayer life was lacking?

The answer is 'yes.'
The answer is 'no.'

I consistently feel as if I am missing something about prayer.  I want to cast off statements like the ones at the beginning of this post as being "poor theology" but when I constantly hear people talking this way, I begin to wonder who has the "poor theology?"  People seem to attribute all of sorts events and occurrences that I chalk up on a small scale to 'coincidence', 'luck', 'hard work', or  'the way things go,' to God's hand.  I really don't want God to put much effort in to finding me a parking spot...

It should be noted that I am in a deep, deep house selling funk.  I keep thinking about this family that put their house on the market, sold it and moved in to their new house...just like that--right away.  They got the government tax credit, they got new appliances...their prayers were answered.  I keep thinking about them and I wonder..."What are we doing wrong?"  (remember, I'm a first born rule follower.)  What am I missing?  Why is my family seemingly stuck in neutral...constantly?

So, 'yes' my own prayer life is in question.

But if prayer is meant to keep us in contact with God...if it is meant to be daily-hourly-minute to minute conversation with God...if it meant to keep our heart and eyes and hears open to the work of the Holy Spirit and all the ways we are being shaped...if that is what you mean by prayer, then 'no.'  No, my prayer life is healthy and active and flourishing.  I am in constant--honestly--conversation with God.

I see the young men walking the street with bags on their backs and I give them to God.  I hear an ambulance and I ask God to be with those involved.  I watch my young daughter clasp her hands, muttering the events and names that touched her day and stand back in awe of God's creation.  I give thanks that I have been brought into its care.  My son calls my name for the 50th time that hour and I know patience will come through the work of the Spirit on me.  My tears as I listen to the stories of oil destroying the waters we were created to be caretakers of, are prayers.  Prayer is how I breathe as I go through my day.

Prayer for me is about 'bigger' things and events--redemption, sanctification.  It moves me beyond 'God-as-the-one-holding-the-strings-on-my-life, so-I go-to-God-in-hopes-of-getting-what-I-want.'  As if God doesn't already know what I need...

Perhaps, we all want prayer to be more than it was meant to be.  Perhaps, it is all a bit of semantics--how we give 'name' to the events around us.

God will bring the perfect family to live in your house.
In God's time.
You are growing with each challenge God gives you.
Ask and you will receive.

Does God Pick Out My Parking Place?

I've been thinking about prayer.  I had an odd conversation with someone a few weeks ago.  I still don't have a secure handle on what the parishioner was telling me, but she opened with, "I have been praying for you all week."  I immediately thanked her and then began to wonder, "Oh. Dear. Why?"

I had led a retreat on prayer the week before which she had attended.  Apparently something I said triggered something in her.  In a large group conversation someone said something about how she is so delighted when God gives her a good parking spot.  I have lost the specific context of the conversation--I think it was about when God grants the smallest of our prayers.  I know I didn't initiate the exact train of thought.  I know this because I don't have "God granted me a parking spot" prayers...or moments.  I know I said something along these lines...or rather I tried to re-frame the comment.  It was a pretty casual conversation so I know I disagreed a bit and offered my take on God as micro-manager.  They weren't buying what I was selling.

Which, I think, is what spurred my parishioner's prayer life.

Now she also could have been praying for me to have a more open mind.  Or, for me to learn to just let some comments in a conversation slide by.  Or, she could have just felt my whole retreat on prayer was lacking.

This particular person knows me pretty well and is a very vocal advocate for my ministry.  I trust she had good and well intentioned prayers.  I also believe she was, truly, praying for me.*  There was just something about it that I didn't like...

I have a few more entries lined up based on this conversation.  Tell me about your prayer life.  Do you have stories about people praying for you?  Other thoughts?


*(I should have told her that if she was offering up "God as Puppeteer" prayers...I have a house I'd like to get rid of.)

Knit one...purl, huh?

I learned to knit about two years ago.  Since that weekend lesson, I have made about ten things.  Ten baby hats.  I had interest in making lots of hats.  One for every niece and nephew.  A variety of patterns and colors and textures.  Then a sister in law began to knit.  She knits well and is more bold and secure in her talent.  (she makes a variety of hats, whereas I stick to one tried and true pattern.)  For this reason, combined with others, I quit knitting.  For a while.  I just haven't gotten back to it.

I thought about my days of hat-knitting as I drove around town today.  I thought of the babies that have grown out of them.  Then I thought about the actual hats.  Many of them have a flaw in them.  A missed stitch here or a knot of some sort.  If I made a mistake after the first three, or so, rows, I didn't start over.  I did my best to fix or hide the mistake and kept on going.  There might have been one hat or two at the beginning of my practice, where the mistakes were so plentiful that I had to start over...a couple of times. Otherwise, I accepted the mistake as part of the hat and kept on.  90% of the hat looked good.  I always figured the parent would simply turn the hat on the baby so the blemish was in the back, buried in a car-seat.

I know knitters who talk about ripping apart projects...over and over.  I realized that in a few instances, it never even occurred to me to start over.

These hats say a lot about me.  Not entirely sure of what they say...but something...

Missing.

Sometimes I get too many thoughts running through my head.  When this happens I tend not to write.  Seems counter intuitive, but history has proven my rhythm.