A Tale of Two Mommies

…because more seems excessive…

Tag Archives: snuggling children

Needs

Warrior Queen has always been about the men. It isn’t that she is unfriendly toward women, but she’s always had a blatant preference. While I’ve consistently had a good Mommy/daughter relationship with Warrior Queen, the first two years were spent with her feels for me residing on the sidelines. Mostly when she was SUPER upset, she’d prefer me to intervene; otherwise, my husband or other men were a better attraction.

But, then my fierce girl turned two, and it seemed there was this sudden switch. The man thing persists, but Mommy attention surpasses everything else. If I’m in the room, she’d crawl back into my uterus if she could. Any moment I’m still, Warrior Queen claims my lap…or insists in standing virtually on top of me to be as close as possible. It isn’t anxiety; she’s just snugly. At almost three-and-a-half, she will burrow into me. While she conquers in overreacting dramatics, most of the time she just wants to be close to me. Even when it’s annoying, I know too soon this will no longer be a thing she does. So, I try to stifle the impulse to push her away when I am grumpy.

Sometimes, however, her inability to settle for anyone else is draining…like when we have to wake her from a nap before she is ready. Easily such a thing yields forty-five minutes of an insatiable tantrum. In every case no other but Mommy will suffice, which is funny because she spends the entire time expressing her unhappiness about my existence. When she is in such a state, I’m forced to stand in a single place for the duration and hover. Most of the time she doesn’t want me to look at her, and God forbid I lean against something. But, that’s the process…waiting for her to calm enough to form a coherent demand. The first grievance airing is a predictable one: use a very specific tissue, and wipe her tears…I suspect mostly she craves the sensation of me lightly brushing her face with the slightly damp square.

I wish that was the tell-tale indication of the end of her screaming, but it’s more of a ten minutes left indication. Eventually, she can remain calm and requests that I pick her up and hold her…never wanting me to sit on something where she would have access to my lap. That would be too comfortable. There is something about me carrying her that is necessary at this final tantrum stage. And, Warrior Queen is a tall, heavy thing spanning into the ninetieth percentile for height…a feature that does not come from me. Some days I can hold her up for a spell, but other days my strength is limited. As I hold her she pulls me into her, nuzzling her face into my neck, and hopefully wrapping her legs around me…she’s easier to hold that way…not that I have an option. Any attempt to lower her yields what my husband and I refer to as the action verb of, “octopusing.”

And, in the event this is the precursor to bedtime, we spend a few minutes rocking in a chair I’ve had since college, and is on the verge of irreparable collapse. She looks at me with my same brown eyes, often cradling my face in her delicate fingers she can’t resist picking until they bleed. She will make an outlandish claim, so I can respond, “No it’s not,” in my silly, dramatic voice. With a tremendous smile she replies, “Yes, it is.” We will share our playful exchange until she drops her head to my chest. Vaguely tilting her head, she asks if this is what she used to do when she was a baby. It is. She knows it is, and I love her effort to recreate something I miss. Every time she asks I’m transported to that final four in the morning feeding. Me resting on the sofa with my fierce baby girl snoozing and listening to my heartbeat. I don’t remember how old she was, but I distinctly remember noting that was probably the last time we would be like that. It was. I don’t necessarily wish for Warrior Queen to be a baby again, but I love that baby weight. It’s probably what is most aching that a third child will never come.

Eventually she slides off my lap to dash to her room. Warrior Queen will pause briefly at the door telling me to wait where I am. Somewhere down the hall she calls for me, and I stumble my way to her room. She lays down in her toddler bed that will soon be replaced with a full-size model…then several tuck-ins with various blankets. She requests a “hug, kiss, snuggle, squeeze, smooch,” just like her brother. I bend to her; predictably she wraps her arms around whatever she can clutch, often the base of my head, and holds my face into her neck and chest. She’s strong. In earnest it’s hard for me to pull away, but this is one of my favorite things, so I encourage it to continue longer than I probably should…another habit she will outgrow before I’m ready.

