I checked the airport and flight info last night and we had more time than we thought–which is why I set my alarm for 5:00 am rather than, say, 4:30. Small favors.

Michelle was getting ready to go this morning and I sat down to peek at my comments while I waited.

And saw the one from Lorraine.

Now, my first reaction (note the sleep deprivation) was, how did spam get through?  But wait–I know that name. (Michelle, I thought towards her in the other room, take your time while I go check this out.) Looking in my inbox, yes, that was Lorraine from cottagecraftangora.com whom I’ve bought qiviut-blend yarn from. (That qiviut angora would take color really nicely and I only wish I could have angora in the house.)

We went off to the airport with me marveling out loud to my kids. John was driving; I simply was coming along to try to get every last minute out of our time together and to make sure there was no falling asleep at the wheel coming home. *Hugs* “Love you Mom!” “Love you ‘Shelle!” “Bye!”

We’re missing her keenly already.

With my focus on my kids while the two were home (John’s got a few more days), I’d totally forgotten: Lorraine had run a contest to name her handpaint 90/10 qiviut/merino, and I had spent a pleasant afternoon meandering around Google and Wikipedia and learning a whole lot about Arctic areas while trying to come up with something relevant to both the colors and the muskox. I’ve seen it snow on the Fourth of July in Banff, I’d read a little, (I loved the story of what the re-introduced buffalo did, thank you for the book, Scott!) I have a niece-in-law and cousin-in-law from Alaska, I knew enough to know I knew very little. Just enough that the contest was simply an  excuse now to go learn about a part of the world that intrigued me.

Pictures of a mountainside in bloom in the tundra: life being determined to celebrate itself in living color. No depth of cold could stop it.

A Canadian national park I’d never heard of.  The Arctic Cordillera Range, isn’t that a Spanish word? How did it get that, I wonder. (And if you search the word without the Arctic part, you find yourself over in the Phillippines.)

I was sure I’d disqualified myself by offering more than one potential name for some of the colorways as I tried to share briefly what I’d discovered, but it didn’t matter; it was surely such a nice yarn, someone else should get a chance to enjoy it. (I tried really really hard not to wish for it and to feel as generous as that sounds. I rather  failed.)  I could just picture someone doing all that work milling that fiber and then painting that yarn and then feeling stuck with having to take on names for her work that didn’t live up to what she was hoping for, so I was trying to stretch the range of possibilities. I told  her in my comment that since it’s her product, if she wanted to choose this name from this person and that from that, it seemed fair to me.

And then I promptly forgot all about it because I don’t win things nor did I deserve to.

A qiviut scarf and 100 g of that yarn to make my own with, too. A shawl’s worth. I can’t believe I get to have Aulavik.

Lorraine says there will be more contests.

I figure the least I can do to tell her thank you is to point you all to where to enter her next one while saying that it was very, very generous of her.

And that Arctic Blend that just came back into stock? My needles can tell you you can get a surprisingly big lace scarf out of one little ten-dollar 2-ply skein, a nice shimmer to it to go with the softness and warmth.

My needles are going to dance in delight in the blooming tundra!

To celebrate Michelle’s last evening home of winter break, we took the kids out for dinner at a place she suggested. I don’t usually go near Japanese restaurants because sushi is just not an option anymore, but she raved about their bento boxes and promised there would be plenty I could choose from.

And so there was.

The server was pleasant but, oh honey, clueless. You don’t put a meal in front of one person while the others admire it hungrily for a long half hour. But the food was good and the prices probably the best bargain in town and I could see why university students loved the place.

And they had mackerel. I had not seen mackerel on a menu since we moved to California in ’87.

I was 11 the summer my folks drove north with a camping trailer and six kids in tow and stayed on Prince Edward Island off the coast of Canada for two weeks. I’ve blogged before about my mom later packing up house after 45 years in Maryland, coming across some yarn in a box and wondering where on earth she’d bought that and when.

I knew. It was from that mill on PEI we’d visited. (See? She taught us right: travel a bajillion miles and look for the nearest yarn store!) I’d made a granny square hat and scarf out of it in junior high and those were the leftover skeins and I don’t remember what she made out of it.

I still have mine. Wool lasts.

One of the things we did while we were there was to go deep-sea fishing for mackeral. Get on a small boat and go way out on a big ocean.

That fisherman had it all figured out: you get the tourists to pay to board. You give them fishing rods that were simply four short boards nailed together in a square with a string hanging from the contraption, with a big collection of hooks (you show the folks how to tie them on) because you’re going to lose a bunch of those each trip out.

You show the 11-year-old girl your new toy when she asks: the radar that helps you find schools of fish. She wonders how you’re so sure they’re all going to be mackeral; you assure her you are and they are as you ease the boat over and above them.

Seemed rather unfair to me not to take your chances the way Nature intended, but then I didn’t have rent to pay.

And so we caught mackeral after mackeral that afternoon, the numbers roughly corresponding to our ages, everybody keeping count of their score, the littlest (my younger brother turned seven that summer) sometimes needing a little help. Memory says I caught two and a half–my little sister and I both saw a rod jerk that we’d walked away from, bored, and both of us being sure that that one was ours, grabbed it together and landed the thing and then both counting it because you know, you don’t concede to your sibling when you have a perfectly good half-claim on the thing.

