Stylish knits

In “One Ball Knits Accessories: 20 Stylish Designs Made With a Single Ball, Skein, Hank, or Spool,” (Watson-Guptill Publications, $16.95) authors, designers and sisters Fatema, Khadija and Hajera Habibur-Rahman have really distinguished themselves in the one-skein project field.
Patterns reminiscent of Turkey, China, Victorian England, the Old West, India lend a worldly flair to the book, while dusty rose, rich royal red, robin’s egg blue, blood red, deep crimson, emerald green and cornflower evoke the colors of an Indian bazaar.
The first 27 pages are devoted to “one-ball basics,” which even a fairly experienced knitter will find invaluable — all the information you need, all in one place. There’s a metric and U.S. size chart, how to read schematics, templates and charts, finishing information and large, visual illustrations on how to knit cables, string beads, whipstitch, do the kitchener and whip stitches and so much more. After knitting for many years, I finally was able to understand the concept of cables and the kitchener stitch in logical terms.
Particularly stunning are the Moebius Shawl in watercolor tones of sand, eggplant and seafoam and the Scarlet Handbag in a twisted stitch that looks like a half-cable or almost a paisley design. I have never seen such a high-quality handmade purse. It looks like a Coach bag.
There are patterns for a Panja (hand jewelry) and Crystal Bead Necklace and Earrings and Flower Pin felted brooch, which incorporates felting and beading techniques.
This is a divine book for a beginning knitter with an eye for fashion to dip her toes into the craft. And she isn’t relegated to learning by making a scarf or potholder, but rather exquisite little works of art.

Where does the time go?

Exactly one year ago we were on baby watch -- that time in the pregnancy where the doctors start making comments about induction if you don't go into labor soon. It's hard to believe, but next Tuesday James will celebrate his first birthday.

The first year of a child's life is wonderous -- it is amazing how they grow from itty bitty things that can do nearly nothing to little beings in 12 months time.

James is at the "little being" stage. He's walking, talking, signing, fighting with his sister (OK so usually she's snatching toys out of his hands) and chasing her around the living room. He's often a serious little bugger -- my aunt calls him the little professor, but when he smiles he lights up and there is nothing quite like the sound of his giggle when you blow a raspberry in just the right spot on his belly.

He gets excited when the Elmo's World theme song begins to play on Sesame Street. When he wants to nurse, he'll go find his Boppy pillow (often hidden somewhere by Nikki) and carry it over to me -- and everytime I settle him in my lap there's the sweetest little contented sigh.

He's a bit of a momma's boy, but lately when my husband gets home from work, James has decided he's had enough of me and is all too happy to perch in Daddy's lap and have books read to him or play "ball" with Nikki. So he's growing and stretching beyond me.

And that growing and stretching will continue for years. Old boundries will be tested and new ones made. There will be fights over rules and curfews, but for now I'm going to enjoy feeling that comes when two little arms wrap around my neck as his small head snuggles into the spot on my shoulder made just for that purpose.

Bliss is being the mother of a child who's one.

Tween Boys 101

I had lofty plans for my vacation recently.
Nothing too ambitious, for I gave up scheduling the days about a decade ago.
I am a mother. I know my lot.
The idea was to take my freed-from-elementary-school 10-year-old to the beach as many days as possible.
My personal goal? Read as many magazines as possible and knit up a storm.
B. was cooperative on the Hammonasset front — if he could bring a friend.
Forgot for a second there I was intolerable company for a little boy.
Sure, I said.
Five minutes on the road and, despite just eating breakfast, B. is hungry. So is friend.
Breakfast sandwiches all around.
Thirty-five minute drive is too long, proclaim the boys, madly fingering their PSPs and Nintendos. Yelling things to each other in hand-held game parlance. B. tells me to stop talking when I try to make conversation.
Reduced to thinking while driving and blocking out inane tween back and forth.
I park and start to unload the car. The two guys actually begin walking toward the beach, with no intention of carrying a darn thing.
Situation swiftly corrected.
First thing the boys do is walk the stone breakwater at Meigs Point. Have to remind them about sunscreen. Have to apply said sunscreen if want them screened from sun — times two. Seems not only can they not reach their backs, but the backs (and fronts) of their legs, faces, necks, arms and torsos.
Next up on their agenda? Finding crabs. I offer to show them where they are likely found, under half-wet rocks during low tide, past the observation deck.
Seems my role is crab hunter, theirs is crab-hunter watcher.
Oh, and crab picker-upper. These snakes-and-snails-and-puppy-dog-tails are squeamish.
I’m discovering so many things about my son this week.
Other observations: B. loves to swim in the ocean — but only if Mom goes in too.
He won’t drink slightly warm ice tea, eat grapes, cherries, mint jelly, any drink that says “100-percent juice,” thinks a hamburger with mustard and ketchup is a complete meal, believes you can never eat enough ice cream for one day, thinks there’s nothing wrong with playing Runescape on the computer for eight hours straight, will wear his sneakers to bed if he’s too tired to take them off, doesn’t know how to put the shower on in the house we’ve lived in for four years, would stay seated at the kitchen computer until dying of starvation rather than making a sandwich for himself, and thinks sandles for boys, plaid shorts, leaf-green and mango-colored shirts are “for girls.”
I may not have gotten in my “beach reads” or finished the Frock Camisole I’ve been knitting for two months, but I’ve learned much about the psychology of the American boy pre-teen.