Life as Pictures…twosomes

I was all set to finish a couple of other posts and realized that I haven’t created this format for a bit…I like to mix it up.

The a-bit-older-than-two-and-a-half Warrior Queen and a-bit-older-than-four-and-a-half Little Man love to play with each other more than just about anything. The other night my son taking a bath. His sister apparently tall enough to climb in on her own had ripped off her diaper once again to join her brother…streaking has been her thing the past couple of weeks, and good luck catching her to replace the diaper she’d rather not wear. My husband and I watched them giggling as they tuned out the world. We have this random assortment of rubber duckies that must have been re-gifted to us throughout the years. The kids were using a couple of them to suck up the water and spray each other…or Little Man was anyway. Warrior Queen tried, but eventually her inefficiency yielded that she allow her big brother to monopolize the effort, and she loved every spray of it…busting in a hearty laugh as he did. I’m sure the flatulence-like noise urged the ruckus. Can’t say I disagree. As much as I redirect potty themed jokes, there is truly something hilarious about a solid tushie horn, even rubber toy inspired.

We are often together as a threesome, but three mornings a week Little Man has school. Shortly Warrior Queen will attend two mornings herself, and I will be without child for a few hours. My son and I don’t have nearly as many outings together, though we have moments smattered throughout the day. I sometimes forget to document these events, and then they fall to our collective history.

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I take Warrior Queen to a library play group that she mostly loves. She will inquire about seeing the guy running it for days prior, but at the last moment becomes shy. She’s pretty big into men in general, but this particular person isn’t really her type. He’s a bit odd…nice, but odd. Regardless he holds this special magic for her, and she tracks him in the room even if she won’t actually speak to him. That’s also a surprising kind of thing. Warrior Queen isn’t usually coy with her greetings. She also isn’t usually reserved in a crowd or struggles to detach from my lap in public whatsoever. Lately she’s been super snugly with me at pretty much all times anyway, but it was notched to eleven this particular day.  Maybe it was because there were some older rowdy boys in attendance doing their rowdy boy thing? I have to say that as disappointed as it was that I couldn’t manage some work on the afghan, I soak in this kind of contact whenever offered. At some point these moments will cease to be. Even though my fierce sprite has been sick, waking from her nap grumpy and feeling lousy, I savor its implications. Mommy is the only answer for her, even falling asleep on me the other night when she awoke an hour too early from her snooze. Her favorite position it seems is to curl into my warmth with her head on my chest, arms pulling me closer. I think she likes listening to my heart…always has. She has a gentle snore to her sleep, and I get lost in my strokes to her cheek and hair. It doesn’t matter how badly I need to use the restroom, I always hope for a few moments more.

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Little Man and I spent the rare day out together while my husband and Warrior Queen remained home in their sickly state. I’d promised him one venue too far from home, and upped the ante with a first ever arcade trip closer to the homestead, hoping it would entice him enough to switch gears…It did, which is not always the case. It probably took a good chunk from the college fund to pay for this outing, but totally worth it, crashing market be damned! Mr. Man immediately drawn to the indoor mini golf so easy that one would think I could fair quite well. I didn’t actually try, my best effort to ensure my son had ample time to play…and frankly I wasn’t sure he would finish one of the most points expensive attractions offered. For my part, I have subterranean levels of a competitive edge to my disposition, and an even more pathetic spacial ability. While he fumbled a great deal, I feel endlessly convinced I would have embarrassed myself in record making proportions, as I’d be totally owned by a preschooler no matter my concentration or effort. But, I like to think I’m a reasonably involved parent; I tried to teach Little Man the grip and stance…I clearly failed. But, he had fun, and we moseyed to the next distraction in an entirely too loud expansive room.