One fellow had a brand new and very fancy rod and reel he was eager to try out and to show off with.  It was maybe a little too efficient: he caught a shark. I assure you the rest of us hustled away quickly from where that fairly-big thing was flailing around on the floor after he hauled it in.

There was a big wooden holding tank in the center of the boat, us beginning fishers adding in our mackeral as we caught them. I wanted to keep my catch separate–I wanted Mom to fry up mine for dinner for everybody, I might not be getting many but they were mine–but the boat owner just laughed, saying no, they all go together in there and you all take as much as you think you can eat when you’re all done.

But don’t take what you can’t, though, because fishing is for eating. You don’t waste the life of the fish.

To the guy with the shark, he said, Those are tasty but we don’t have room for it; it’ll just sit there in the tank and eat all the mackeral, throw it back.

The guy threw it back. (I’m trying to remember now just exactly how. The thing wouldn’t have been lightweight, wouldn’t have been happy, and it could definitely have put some teeth into its argument.)  A few minutes later, he caught it again. Same one.

How’s that for a workout routine?

That’s when I decided sharks were kinda stupid. Don’t tell that to the hockey team in San Jose, though, okay? Just between you and me.

As we came back towards land at the end of our ride, the boat owner explained that the fish we didn’t take with us he would be taking to that fish processor over there, where it would go into cans so all of it would go to good use.

Dude got free labor, a chance to meet new people and to tell fish stories every day should he feel like it to a new (and definitely captive) audience each time. If he teaches children to respect what Nature lets us take while he makes a little extra money to pay off his boat or his house, hey. I’d love a chance to tell him thank you for earning a living that way.

Broiled mackeral. But wouldn’t it have a ton of bones? I didn’t care. (There were five, all easily dealt with.) Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia across the water, wooden squares and ropes and my little brother landing a really big one with I think it was the boat owner’s, but I remember someone’s big arms suddenly wrapping around from behind him, helping him not let go of that thing while talking him through it as if that little boy were really the only one doing any of it or deserving that moment of glory. It was the best and last fish any of us kids caught.

And the one tonight that caught memories and held onto them without letting go was very very good.

Today was Fast Sunday. And so, after church was over, food eaten, the fast broken, Michelle went off with cocoa and various dark chocolates and almond paste in hand to go play with an old friend also in town on break.  (I’ll link to her blog and pictures (scroll down) when she posts them.) Celebrate with dessert!

And so they had fun making chocolate cupcakes with a chocolate-coated marzipan mouse and cheese on top of each; Michelle came home with a container with two layers’ worth in a rubbermaid. On the top layer, there was one mouse that had a triangle to nibble, the one I got handed was facing a whole wheel of almondy Brie with a tiny bite’s worth taken out, and there was one with a red slice. Totally charming.

She mentioned that they couldn’t use white chocolate to draw with because she hadn’t ever found any that didn’t have dairy in it. I told her that’s okay; if they hadn’t been done in dark chocolate (and dark chocolate is always a good thing), they would have been three blond mice.

I was just pulling dinner for three out of the oven when the door opened. (I wasn’t expecting her back for awhile.)  “Mom? Can we have my friend for dinner too?”

“Sure! Here, help me adlib here.” (Opening the fridge and looking for what we could stretch it with.) “Hummus a few bars and we’ll fake it.”

So three became five and the master chef and her friend took over. Sounds of laughing and chop chop chopping came from the kitchen while I knitted happily with my feet up at her invitation, and a superb stir-fry got added to the meal.

I so love having my children around while I can!

Take one baby blanket today. Edging? Yes.  Decide to add edging all around.

Take one baby blanket, start edging.

Take one baby blanket. Frog edging.

Take one baby blanket. Start edging.

Take one baby blanket to the couch, put it down, and go play three board games (two of them totally new to me) with the kids and one of their new-to-me friends and have a wonderful time.

It’s all good.

Winter break: when you read the Sheldon comics start to stop. It’s a Sheldon-seen tradition.

I need me a duck to guard my stash. I’d have to draw it a skein-atic diagram of where it’s all tucked away around this house, though, and then it would come to this.

(See? All this research that’s already been done for you!)

Right, then. Off to go play Upwords with my kids while they’re still home on break.

The Malabrigo hat for Michelle. Done.

The first of the old amaryllis bulbs  started sending up a bud right on Christmas day, Nature itself in celebration; it suddenly occurs to me I could hunt through old blog posts to find out what color it’s going to be.

Kim’s mom, with love, supplied us with new pictures of the baby.

We went to a party tonight where old friends were celebrating their daughter’s engagement to a really nice guy.

The piano is tuned.

Getting to see, through photos and videoconferencing so far, the grandson who quacks like a duck. (Heh.)

It’s all good.

December 2010: it was worth going through 2009 to get to it.

What’s Tron with this picture? (Wait, here, let me go get a photo from earlier in the week. There you go, that really shows it.)