Gone fishin'

I am on vacation until June 23. The inspiration was my son's fifth-grade graduation ceremony on Monday and the lure of a subsequent week at the beach. Barring rain, I'll be that lady in the red one-piece on the beach catching up on her reading.

And so I'm a slacker

You know it has to be bad when one friends calls and asks if you are OK because you haven't updated your part of the blog in recent memory. Or when your husband tells you that you really need to update your blog.

Forgive me, I fell down on the job here for a bit.

Truth is James started walking about 6 weeks ago (these days it's more like running) and I've been exhausted ever since. Thankfully we never took down the gates in the living room so they are sort of penned in (I say sort of because Nikki can pull one of the gates open).

But I find myself doing more refereeing than I thought would be neccesary with children four years apart in age. At least three times a day I hear myself say "Nicola, that is James' toy and he's allowed to play with it. Please give it back." I'm not sure why I bother as she never seems to give it back until either my husband or I make her.

Although Nikki might want to start being a bit more careful about "roughing up" her brother. He weighs a wee bit more than half of what she does so it's not out of the realm of possibility that he might be equal in size in another couple of years and well you know what they say about payback.

Help! I'm suffering from obsolescence

When I was a kid, I had to walk 400 miles to school.
OK, it was 2 miles each way — snowstorm, torrential rain, heat of summer — my sister and I walked. The only way to cut a few minutes off was to cut across the golf course nearby, and risk being reported to the school and/or targeted by peeved golfers.
These days, I’m often met with opposition when I expect my son to walk to school — .34 miles. “Can’t you drive me?” he’ll ask. “My feet hurt.”
I remember when I was a senior in high school, walking to school in the morning in sandals — in April. A freak storm hit so my sister and I walked home mid-day in an inch of snow and slush. I couldn’t feel my feet for quite some time afterward.
During winter in junior high, I’d typically arrive to homeroom with the front of my thighs numb and my pant legs frozen solid. Sure it was miserable, but I didn’t complain. There wasn’t anyone to ask for a ride.
Yipes, I feel like my mom.
Can you imagine my 10-year-old faced with the telephone I grew up with — with the rotary dial? How about watching television without a remote control? We had a tiny TV with rabbit ears covered in tin foil that you moved around to get the best reception.
The other day, both boys were watching TV and T went up to it with a magnet, swirling it around the screen. Portions turned purple and fuschia. I fiddled with the brightness, color and contrast a little too fervently, then thought of something. I turned the color completely off.
“That’s how the TV was like when I was growing up,” I told them. They couldn’t believe it. “Leave it like that!” they yelled. “It’s cool!”
That lasted about 3 minutes, before the 4-year-old yelled, “Mommy! Put it back!”
How about computers? Both my boys could use one before they turned 3. Pretty pathetic when you think about it, but how about this fact: they don’t teach typing in schools. Hunting and pecking, once frowned upon, is now the norm for many people.
I feel old.
I can pinpoint when it happened. When the oldies station started playing music from the 1980s. “Hey!” I wanted to call in. “I’m not dead yet!”
Remember those spiral-bound typing books that taught you how to hold your fingers, which fingers to use on which keys, and those silly, repetitive sentences? Update: It’s called “keyboarding” now. I learned on a manual typewriter, and boy did your fingers ache afterward. When I got my first office job at 19, I had an electric typewriter, so I didn’t need to use that manual return anymore.
These were replaced by the short-lived word processor and then swiftly by the computer. With green letters.
Ah, I’m dating myself.
And I sound grumpy.
I can’t imagine what’s coming down the pike.
My kids probably already know.