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It’s kinda a thing how little athletic talent my family has from its various circles. My son is mostly no exception, but I give him profuse efforts for trying. Swipe after card swipe, Little Man delighted at shooting his hoops…eventually managed to swish some in. But, increasingly it became apparent that he was more captivated by the mechanism of the ball release. This is a timed game, but he’d periodically stop to evaluate how this particular machine functions. With remaining seconds, Little Man would stop his ball tossing, jumping, and flailing to bend over and watch the machine trap the balls. But, sometimes it wouldn’t, so I could see him puzzle such things to the point of me reminding him he could still try to score more points…or tickets or whatever. Toward the end he was doing well, no longer launching the balls outside of the contraption or behind the basket never to be seen until an additional ball landed on top of it, knocking the stuck one back into circulation. Little Man, the embodiment of effort rewarded…I should have created a meme…if I knew how to do such a thing. But, then he figured the machinery to his specific undisclosed standards, and he was abruptly off to another flashing mechanism. I halted his momentum, so he could finish the allotted time. He immediately threw his heart and excitement back into his ball throwing game for those trickling seconds, but his mind made its determination. We scouted the next source of excitement at the first possible moment.

All the Love…All the Feels…

Sometimes I love my kids so much I can hardly stand to exist in my skin. I’ve had a minor cold since last weekend. It’s nothing; a cough thing with laryngitis. I don’t lose my voice all that often, but I’m well aware of the havoc such a deficit inflicts.

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(Famille-epanouie.fr totally caught the throbbing vein about to erupt in my forehead. Though, truth be told, I’m usually yelling about the same things, so I’m not really sure why words are necessary anymore.)

Mostly the four-and-a-half-year-old Little Man and two-and-a-half-year-old Warrior Queen will be bummed I can’t read them stories, and by “bummed” I mean ridiculous tantrums that won’t abate.

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(I have two children, so one of the only certainties in life is that the second kid will meltdown immediately after the other mysteriously manages to get it together, but the reasons for both tantrums will be equally absurd.)

That isn’t the kind of thing that makes my heart ooze and explode with glow.

Earlier in the week I was fairly miserable. I’ve been anxious about the election…waiting to vote…all kinds of things. And, then there is just the run of the mill other things on my mind that have been a consistent companion when I wake to use the facilities at three in the morning.

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(Am I a terrible person that I get so annoyed in my inability to go back to sleep that I try to wake my husband just so he will be miserable too?)

I was up early. Little Man up earlier than usual, but nothing at the level of disturbing ides for the day. Little Man quietly pads to my side asking for Mommy-son storytime and snuggles. My throat was killing me, but how can I refuse something like that? I grab my tea, and my son began giving me pointers for taking care of myself. I had to be sure to drink slowly, so I don’t spill and burn myself…cute things like that. He skids his feet across the carpet to the books, and begins pulling a hefty pile of some of our simplest stash. While he doesn’t usually gravitate to that part of our collection, it also isn’t unheard of.

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(HME Photography knew that my throat was weeping upon the first glance of Little Man’s selections.)

Mr. Man arranges his leaning pile on the sofa, and crawls in under the blanket next to me sitting up. He opens the first book on his lap and begins to read it to me…then the next…and then another. Little Man can’t actually read; these books are uttered from memory down to the exact page. He didn’t look at me, but continued down the pile until his sister woke.

Warrior Queen is snuggly as well…that isn’t particularly new, but I like to think of the way she sits on my lap facing me asking for one more minute…for the following fifteen. She looks at me and says something silly, laughing to herself; then she will collapse her head onto my chest. Sometimes she will stretch her arms to grab my shirt or something. Sometimes she tucks them under herself while I fold her into my embrace. Often while laying on my chest she will look up to me with her bright brown eyes and smile…stating some cute observation before falling quiet. I wonder if she likes to listen to my heartbeat.

These moments don’t last long enough. Within heartbreaking minutes I’m back to yelling my disdain for something I’ve mentioned countless times prior. But, fortunately, there are at least equal numbers of moments when time stops, and I can use all of my senses to preserve my children at these loving stages; hoping they will never outgrow them in their independence altogether.

