I'm wondering how insane I have to be
to consider making this offering from Elann. I absolutely love it, but all those squares, all those tails to weave in. Would I hate knitting when I was done? Or would I still respect it in the morning?

of monsters and wolves

My son, who is in the 5th grade, has been practicing for a play for a couple of months now. And for a couple of months, I've been asking for details, you know silly things like when and where and what will you wear?

Monday he called when he got home from school to tell me that he needed a costume by Wednesday and he needed to buy it from the one and only costume store that is open year-round here.

Shit.

Now there are two things that people recognize in me quickly upon making my aquantance, I am ridgid as any OCD person could be about my schedule and routine and work much better when I am given several days to acclimate myself to change and I am cheap-- I won't even try to use euphanisms, I'm cheap. I will spend $100 on yarn for a sweater that I will wear for the next hundred years, but I will not, cannot spend money when I don't see an efficient return on my investment.

So, I did what my son has taught me to do. I called the teacher on Tuesday to confim his story. He did indeed need his costume preferrably on Wednesday as she feels the get into charecter better when costumed, but she preferred that the costumes be created rather then bought.

Ironically, my rigidity flys out the window when creating and craftiness fly in. So rather then a trip to the costume store (which I looked forward to as one would the Inquisition), I planned a scavanger hunt for "stuff" to make a warewolf costume (which I can more liken to Christmas).

I checked off in my head what I had at home, face paint from a previous holloween (check), black sweatshirt and black jeans (check-- jeans are in donations bag- rescue operation inacted), fangs (check-- boy has an obsession with vampires, a good set of teeth were actually worth their money) and an assundry of fabric paint. Missing white paint and brushes though and still really had no clue as to what I was doing. A sewing co-worker had some fake fur reminants (sewers, like knitters can't toss-- even when they have no use for the scraps of fabric)-- cool, cool-- we might make something decent.

We found paint, brushes and brown utility gloves at the store and that seemed to be all we needed. We turned the sweatshirt inside out for better texture and just dabbled with the paints--literally.

I'll take pictures when we feel we're close to complete-- which isn't anytime soon, I think. But I'll tell you what, nothing, nothing will ever dim the memory of my tween son claiming that his costume will be the best costume by far because of the time he spent with his mother creating it.

This is for all the Mommies who have sat up all night with sicktoddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's okay honey, Mommy's here." Who have sat in rocking chairs for hours on end soothing cryingbabies who can't be comforted. This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up intheir hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse. For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sewHalloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T. This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see.And the mothers who took those babies and gave them homes. This is for the mothers whose priceless art collections are hangingo n their refrigerator doors. And for all the mothers who froze their buns on metal bleachers atfootball or soccer games instead of watching from the warmth oftheir cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see me, Mom?"they could say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for theworld," and mean it. This is for all the mothers who yell at their kids in the grocerystore and swat them in despair when they stomp their feet and screamfor ice cream before dinner. And for all the mothers who count toten instead, but realize how child abuse happens. This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children andexplained all about making babies. And for all the (grand) motherswho wanted to, but just couldn't find the words. This is for all the mothers who go hungry, so their children caneat. For all the mothers who read "Goodnight, Moon" twice a nightfor a year. And then read it again. "Just on e more time." This is for all the mothers who taught their children to tie theirshoelaces before they started school. A nd for all the mothers whoopted for Velcro instead. This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and theirdaughters to sink a jump shot. This is for every mother whose head turns automatically when alittle voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know theirown offspring are at home -- or even away at college. This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school withstomach aches assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got there,only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them toplease pick them up. Right away. This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can't findthe words to reach them. This is for all the step-mothers who raised another woman's childor children, and gave their time, attent ion, and love... sometimes totally unappreciated! For all the mothers who bite their lips until they bleed when their14-year-olds dye their hair green.For all the mothers of the victims of recent school shootings, andthe mothers of those who did the shooting. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in frontof their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school, safely. This is for all the mothers who taught their children to bepeaceful, and now pray they come home safely from a war. What makes a good Mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broadhips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time? Or is it in her heart? Is it the acheyou feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down thestreet, walking to school alone for the very first time? The joltthat takes you from sleep to dread, fro m bed to crib at 2 A.M. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby? Th e panic, yearslater, that comes again at 2 A.M. when you just want to hear theirkey in the door and know they are safe again in your home? Or theneed to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hearnews of a fire, a car accident, a child dying? The emotions of motherhood are universal and so our thoughts arefor young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation... And mature mothers learning to let go. For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. and the wanna be mommies too. Mothers with money, mothers without. This is for you all. For all of us. Hang in there. In the end we can only do the best we can. Tell them every day that we love them. And pray. Please pass alo ng to all the Moms in your life. "Home is what catches you when you fall - and we all fall." Please pass this to a wonderful mother you know. (I just did.)

Can I alter time?

Or maybe be in two places at the same?

I had made plans for the day before Mother's Day (read my townhouse community is having a yard sale and I want to get rid of shtuff and have more yarn money) and now I find that at the same time knitgrrl and the knittingfrau (half of Big Girl Knits) are going to be at a book festival not 3 miles from me. For goodness sake-- how could I not go?

I must find a way. I must, I must. Where there is a will there is a way........................

overheard at the yarn store............

Lady 1: Oh look at that lovely yarn
Lady 2: yes, and see the poncho above made with that yard?
Lady 1: oh, yes I do and isn't it devine, too bad poncho's are out of style now, I haven't seen one in any of the magazines or in the catalogues this season.
Lady 2: yes, I know *sigh* I gave all mine away.

What do I see wrong with this picture? Simply that I wouldn't let someone tell me how to spend my money, I wouldn't let someone dictate what car I drive, where I work or any major decision I make, I certianly don't rely on someone else telling me who to vote for, but year after year, season after season we allow a handful of fashion industry icons decide what is in style, what we will go to the nth degree to own and what we will shove to the back of our closet or give away to charity. Why do we feel the need to allow someone else to tell us what the "new black" is, what lenght our skirts will be or how pointy our shoes? If we can decide who is going to be our next president individually why can't each of us decide for ourselves if we will put a poncho over our shoulders.

Besides, no one seems to have told the very trendy college chicks that ponchos are out-- they still seem to be enjoying them imensely all over campus. Or maybe, just maybe these 20 somethings know something we should all learn-- to follow our own tastes and not some person who pads his pockets by making us desire entirely new wardrops every 3 months.

Done and DONE!



remember this?

Well, now it's this: yeah, I had to change the boarders-- I just couldn't help myself, but I read those wonky instructions a hundred times and still didn't get a good visualization, besides, I like feather and fan.

and this:
is now the lovely but unphotogenic this:

don't you just hate photographs of black garments where you can't see the detail? Oh, wait-- do I detect cables?

And this grew ........................

That means I have 3 sweaters on needles, one scarf, a nagging memory of a UFO that is calling for attention (though what kind of attention I will give it I cannot say) and a huge case of what-do-I-do-nextitis.

Too much yarn and to little time.