I’m a ‘One-Skeiner’

“101 Designer One-Skein Wonders,” edited by Judith Durant (Storey Publishing, $18.95), is one of those books knitters ooh and aah over as others would the storefront of a Godiva store.
The photos are up-front and as colorful as a Pantone wheel in this incarnation of the growing “One-Skein” franchise. Hats, purses, ties, scarves, shawls and baby items are arranged by yarn weight, so you can ogle the selection in full, then plug in those yarns that make up your stash — or go shopping for a new skein.
Delicate fingering-weight projects begin the book: a linen Christening Shawl with a generous knitted silk border; a coffee-toned Wave stitch-patterned infant’s Jumper that will make you want to shrink down to fit in one yourself; moving on to sport weight: a flowery Ring Bearer Pillow with finely beaded fringe; mohair yarn: Chicly Chevroned “Broadway” Hat in graduated yellow, orange, purple, blue; and bulky weight: a fluted Fuchsia Felted Bowl and Two-Hour handled Handbag in eggplant with a chunky button accent.
You can even post a photo of your completed work from patterns in the book at www.oneskeinwonders.com.
Each project’s designer is profiled at the back, complete with contact information. East Haddam’s Carol Martin of Farmhouse Yarn created a beret with her Lumpy Bumpy yarn in a spring garden bouquet of lapis, white, olive green, fuchsia, pink and lime.
Top of my list? Not-Your-Average Washcloths, each in mango and avocado Rowan Cotton, designed by Elizabeth Prusiewicz of Portland, Ore. She who learned to knit at age 5 from her mother in her native Poland, runs Knit Knot Studio (www.knitknotstudio.com — “home of the fastest knitter in Northwest”).
Do I need washcloths? Would I use hand-knit washcloths on body or dishes? Blasphemy! Mine will be grace my kitchen walls as tiny self-portraits — The “Me” series (Rowan Cotton Handknit, Sugar, Tangerine Dream, Slippery, Nectar, 7-inch).

Laughs I’ve Enjoyed at the Hands of Stephanie Pearl-McPhee

In my knitting group, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee is like the Keith Urban of the textile world. People make pilgrimmages to Webbs in Massachusetts, planning months in advance of her speaking engagements. They speak excitedly about her upcoming books. They quote her one-liners, laugh over her humorous anecdotes.
Her latest is “Things I Learned from Knitting ... Whether I Wanted to or Not” (Storey Publishing, $10.95). A tiny, slim volume, the book details 45 “things” or bits of wisdom. Chapters like “Knitting Teaches Generosity,” “Haste Makes Waste” and “Goodness Has its Own Reward” give no indication of the witticism, hilarity, intelligence and apt insight contained therein.
Even non-knitters will delight in her seemingly banal aphorisms which yield knee-slapping anecdotes.
You read one of her sentences and think, “I’ve thought that!” or, more daringly, “I could have written that!” But, before you get too far making those wings, Daedalus, check that pride.
Only Pearl-McPhee could spin such brilliant yarns.
From “A Friend in Need is a Friend Indeed”: “I have learned, from watching the thousands of kindnesses enacted by knitters around the world, that there is little a knitter will not do for her fellow human in wooly need. ... Except at a yarn sale, when the gracious and generous knitter who just went thruogh her stash and volunteered the needed skein of purple merino to a desperate fellow knitter now body-checks you into the sock-yarn display because that hand-painted laceweight she like is 50 percent off and it looked like you might get there before her.”
From “It’s Funny Because It’s True”: “Knitters entirely understand the non-knitter’s confusion about why on earth, if you need a sweater so badly, you don’t just walk into the store, pull one in your size off the rack, and be bloody done with it. ... We’re not just making clothes. Three is a reason the hobby is called ‘knitting’ and not ‘sweater-making.’ If it was just about getting a sweater, we would totally do it the way everybody else does. ... What we know and try to explain is that when you knit a pair of socks, you don’t just get clothes. You get satisfaction. You get art. ... Best of all, you get to have something to do while all those non-knitter stand around in their standard-issue store sweaters and talk about how silly knitting is.”
From “It Takes a Great Deal of Pressure to Make a Diamond”: “A few years back, in a misplaced gesture of fondness for my sister, I decided to knit a pair of kilt hose for her rather unworthy, bagpiping boyfriend. ... Fortunately for bagpipers, but unfortunately for the knitter, most babpipers have two feet, so a knitter must complete this feat of derring-do twice in order to get a pair.”
Most amusing — with laugh-out-loud certainty — is her chart: “5 things worrying non-knitters have warned me about.” It relays the absurd misunderstanding of our craft — in a style worthy of “Waiting for Godot.”
“1. Knitting needles are very pointy. I could put out my eye at any moment.
2. If I were knitting in a car and there happened to be an accident, I could be impaled or even killed by my own knitting.
3. If I’m not very, very careful, I or someone else could become entangled in my yard and be unable to elude or escape danger.
4. If I am a victim of a crime or terrorism, my knitting needles could be grabbed and turned against me as a weapon.
5. If I’m sitting and knitting in the presence of children, one of them could run into my knitting while playing and be impaled, have an eye put out, become entangled, or, heaven forbid, all of the above.”
Pearl-McPhee is those rarest of birds of the writing variety, brilliantly plumed and infinately talented — the 100-percent cashmere, 400-yard skein in the bottom of the sale bin.