Forms of Love

I feel like this will be a rushed post…partly because I’m overdue. I’d been hoping for ten day increments, but it seems like two weeks is more realistic these days, and even that’s a stretch sometimes. I’ve had to scale back the effort with my posts or else I’d never publish anything. I’d always focused on my content as a priority, and the pictures and hyperlinks were more a gold standard of excessive effort I’ve chased. It seems I’m mostly returning to strictly content, which makes me a bit sad…maybe a bit like I’m failing in some respect. But, that’s my shtick. I’m sure I’m overreacting as a singular force to create weakness where they don’t exist. At least I’m funny…to myself. BUT, I can say after three years of at least a minimum low grade struggle that things are looking up in important ways, like there is some movement out of a rutted cycle. I’m afraid to think it, but can’t stop myself from a deep core hope.

Warrior Queen is two now, and Mr. Man is four. Little Man’s development isn’t quite so awe inducing these days. He’s a gregarious soul, and these days he “feeds me” rain clouds, sunshine, and tornadoes. It all originated from a nothing mall outing…just like so many of the others. A vacant rectangular folding table draped in black cloth and a single chair, my son and I pretending that he is a vendor while Warrior Queen gallops around as she does best. My huge, shoddy pantomimes with strangers eyeing me strangely…unless they have small children of their own. In the latter case, they laugh. Mr. Man sells me televisions and cookies and chocolate…enormous televisions that I almost break a hip pretending to carry. My son is delighted; my daughter spinning around only pausing briefly to smile at me with her open mouth, full teeth baring lips. I’m not sure how it transformed, but suddenly there was a joke about weather. The next moment I’m swallowing storms with thunder rumbling in my belly that he pretended to hear, and lightening out of my mouth in excitable sparks. The sunshine dries it up, so that I don’t burst from all the rain consuming my insides. The tornado manifested so that I could sweep him up into my arms, squeezing him tightly and spinning him around. As of this morning the rain was no longer appealing. He wanted endless funneled winds of me hoisting him from the back of the sofa, and Warrior Queen stopped her dancing to ask for tornadoes of her own.

The past year has been shifting collections of savoring what I can, and imposed self-care at every opportunity. Some of it leaving a combined bitter taste and elation. Through all of this there have been “the grandpas.” Another mall memory. It’s a collection of elderly veterans who mall walk at approximately the same time every morning. They are quite passionate about my children, and one gentleman is quite passionate about my rack. He’s polite enough, but I assume holds a strong preference for well endowed women…which I am. He rarely misses an opportunity to hover his eyes on my chest. The leader of the group prompts me to warm smiles. I doubt he’s ever heard anything any of us has said, but I remember a cool morning sometime after the presidential election and subsequent inauguration aftermath. Since that time, it’s been uncomfortable. MPOTUS is a horrible, hateful man; and he holds the nation’s highest office. As a minority, albeit hidden beneath a White surface, I worry…always. I haven’t had to worry like this since I was a youth. It’s reasonable to say I didn’t miss this feeling. It’s an oppressive weight that I’m not really safe; that it’s obvious I don’t belong. It was a harsh reminder of where I grew up and never returned. Perhaps not as terrible as the reality of so many others, but it was terrible for me. But, one morning I hear this man yelling to his friends in heated discussion I only half caught, “I DON’T CARE; YOU DON’T VOTE FOR A WHITE NATIONALIST!” His voice boomed in the mostly empty food court. Since that day I’ve sought to visit him and his friends…a silent appreciation for his existence. He’ll probably never know the impact of his words; I doubt he remembers. To him it was a nothing conversation with his friends, unremarkable in the course of outings with peers. But, I remember, and I likely always will. And, now Little Man specifically requests to see “the grandpas.”

Seeing the interactions between all of these beings generated another idea. When things are hard, I lean into something that allows me to step away from myself. I also look for ways to consume my kids in some kind of activity, preferably for free. Sometime this month my kids and I will be volunteering at an assisted living. Mr. Man likes to talk to anyone anytime about anything. I’m not sure what Warrior Queen will do…probably stare down everyone around her from her small state and say, “thank you,” although she’s been more chatty to strangers as of late. Originally I just planned to bring the kids to visit seniors, but I think it’s morphed into me reading something from our collection of books each week. That’s an added bonus. I love reading children’s books to an audience. It never occurred to me that it would be an elderly population. I had resigned myself to the thought that I would wait to volunteer as a reader in a school classroom when the kids were older. I enjoy when hopes materialize before I planned.