I just wanted to thank whoever the person is out there who thought up a better solution for preemies needing light therapy to break down their bilirubin levels: instead of keeping them in the hospital with noise and parental separations and bright overhead lights and masks over their eyes, Parker got something I’d never heard of.

It’s a special bed with a blanket-y sort of thing that wraps him in light, his face shielded by the fabric–at home. His eyes are free to see the world around him.

Someone out there clearly knew what it was like for new parents and for the babies and knew there had to be a better way. I just hope somehow they see this and know how much of a difference they made to us all. Thank you, whoever you are.

Merry Christmas and Happy Winterdance, everyone!

You knit a strip of braided cable to the length around your head, sew the ends, then pick up the stitches sideways and knit upwards from there. Pretty nifty idea. I was still at the long narrow strip and it looked like nothing that made sense.

The hubby mentioned last night that he thought a wrapped pattern printout and needles didn’t cut it, and so somehow I wasn’t working on the baby blanket today.

Nobody paid attention to what I was knitting. (Maybe studiously not paying attention to it.) Nobody was going to ask me–clearly, I had to take matters into my own hands:

“You know what I’m making?”

Just the one kid in the room and it’s not for him. He shakes his head no.

“An asparagus cozy.”

Blink.

“I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know!”

So the plan was, turn in that last final of the semester and then go into surgery that day and the baby would come three weeks later, by which time Richard-the-younger would have recovered enough to be really helpful.

Which means he had his ACL replaced Friday and you know how the rest of that story complied with their plans.

We were at the grocery store this afternoon when we got a text from him: in the ER. Suspected blood clot. MRI in a moment.

He did not respond to his phone.

We called our other kids and went home and waited to hear, fully aware of what a blood clot could potentially do to a father of four days.

I can’t tell you how glad I was when the phone finally rang: the swelling and the pain, yes; blood clot, no.  Good thing he took it seriously, though, because you just don’t mess with what that could have been.

Unto us our son is given.  And his son, in time for a Christmas that merits a lot of thankful celebrating this year. And with the way things turned out, Richard gets to spend a lot of time sitting holding his newborn.

Who likes to hold onto him, too.

It was so wonderful, while my husband and I were saying our prayers together last night and this morning for each of our kids as we always do, to be able to say not just “and the baby,” but, “Parker.”

Huge feet on a baby is supposed to say he’ll be a tall one. Given his 6’9″ daddy, this will surprise no one.  I can just picture Parker teasing his father someday by looking down at him and calling him “Little Buddy” right back at him.

(It’s amazing. One day, and he already looks older.)

Today, my mother turns 80. Eighty years from today, our grandson will too. Welcome, welcome to the world, little one. Happy, happy birthday, Mom.

Phone call 1 am: Kim’s water had broken. 4-something am: my husband texted as to whether there were any news yet? The phone rang a few minutes later, saying Little Buddy (his name so far) had arrived about 30 seconds ahead of that text.  5 lbs 7 oz, 18″. He’s a preemie, but not by much and all is well.

Note that I had given my son the hat the hospital in New Hampshire sent him home with when he was born, and I do believe that is it on his son’s head.

(Ed. to add, Nope–they’re still making the same generic hospital hat 26 years later.)

“I need some blog inspiration here.”

Her face lit up. “How about you say you picked your daughter up from the airport and that very night she cooked a delicious dinner of such and such and then the next night she cooked such and such and the next night she cooked such and such and it was all really good and the next night she cooked such and such and tonight she and her brother together cooked a really yummy dinner! Clearly, I raised my children right!”

“Can I quote you?”

“YES!” she exclaimed in delight, the biggest grin on her face.

His plane was late but that just meant I could go to Knit Night and afterwards go help pick him up, too. (Saying a prayer along the way for all those people in all those cars (six?) with all those rescue crews at work in the other direction on the bridge, it looked like at least one of the cars totally spun out in heavy traffic–slow DOWN, people, the weather is bad, it’s not worth the speeding! ‘Tis the season, you want everybody to be able to celebrate when you get there!)

John’s home, John’s home!

Michelle’s home, Michelle’s home!

We were both saying to the other, I was going to pick up some soy milk for her before this, I don’t know why I didn’t get around to it earlier. We hated to keep her from getting to go straight home after her long day.

And yet.  The outcome was that after talking yesterday about superb teachers–the traffic to the airport was terrible, we were late getting there to pick her up, which means that when we stopped at the grocery store on the way home, we just happened to be there right at the same time as Ginny. Who is the best kindergarten teacher ever and who taught all our kids. (I asked for her specifically all four times.)

That was as perfect a way as I can think of to welcome our daughter home. Talk about old times! And new, and we did.

Ginny is someone who, last I saw, had a small enclosure set up in a corner in her classroom: streamers hanging down to create what she called the butterfly room. The children raised Monarchs in there, and when a child needed some time to calm down, they could go in there for a moment to be still and have the butterflies they’d fed and watched and cared for land on their arms, their shoulders, their heads, alive and peaceful and colorful, eye right to eye.

And then when the proper time in the year came, the children released them to fly free.

Every Monarch they might ever see for the rest of their lives, they could wonder if it was descended from one of their own and feel a kinship to it.

And we claim Ginny as ours forever.