Slim pickins

I used to look forward to grocery shopping — a chance to spend money, check out and sample the latest food offerings, maybe even pick up a treat or two for myself. I’m pretty good at budgeting, so spending was never a problem, and as most Americans know, we are blessed with a bounty of choices at the supermarket.
The cost of food, so long affordable for many of us, has increased very rapidly recently, especially for staples — bread, eggs, milk, butter (and my kids would add ICE CREAM! PIZZA!) — so we all feel the pinch at the check-out counter.
Still, a plague of sorts has descended upon my tiny house. No matter how many and how quickly I move grocery bags into the front door, heading to the car for more, they’re just as swiftly eaten by the two not-so-little, growing buggers-in-residence.
Where else would a jar of peanut butter last nary a week? A loaf a bread a mere four days? A gallon of milk five?
It seems you can tell a great deal about the psychology of family members, not from what they consume so much as what they won’t. It’s food for thought as I peruse the grocery store aisles, picking up macaroni-and-cheese boxes (“with the ORANGE cheese, Mom!”), fruit and vegetables (“don’t forget raisins and celery, ‘cause I love ants on a log!”), lunch meat (pepperoni is a food group for my 10-year-old), cheese (“get that orange Monster cheese”) and jam (no marmalade, mint or no-sugar will be tolerated!).
So it’s a constant dice roll whether they’ll eat the organic macaroni, turkey pepperoni, all-natural jelly, corn on the cob I try to come home with. All-fruit bars are eaten reluctantly and with much griping, after mom has been chastised to “bring home ice cream this time!”
And where else do two boys consume an entire half a watermelon in two hours? Most assuredly not raised by wolves, my sister, brother and I grew up with a sense of fairness. When items came into the household, we didn’t descend upon them like locusts, we asked if we could have some; if so, it was divided up by the number of family members who were interested in eating some. If Joey didn’t want to eat his two ice cream sandwiches for 17 weeks, gosh darnit, they were STILL his to have when he got the hankering. If dad said the pineapple juice was his for the morning, it wasn’t touched by a soul other than himself. Mom’s diet butter (generously termed) was hers. Unsalted soybeans? Hers. Pasteurized processed cheese food slices? Ours for the taking (those are still sitting there, 30 years and counting).
Perhaps the gollywhomper of them all took place late this winter. I came home from work, threw some healthy snacks toward the gaping mouths of my two offspring, and set about preparing dinner. Turkey hot dogs, corn niblets and snap peas, macaroni and cheese. Garlic bread for those interested. Dad was home just after the two boys were at the table, bickering and picking, eating and griping in between gulps of Ovaltine and milk.
I left the room for some reason or another, returning to find the dinner mostly gone. The guys had devoured their fill, had seconds already, and left mom .... dirty dishes to clean up.
“Where’s my dinner?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“I thought you ate already, honey,” said dad.
Sure, in between washing and folding laundry, sweeping and mopping the floor, I’d had my repast. Where did they think I ate? Is there a parallel place of peace I have the option of eating in?
“That’s OK,” I said. “I’ll just have grilled cheese.”
That is, if anyone left me a piece or two of Provolone, a few drips of olive oil and two slices — even the end ones — of bread.