I’m stunned by the passage of time as a whole. I wouldn’t say things have passed in a blink, rather in such a short span the kids can do so much, particularly Warrior Queen. A few months ago she snuggled me in certain way before bedtime. For a bit she no longer wanted snuggles, opting to spin herself dizzy and fall to the ground. Her language continues to develop. She returned to her nightly snuggle with me in a rocking chair, but now she wants me to cradle her so she can look me in the eye. She’s always appreciated my singing more or less…it comes in waves. These days she requests songs that she can sing along to…sort of. She’s on key, but doesn’t really know the words. The words she knows often mispronounced. But, that smile of hers, and the look of adoration on her face. I hope I always remember it.

The routine before nap time is a bit different. Little Man insists on singing his sister two lullabies that inevitably turn to three or four. On cue he walks himself back to his own room, waiting relatively patiently for his own tuck-in. Warrior Queen turns in my lap quietly so that her cheek will press directly to the skin on my chest. She stretches her arms around my shoulders, clutching whatever shirt I’m wearing while we rock. Eventually she’ll utter, “I sleepy,” and it’s in the crib she goes. Oddly it often coincides with when I begin to hear Little Man shouts, “Mommy, tuck me in!” He’s half asleep when I reach his closet door, the small inner room that houses his mattress. He enjoyed his toddler bed for a week, and since that brief excitement over the transformation of his crib, has opted for his very own man cave. He always asks for an extra, “hug, kiss, snuggle, squeeze, and smooch.” I almost always acquiesce. He knows it’s my downfall.

Warrior Queen knows my passion for snuggles as well. These days if I’m still, she insists on laying with me or sitting on me. Often resting her head somewhere on my person…cheek to cheek…my thigh. Sometimes she sits on me as I’m laying on the sofa, otherwise ignoring me entirely. Periodically she’ll look back to me saying, “snuggle,” which I oblige. Her snuggle routine is for hugs and tickling kisses on her cheek and neck. She has a delightful laugh, and the only consistent way I bring it forth is from the speckling of light kisses to her sensitive skin.

Both of my children are older. I hope they will always be this loving. I hope the elderly we visit will feel their warmth as I do. The world has a shortness of uninhibited love sometimes, and I wonder why. It’s the first profound thing I noticed about my children…love. As humans we seem to be distinctly born with the intense capacity for it, yet it fades. So strange that something that saturates babies washes away in seemingly easy fragility. Maybe because it hurts so intensely even when it’s good. I think the pinnacle of my hope for my children and their lives is that I raise them to persevere through the hurt because nothing else feels quite like home.

Love Above All…another year of gratitude

It’s been a heavy…long time. I’ve started a bit of a tradition with this blog. Around this time I create a post of gratitude. I have to say I kinda enjoy it, and look forward to this post as it approaches. I’ve read stuff periodically about the benefits of having gratitude during the more grueling times in life. It’s a double-edged sword for me. On the one hand it can be helpful to focus on the very good things in my life. On the other I use it as a justification for why I shouldn’t or have no right to feel miserable at the time. But, now is not the moment to focus on one more part of my lengthy list of shtick.

I’m grateful to know love…to experience it in its many forms…the love of and for my friends…the love of and for my husband, but mostly the love surrounding my children. I don’t love easily. It’s something I’d never wanted to risk confronting, but I’ve had key people in my life, especially relatively recently, who have allowed me to slowly release the excruciatingly tight fist of this sentiment. And, then there are my children.

