Getting ready to board the plane. My son is plastered to the window at the gate watching the planes taxi up and down. It's his first flight. I wasn't too much older than him when I was flying by myself. Short trips off to see a cousin on the other side of the state. I can't imagine putting this kid on a plane by himself. Is that because to a mother a child seems way smaller than she ever was? Or is it because the world has moved on?
I went to a memorial poetry reading on Wednesday night, to celebrate the life of a local poet who recently passed away.
So, I'm doing a ballet solo in a dance recital next month. It's the Odette variation from Act II of Swan Lake. My sewing room is thus strewn with feathers. Weasley is highly entertained.
I hope everyone had a good St. Paddy's Day. We boiled meat, made black and tans, listened to the likes of The Clancy Brothers and The Pogues, lamented that Flogging Molly hasn't deemed Sacramento worthy of tour stop in some years now, and finished off the evening with irish cream chocolate chip cookies for desert.
The first Monday after the end of daylights saving time always kills me.
I'm not a morning person; this we know. You go ahead and get the worm. I'd rather sleep another two hours and have a muffin anyway. But to be back to waking up in pre-dawn hours is just too rude for words. It's hard enough for me to match my clothes with some daylight to aid me, you know?
I love the long afternoons though.
I've had a lot on my plate lately. (That's an interesting expression, isn't it? I think it's a more apt metaphor to say that I've had a whole lot of people standing around with empty plates asking me to make them something to eat. And we all know I'm not that creative in the kitchen.)
I'm sitting there with the tutor who is explaining that my kid needs some physical action to help him work out his thought process while he's sitting still. Something repetitive, that he can do without even really thinking about it.
I look down at my fingers twirling themselves around imaginary yarn despite the fact that I've left my knitting in the car.
I have no idea where he gets this from...
Damn, but this parenting gig is hard.
It's like scaling a loose sand dune sometimes. Just when you think you have a handle on it, the ground slips underneath you a bit.
It's hard not to take the report cards and progress reports as a grade on my parenting abilities. It's hard to know how serious to be with a six-year-old about his academic aspirations. When to listen to experts, and when to plant your feet and push back at them. There is no separating emotion from these sorts of discussions. Scientific objectivity is out of reach.
Alright, I admit it. I like Valentine's Day. Not a popular attitude amongst my peers. I'm supposed to dislike it as a commercial Hallmark holiday. (Which of our holidays doesn't fall under that category, I wonder?)
I get it. I get that there can be all this pressure to pick out the right thing for the special someone, or pick out the right someone for the special thing, or to feel badly if there's no special someone right now. There's this evil implication that one must spend silly amounts of money. I get all that.
See, we're doing it wrong.
I'm sure I've mentioned before that I help moderate a gothic literature group over on Ravelry. We pick one of the classics to read and discuss while concurrently knitting a project on theme.