Making the grade

Last week, I had a day that I thought was a pretty darn good one, as far as work days go. I was gathering up my 10-year-old’s sundries so we could drive across town to pick up his younger brother at preschool.
“Oh, Mom,” he said while hen-pecking the computer keys. “I got a 58 on my Civil War project.”
He delivered it like he would, “We learned about pimples in health class today.”
I tried to contain my swirling fury (anger).
I had spent the last six weeks helping him with said report, gathering research materials for him to read, record and finding a cool Web site with actual photos from the Civil War, then constructing a big board with them labeled and ordered. “Are you sure?” I asked, thinking he must be mistaken (denial). How could he do so badly?
Maybe I can think of a way to broach the idea of a second chance to his teacher, I thought. A way to boost B’s grade, because we must not have understood her requirements (bargaining).
I got on the phone. Called the principal. Too late, B’s teacher had left for the day. “Have her call me tomorrow,” I asked.
That night was tough. I grilled B. “What did she say when you got the grade? Did she give you a reason? Is there something big we overlooked? How did the other kids do?”
(“I don’t remember,” “No. “I don’t think so” and “I don’t know.”)
Our U.S. military special ops would have better luck extracting “intelligence” from bin Laden.
The next school day, the teacher didn’t return my call. My son said she had conferences on and off during the day.
With a day and a half to ruminate, I began to worry myself sick. “He’s not going to graduate fifth grade!” (depression)
Finally, the next morning arrived. “Get your book bag, B. We’re going to go in to school early and talk to Mrs. M.”
“If you did lousy, at least I want to know why” (acceptance).
B. was less than happy with the idea, noisily shuffling up the staircase to the fourth- and fifth-grade floor, and lingering outside the door.
His teacher looked up from a book she was reading at her desk, hair glowing golden, recently lightened. She looked exceptionally pretty-eyed, tanned face smiling at me — curious.
“B. told me he got a 58 on his term paper and I’m astounded. I wonder what he did wrong,” I said. “We worked so hard on it for the last month and a half.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t know where he got that impression. I haven’t graded anybody yet. We’re still presenting them to the class.
“I have a rubrick that I use to make sure all the components are met. I won’t even sit down with that until over the weekend.”
I slunk out of the room, mortified.
Yesterday, just as surreptitiously, I learned B’s grade. Found the sheet in his book bag while cleaning it out.
In red pen, cursive: “100 percent.”
Chicken Little has left the room.

Knitting Nirvana

“One-Skein Wonders: 101 Yarn-Shop Favorites,” edited by Judith Durant and Gwen Steege (Storey Publishing, $18.95), is one of those books every knitter should have on hand. In fact, every knitter should carry it with her, as I have for the past week, in the knitting bag she lugs around on her daily rounds.
It is in turn inspiring, fascinating and delightfully laid out — with patterns grouped by yarn type. It’ll make you want to catalogue your yarn stash, if only for an excuse to visit your favorite little yarn shop for material to create what catches your fancy. Which is exactly what I did after leafing through it.
The center spread contains 24 pages of full-color photos against vibrant backgrounds — there are hats and socks, but oh, what delightful patterns they are.
The day after opening “One-Skein,” I trudged up to my craft area and sifted through my plastic totes filled to the brim with yarns stuffed willy-nilly.
All the better to knit you (forth)with, my dear, I mouthed to my yarns. This wool would be perfect for the crimson One-Car-Ride Coaster Set with artfully placed strokes of contrasting wool needle-felted onto the finished squares. The end result looks less like a place to rest your sweaty glass and more like a largish petit four embellished with a pastry chef’s touches.
There’s the crimson Fabulous Filigree Scarf, shown on a sleeveless denim bust, delicately warming invisible shoulders in machine-washable wool employing short rows. A drapey plummy Floral Mesh Shawl, airily knit in multicolored silk “as lightweight as it is luscious.”
Oooh, the Twisted Spiral Neckscarf in rainbow Noro wool, corkscrewing this way and that — much like Kyra Sedgwick’s lovely blond ringlets cascading over her shoulders. The ends are even tied off like twin pigtails. In the illustration, the scarf curves around the neck, colors blending seamlessly from rose red to pale yellow to mud brown to green, eggplant to robin’s egg blue to minty then yellow green.
And from our own state, New Haven’s Yarn LLC has submitted Shrug This in pale blush lamb’s wool and mohair, a delicate wisp of garment that is quickly knit on 10.5 (three stitches per inch) needles from the neck down. It would be equally as fetching in cotton.
Marji’s Yarncrafts in Granby has a pattern for a Super Simple Triangle Shawl in a salmony-wool-crepe finished off with a crochet edge.
The best thing of all about this book, as my editor says, who received this book as a Christmas present, is that you can experience some of the more expensive yarns because, as the title says, you only need one skein.
It seems the jam I’m in now is not what to knit from “One-Skein Wonders,” but what not to knit.
Sorry to say, but it is likely you’ll have the same experience.
See www.storey.com or call (800) 441-5700 or bookstores nationwide to purchase.