When Little Man was born I was struck fairly early on with the profound realization that he was nothing but a being of love. It was pretty much all he knew, and I’d never experienced anything like that…to have someone look at me the way he did. So many things are learned, but our capacity to love…for love…is innate. I’d lost that somewhere; who knows where. But, in those early, immediate moments I was determined to preserve this capacity in him as long as I could…Warrior Queen too, as the equivalent level of love stretched blatantly across her delicate features within a similar initial timeframe as her brother. Ultimately these types of things mean that I must model how I want my children to interact with and receive the world. It’s been a beautiful lesson.

Some of my most wonderful…unexpected moments for me in this process of raising children are the unabashed snuggles I can give them. Part of my commitment to Little Man and Warrior Queen was to always demonstrate the depth of my love and appreciation for them. Something like that isn’t such a leap. I’ve lost important people in my life through some means or another. The first never knew how I felt about him, and it’s probably my life’s greatest regret. I can attempt to repair…or at least resolve a burned bridge. Death is finite, so I have to carry everything I’ve never said for the duration of my flitting over life’s terrain. My husband never escapes a day when I haven’t told him how much I love him…how much I appreciate who he is and his role in my life. These things have become a compulsion of sorts. I tell my kids I love them regularly, especially when there have been a plethora of redirections and yelling in a designated time span. But, mostly I opt for a constant stream of squeezes and smooches. I can’t hold them close enough…hug them long enough, and I’m so grateful for that feeling.

But, the other night while I cuddled with my son for the three minutes before tucking him in…hopefully…for the night; I lamented that I will miss the soon approaching days when he will no longer climb all over me with every effort to crawl back into my uterus. Both my children are so affectionate and snuggly almost every waking minute of their lives. They will play independently for a span, but then gravitate toward my person in some wonderful fashion, and I can only want each minute to extend for an eternity…even if I have to pee or my lunch is solidifying into a chilled mass on the counter. It’s all worth it because these days will soon fall from their grace. I’d never thought I’d be that person. Most of the time I don’t like people touching me…like to comedic proportions.

I’m grateful for so many things…or at least I try to be. I’m grateful for these simple black dresses I’ve found that allow me to feel as though there was some effort placed into my appearance. In that same vein, I’m thankful for hair pins because I can’t be bothered to figure out how to pull my hair into a ponytail that doesn’t look like a disaster. Maybe it’s because my hair is really too short…maybe I’m just a hot mess with this task to the point that experiencing a seizure in the process of hair fixing would help the situation. Hair pins are quite forgiving and give the illusion of a stylish updo, especially for a curly mop such as mine. I should add flannel shirts to this particular list. If I didn’t have those colors and patterns, then I’d look as though I was in a constant state of attending funerals.

Stupidly immature patterned socks are also a marvel of child sweat shops the world over. Hard to be in a bad mood when one’s feet are adorned with hotdogs or dinosaurs. I recently purchased socks with alternating chicks and fried eggs, which is actually pretty morbid; but part of me can’t wait until those make an appearance. I’ve decided to save those for a drastically shitty kind of day. I’m grateful that day has not dawned.

Tea and dark chocolate earn their permanent nod as up at the tippy top of any list consisting of wonders that make the universe right, but maybe cookies deserve the very same placement? It’s hard to say because I’ve never really met truly bad chocolate. Sure, some I like better than others, but I can’t say I’ve met a bar or truffle I’d kick out of bed. Cookies, however, are a different matter. Some of them taste like absolute garbage. Have I ever not finished a cookie? Of course not, I’m not an animal. But, lousy cookies leave an air of disappointment long after its remains shuffle off this mortal coil. I’m not grateful for that. Good cookies? I think we can all agree there is a special place in the heavens for their creators. I’m not a believer…but an exquisite cookie can almost make me trust in a higher power.

