I love to watch these two playing together. They are such good pals. (Most of the time.)
Yes, you heard me, young lady. You know what "most of the time" means.
By the way, did you notice Wonderboy’s shirt? ’Twas a gift from some beloved friends back in Virginia.
How perfect is that? (Thank you so much, S & C!)
Photo by Funny Grandpa.
The burns are healing beautifully and she is back to her old tricks. Such as wrapping Daddy around her little finger. Business as usual.
I learned to crochet when I was eleven, but I took about fifteen years off. And I’d never made anything but blankets, I think. This was my first attempt ever at a sweater (either knitting or crocheting).
Here’s the pattern I used: Baby It’s Cold Outside.
Rilla drew a lot of compliments at the park, but honesty compels me to confess what a mess I made of the project. First of all, it was supposed to be a present for a newborn. Of course, since I spent over a year on the sweater about ten newborn friends grew into toddlers before I had a chance to give what I thought was going to be the perfect new-baby gift. Hee. As I (finally, at long last) crocheted the final stitches, I had two dear friends who were counting down the days to the arrival of wee daughters, and I was delighted with the timing. The only difficulty was going to be in deciding to which baby girl I’d send the sweater.
Then I began whipstitching the sides together and it became clear that this sweater wasn’t going to work for either one of the newborn lasses. Rilla bopped past as I held it up by the sleeves, biting my lip doubtfully. The sweater looked more like her size (and she’ll be two in April) than newborn size. Hmm. I am sure I followed the directions meticulously. I can’t possibly have been at all distracted during the year and a half of sporadic bursts of hooking, right? The year and a half in which I packed up and moved to the other side of the country? No cause for absentminded mistakes there, surely?
Humph.
The sizing problems, it turned out, were the least of my mistakes. I mean, there are worse fates than accidentally making a sweater the perfect size for your own child. Of much greater concern was the fact that the front left panel was some two inches longer than the back of the sweater.
Whoops.
I unraveled the extra rows, but now the two front panels are different sizes. As I said, you can’t tell from this picture. Since one panel buttons over the other, the discrepancy looks almost intentional—sort of boxy and chic.
At least, that’s the story I’m going with.
I haven’t made the buttons yet but when I do you’ll see what I mean. If you compare mine to the picture, you’ll see how terrifically I blundered.
Fortunately for me, Rilla doesn’t give a hoot about following instructions to the letter.
Taking time out from inventing words on the internet to celebrate her sister’s birthday.
(Okay, the birthday was actually last week, but you know what I mean.)
(Scott hasn’t seen these yet, but when he does, forget melting. His heart is going to shatter into a thousand pieces. Completely smitten, he is.)
Oh, and here’s one last look at the Lilting House photo album. I think that site goes down tomorrow. I reeeealllly need to finish updating my links, argh!
You can see why.
And on this day, ten years since the Thanksgiving Day Jane finished the in-patient, high-dose phase of her chemotherapy protocol, it seems like a good time to recall this post I wrote three years ago, just before I began this blog. (Rilla is celebrating in retrospect. She is glad there is a big-sister-Jane in her life.)
She finished the last round of high-dose chemo on Thanksgiving Day
of 1997. We ate Boston Market turkey and stuffing in the hospital
playroom while her meds finished running. There were two more years of
low-dose chemo to go, but we expected to spend most of that period as
out-patients. When we got home that night—home, where we hadn’t spent
more than ten days in a row since March—it was late, a cold, clear
night, with as many stars as a New York City sky can muster. I remember
thinking I couldn’t imagine ever being more thankful for anything than
I was to be carrying that little girl up the stairs to our apartment
that night.I was wrong. Today I watched Jane feeding Wonderboy a jar of baby
food. He thought it was hilarious to have his big sister be the one
feeding him, and he could hardly eat for laughing—big belly laughs that
made the other kids crack up, and then the sound of their laughter,
which he can hear clearly now with the hearing aids in, made him guffaw
all the harder. I stood frozen in the kitchen, holding my breath as if
they were a flock of rare birds who might fly away if I moved. Beanie’s
curls bounce when she laughs. Rose laughs mostly with her big brown
eyes. Jane is like a poster child for joy. It bubbles out of her and
spills over to everyone around.There’s a little part of me that is still leaning over the bed in
that crowded Queens apartment, counting tiny red dots on Jane’s skin,
slowly awaking to the fact that we had far more important things to
worry about than what day Scott should give notice at his job. It’s the
part of me that knows, now, never to take a minute of this for
granted—to give thanks to God every hour of every day for these amazing
treasures who have been entrusted to my care, and for the guy who gives
his all in helping me take care of them. They are miracles, all of
them. Especially that golden girl beaming at her little brother as she
lifts the spoon to his laughing mouth.
…was rather exhausting.
The two older girls were out of the house for a little while, and Beanie was delighted to have me all to herself (where "all to herself" = "sharing mom with only the two toddlers"). I was filling my dishpan with soapy water and left the tap running too long, so we had a Mt. Everest of suds.
Beanie scooped some into her hand; they had a stiffness, a sort of crunch to them, and she said, "It’s like a Wall of Jericho."
I smashed them flat with my palm. "The wall came tumblin’ down!"
She burst out into her bellylaugh, the deep guffaw that has melted us since she was a baby. No one is readier to laugh than Miss Bean.
She caught another handful of bubbles. "Look, Mommy, it’s like a cloud."
I leaned close, pretending to peer at them. "I think I see…a mermaid, riding on a unicorn…" This was a quote from one of her favorite songs on the Snoopy soundtrack. Charlie Brown is forever on the verge of telling what he sees in the clouds, and the rest of the Peanuts gang keeps interrupting with their own grand, spectacular visions: the sack of Carthage, the fall of Rome.
Beanie rewarded my silly joke with another guffaw. There is nothing in the world more satsifying, let me tell you.
And Saturday is when I play with my photos.
I love this picture of Beanie admiring a stand of bamboo in the Japanese Friendship Garden at Balboa Park.
That was the day we visited the art museum. We had parked behind the Organ Pavilion, which is next to the Japanese Garden, so of course we had to stroll through the garden on our way back to the car.
We were just in time to feed the koi.
I loved the bonsai collection.
Isn’t that one stunning?
Even with five kids in tow, the garden is a peaceful place.
On the way out, we bumped into some friends. Rose took over the camera while the moms chatted.
I think this shot of the Spreckles Organ Pavilion was hers, too.
This next one is from outside the delightfully named House of Charm, which holds the San Diego Art Institute (not to be confused with the San Diego Museum of Art) and the Mingei International Museum, a collection of folk art from around the world.
We haven’t been inside yet, but we found plenty to look at (and climb on) outside the building.
That’s El Cid on his warhorse, by the way. This statue was presented to the park by the San Diego Historical Society in 1930.
And how best to unwind after a day at the park? Relax on your own personal park bench at home, of course! (Thanks, Grandma and Grandpa, for the bench and the countless photo ops it provides.)