Mother’s little helper

Ever since B began fifth grade, his bedtime has crept later and later.
I’d want him in bed by 9 p.m., but he’d not fall asleep until 10:30 p.m. on a school night.
Short of taping his eyelids down, this isn’t much a parent can do, when it comes down to it, to physically demand a child fall asleep — “NOW!”
So I asked my son’s friend’s mother for advice.
To my surprise, she had been going through the same rigamarole — the yelling, stomping of the feet, ect.
Her friend had recommended melatonin for her son.
He would take a 1 milligram pill at 8 p.m. and be in bed by 9 p.m., where previously he’d stay up until 11 p.m., midnight or later. Then, like my son, be unable to wake up in the morning despite repeated urging by his mother. He’d be late for school, she’d be late for work, and they both were screamed out and exhausted.
A mirror image of my life.
I checked on the Web, surfing for information on Google, “melatonin and children.”
What I found didn’t make me feel confident enough to self-prescribe it for B.
So I bought a homeopathic sleep aid — Hyland’s Insomnia, which says the child dose is half that for an adult.
I gave B a pill that night at 8 p.m. “Blech!” he screamed. “This is disgusting!” And promptly spit it out.
So much for “stimulating your body’s natural healing response to relieve symptoms without sedative hangover.”
B fell asleep at 10:30 p.m. that night. Was late to school for the 23rd time that next morning.
It was time to bring in the big guns.
I called the pediatrician, who recommended the same 1 mg dose for B.
This won’t work, I thought. It will taste gross, or B won’t be able to swallow it (visions of clamping dogs’ jaws shut to facilitate canine vitamin swallowing of the past danced in my head, followed by said child throwing up miracle melatonin), or some other unforseen act is sure to result.
I gave B half a 3 mg pill. “It’s too big!” he said about the pill the size of half a pencil eraser.
I cut it in half again. “Now you have two to swallow.”
Hoping it would work, I said, “Drink a little water, make sure your mouth is wet. Put the pill on your tongue and take a small gulp of water, then put your head back and swallow the whole thing like it’s a piece of pizza.”
It worked.
“Now do it for the second one.”
Again, success.
Now the waiting. I set a bedtime that wouldn’t be too protested. “9:30 p.m., B., I want you under the covers asleep at 9:30.”
No protest. I went into the other room to watch TV.
9:25 p.m. I hear the TV shut off in the other room and B begin to shuffle toward his bed, blanket around his shoulders.
“Good night,” I said, waiting for yelps of refusal.
“’Nite, Mom,” B said, and fell immediately asleep.
The next morning, he woke up at 7 a.m.
That was three nights ago, and every evening has progressed the exact same. B is fast asleep by 9:30 p.m.
Dare I say it? I kid hurtle crossed, 999,999 to go.

On a wing and a prayer

When B was 4, I was still picking out his clothes in the morning and getting him dressed, until one day he came into the living room, his little pull-up khakis on backward and his short-sleeved polo already over his head. He carefully poked one chicken arm through his right sleeve hole, then the left.
“See, Mom?” he said. “I never don’t need you!” Clearly he was delighted with himself.
I shared a laugh with his grandmother and dad later that day, repeating the adorable story.
Now T is nearly 5 and he just celebrated his own Independence Day.
There were no fireworks or cannon shots, just the hum of rubber tires gliding along the blacktop.
Yes, T is fully mobile.
It took him all of a week to master his bicycle with training wheels, every chance he got outside cruising up and down the street, lopsidedly — since those tiny wheels on each side of the rear bike tire never truly support it straight.
A couple days later, T was at his grandma’s and happened upon a little bike that had been rescued from the dump the year before from his uncle. It was pink, but T didn’t seem to care. Soon, he was pedaling over the grass at the back of the house, and coasting down the hills.
I came home from work that night and my husband said T had something to show me.
T got on the bike sans training wheels and pedaled off down the street.
Naturally, I was a nervous wreck then — and now.
T and I talked about it later that night while he was lying in bed.
“Why do you like riding your bike so much,” I asked.
“’Cause it’s cool,” he said, simply.
Somehow I knew exactly what he meant.

A new urban message

On April 22, Department of Environmental Protection commisioner Gina McCarthy gave an Earth Day address at Wesleyan University lamenting the lack of outdoor child’s play.
Her words may have made for a terrific speech and an equally as engrossing newspaper story.
Her statement, “I believe that one of the fundamental challenges we have in the 21st century is that nobody goes outside and plays,” was met with a round of applause.
It reminds me of my college days: Professors speaking theoretical truths to audiences who either share the same view or take their words as gospel.
Books like Richard Louv’s “Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder” give the impression that in 2008, the majority of children are either kept indoors by parents afraid of “today’s world” or kids themselves who prefer playing Game Boys, Wiis, computer games and the like.
Her statements do hold true for suburbia, where it's rare to see children playing in a yard like they did even 20 years ago.
In Berlin, Haddam, Middletown and all over, you wouldn't even know children lived there, much less played outdoors. They look like ghost towns.
However, interestingly, in urban, poorer, working-class neighborhoods, there are children playing outdoors from the moment they’re released from school until their parents call them in at dusk.
In fact, in the North End, there are a group of boys ranging in age from 5 to 16 who ride bikes, skateboards and scooters together on our dead-end street and sidewalks. All the residents take turns talking to and looking out for the children and even offer them drinks of water, popsicles, the use of our telephones, and sprinklers when they look to be overheated.
There is no doubt, Ms. McCarthy, “No Child Left Inside” is a laudable program for inner-city kids who don't have green grass to play in.
But take a look around. Children are still playing outdoors together and they are coming home with scrapes, poison ivy and having climbed trees and fallen off their bicycles. There are small pockets of communities encouraging children to engage in safe, social play.
You just have to look.