I’m grateful for the uptick in civil action…activism…investment in preserving the best in society…the best in us…community that exists even behind anonymous screens. So much of the time I’m alone during the day…maybe lonely in need of the bare minimum of human connection when the days and weeks blur together in a swirl of, “what just happened?”…staying home with wee ones can do that. Social media is a wonder of like-minded people who are also new to political involvement. I’m too old for the inspiration of far distant figures to motivate me in any particular way, but the flood of the everywoman is something so awesome in its magnitude. We aren’t happy with…things, so we strangers who will never meet band together to do our small things, and accomplish the impossible amidst a sturdy collection of naysayers. I’m grateful to feel so powerful even on those days when nothing else is done beyond a call to Congress or a typed notion of support to an unknown, discouraged peer. In those moments I matter outside myself, and I’m thankful to feel that…to force myself at all times to matter in the smallest of ways outside myself. I’m grateful for sprawling spaces in comment sections of like-minded people. I’m inspired by the number of ordinary women leading ordinary lives, and changing things in not so ordinary ways.

I’m grateful for so many of the opportunities I’m afforded…that I worked damn hard for, and finally materializing into fruition. I’m thankful for my voice; I’m thankful others find it valuable enough to dedicate sparse moments in a flustering life. I’m grateful for progress…always progress, but at its very core; love…in its many forms and expressions.

The Pied Blanket

I’ve been knitting on and off since I was a child, but it really took root when we moved into our house almost ten years ago.  I make all kinds of things, but with my young son marking his territory with an array of toys that are painful to step on and stealing all my stuff I turn my back on for a nanosecond, knitting is impractical.  I think I foresaw this issue while pregnant because while my son was brewing, I checked learning to crochet from my bucket list.

For my son I crocheted a couple of toys and knitted an assortment of regular and full leg socks.  It took months to decide on a project I could manage for my daughter, but a crocheted blanket became the default choice.  My husband has been hounding me for years to get rid of the bin of random yarn in an upstairs closet, so it’s really a win-win.

The blanket is full-size.  I’m not really into expending effort for something that she will outgrow before she stops pooping that horrible tar stuff that refuses to yield to any of the thirty wipes used.  I have to say that it’s fairly long at this point, and quite attractive.  I work on it during nap times and when my son and I visit the play palace extravaganza, which is mostly two to three hours of my son actually leaving me alone for large chunks of time.  The same, however, cannot be said for the random children who feel a gravitational pull toward my project.

Sure, there are the gawkers who I invite to touch it, and the others who ask questions about haphazard specifics.  That’s expected; it’s a substantial collection of multicolored yarn at this point and these interactions are akin to adult commentary I receive.

Last week I thought was an anomaly.  Mr. Man was off braving the smaller slide when a little boy around his age, but likely younger crawls onto my lap and begins snuggling into the blanket by the fistfuls.  Burrowing his head like a nesting cat, he kept at it for a couple of minutes before his small Russian bubbe hurries over and apologizes profusely.  I’m pretty sure they were apologetic statements, but seeing as she was speaking in Russian she may have been telling me about her bunions without making eye contact.  That night I laughed and relayed the story to my husband, filing the story in the back of my mind under random and bizarre occurrences.

Yesterday, a boy likely a few months over a year old, but walking well, shuffled over to me until he was standing just against my left knee.  He grabs a handful of my daughter’s blanket and rests his head on my lap.  After a moment he looks up to me with wide eyes and begins a rather robust exchange of peek-a-boo, using the blanket as the lead prop of the game.  It carried on so long that I needed to abruptly look away to ensure my son hadn’t killed himself.  Satisfied after spotting him attempting to engage with a peer without incident, I look down and this wee little one is looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to resume the game.  Eventually, his mother walked over.

For months Little Man consistently approaches the foot of the shelf where I house his sister’s blanket, determined pointer insisting I pull it down for a few minutes of diligent work.  My son seems to understand it isn’t for him, but enjoys spending a few minutes on the sofa with me curled in the assorted stitched yarn and pulling at the loose ends that will vanish upon the blanket’s completion.  I always assumed the love of this blanket was exclusive to him.  But, taking my work with me while he plays makes me wonder if there isn’t a bit of a magical quality to this specific project.  I couldn’t tell you what that means exactly, but I hope to have years seeing its quality unfold.

 

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