Never let them see you squeal

Yes, I’m squeamish.
I watched Edward Norton in “25th Hour” last week and started to pass out during the scene where he urges his friend to bust up his face.
Which is the reason why I tried a humane trap to catch the mouse in our house.
That failed.
I finally broke down last week and purchased a four-pack of traps from Home Depot.
They’re cheap enough, $1.77, and curiously have “cheese” on them already — a yellow Swiss-type holey square that is set at a 45-degree angle.
It’s not indicated, but I assumed the “cheese” was scented, perhaps, to lure the mouse or even its color to invoke its natural curiosity.
Place it against the wall, it said.
Easy enough. I put it in the narrow hole between our stove and counter.
Here’s where T comes into the story.
“Don’t touch it!” I said, indicating the set trap. “You’ll get really hurt!”
One second later, “SNAP!” Then, “Owwwwww!”
Tears and more tears.
“I told you NOT to touch it!”
T: “I wanted to see if it was working!”
More tears.
Still crying, “Mom, can you set it again and you touch it. It doesn’t hurt that bad.”
“Let me get this straight. You want ME to touch the trap to feel the snap that’s STILL causing you to cry 10 minutes later?”
He’s 4, I remind myself, grasping onto my sanity.
I nudge the trap back into the narrow passageway at the floor.
“Do NOT touch it, OK?”
T nods.
I have to admit, whomever invented this trap design is a genius. We’ve caught 5 mice so far — one every day.
T and I arrive home every day to another caught and yes, dead. He grabs the tip of the trap and walks it around the house, talking to the mouse. Does he know it’s dead I wonder, as I back as far away as I can.
“Put it outside!” I yell, and he does. Then I scrub his hands clean.
Can’t get the sight of the rubbery looking mouse, tail and whiskers inert, out of my head.
How many more? I wonder. Can we really be that dirty? Are we single-handedly supporting the entire Middletown rodent population?
Last night I took a piece of paper and drew five mice on it. “Five down, how many to go?” It reads. I tape it to our front door.
So NOT looking forward to going home tonight.

like mother, like daughter

When James was first born we would let Nikki hold him if she had the Boppy pillow across her lap. It got to the point that when she wanted to hold him she would go get the Boppy, pull it over her lap and hold out her arms.

Since James started sitting, we haven't made her do that. So it was funny tonight when Nikki climbed into the recliner with the Boppy and held out her arms. I shrugged, continued the conversation I was having on the phone with my husband, and placed James across her lap.

When she proceeded to lift her shirt as if to nurse him I burst out laughing.

I replaced James with one of her baby dolls and told her that only Mommy could feed James.

Nikki shrugged and then nursed her baby.

I love my kid.

Oh 'Mamma Mia' are you a 'Dancing Queen'?

It's not very often that a woman wishes she were 8-years-older, but when I ran across this my first thought was - that would be a lot of fun.

Sadly my age (and likely the inability to find two other friends willing to humiliate themselves along side me) prevent me from entering. But I hope some of you join in the fun.

For those who didn't click on the link - Pond's is sponsoring a contest timed with the release of the film Mamma Mia. They are searching for "The trio of women who best embody the sassiness, sexiness and confidence of Donna & the Dynamos from the movie, MAMMA MIA!"

You and two friends have to be over 40 and either go to New York City to audition live, or submit a video through the Pond's Web site , singing either "Mamma Mia" or "Dancing Queen" - two great songs by ABBA.

Come on you know you want to enter! And if anyone does, send me the video as well and I'll try to get it to publish on the blog so that even if you don't make the top five you can still get your 15 minutes of fame.

For all the information you need about the contest go here: http://www.ponds.com/dynamos.aspx

Sheep Shape

Knitters rejoice!
The Connecticut Sheep Breeders Association Sheep, Wool and Fiber Festival is Saturday April 26, rain or shine, from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. at the Tolland Agricultural Center, Route 30 in Vernon/Rockville.
This is the 99th annual festival.
For information, see www.ctsheep.org/event.htm

Time for the big K

The elementary school where my 4-year-old will start kindergarten in September has a delightful series of transition programs.
Children are invited to one of the two kindergarten classrooms for a themed activity. Last month, the principal read a book as children sat on the color-blocked rug with their mothers. My little one was shy, and as the principal read the book for the second time, telling the children it was time act out the animal noises, he pressed his face alternatively into the rug and my lap.
The other boys and girls were doing much the same. One boy latched onto his mother's leg and refused to budge.
A number of the parents and children recognized each other, since they were enrolled in the preschool that is housed at the school.
The animal theme was shifted to a craft, as each child was given a tiny container of Play-Doh and encouraged to mold their favorite animal out of it. T started making a lime-green dinosaur, that is until he saw me rolling a piece into the form of a snake and picking up tiny pieces of pink Play-Doh off the table and rolling them into two little eyes.
Suddenly, he wanted to make a snake.
And he wasn't so timid anymore.
Forty-five minutes later, we made our way home with a bag of cinnamon graham crackers.
Today is the second, a music and movement mini class.
I'm looking forward to it as much as T is.
It's a terrific idea for him to become more familiar with the school and the idea of kindergarten.
Though I beginning to think the "transition" part is more for the parents to ease anxiety, judging from how quickly T is at adapting to new environments.

BOOK REVIEW: Road Map to Holland

Each and every family raising a child with Down syndrome has a unique story to tell –of how they learned the diagnosis, how they handled the news, the reaction of family and friends, the sorrows and the joys involved in raising their child.

“Road Map to Holland: How I found my way through my son's first two years with Down Syndrome,” by Jennifer Graf Groneberg, is one such tale. This book is unflinchingly honest. At times it made me feel as if I was reading someone’s private diary and that I should put it down, that I should look away. I couldn’t. The book’s title comes from a piece written by Emily Perl Kingsley – “Welcome to Holland,” something that many families who are raising a child with Down Syndrome are introduced at one point or another.

Groneberg is a great writer – there’s no mistaking that. The emotional rollercoaster of her experience -- giving birth to premature twins and then learning 5-days later that the oldest, Avery, has Down Syndrome-- pulls you in and keeps you turning the pages.

I’ve often told people that when we learned through prenatal testing that Nikki would have Down syndrome that coming to terms with it and accepting it was very similar to going through the stages of grief. And that you can’t compare how my family handled the news to how another family handled it.

But I found myself drawing comparisons – and my reaction was no Disney moment of running through a meadow with birds chirping as they fluttered around my head. Nope, I sobbed uncontrollably at that doctor’s appointment and several others that followed.

I found myself at times wanting to shout at Groneberg and tell her that the diagnosis isn’t about her, it is about her son. I wanted to shout that she needed to end the pity party and start taking positive, pro-active steps. I’m still having trouble wrapping my head around fact that Groneberg didn’t call her state’s early intervention program shortly after her babies were released from the NICU, but waited until they were 10-months old. To me, that delay meant precious months were lost.

Groneberg does use the book to shine a light on some of the harder topics associated with raising a child with Down syndrome, including the varied reactions of family and friends to the news that your child has Down syndrome; and even the loss of a friend because of your child’s diagnosis. And like many other books on the subject, she doesn’t avoid talking about prenatal testing and the fact that 90 percent of women who learn that their child will have Down syndrome choose to end their pregnancy. She rails against those numbers, and even finds herself unsure of her opinions on abortion – which prior to having Avery was solidly prochoice.

Groneberg deserves accolades for her resources at the back of the book. The list covers everything from books for children to great resources for families, teachers or just those who want to learn more.

If it wasn’t for the fact that I was writing a review for the Mother-talk blog tour, I’m not sure I would have finished reading the book. I had trouble relating to Groneberg’s constant sense of melancholy and her long struggle to accept her son for who he is and not what she wants him to be.

Other readers, who are raising a child with Down syndrome, or a child with any special needs, might have a very different reaction to the book. Every family’s story is different, but it’s not always easy to relate to each other’s tales.

giving mom some grey hair

So Nikki has allergies and asthma and this time of year it's not uncommon for them to both be in full gear. But last night was a strange cosmic event.

She went to bed fever-free and just a bit sniffly. An hour and a half later she woke up with a 104.4 degree fever and coughing so hard she was spitting up. (Do other mothers try to catch bodily fluids as they exit their kids? What is it about becoming a mom that makes catching throw up suddenly seems like a normal and good thing?).

Because there was a bit of blood involved I called the pediatrician and soon we were off to Middlesex Hospital. But before leaving our house there were two hastily placed calls. The first to my husband at work asking if there was anyway he could leave early and the second to my parents letting them know I was dropping off a sleeping baby. (And a big thank you to Angelina, Matt and Ryan for covering last night so I didn't have to do the ER drill by myself - I owe you all chocolate this weekend).

So Nikki was poked and prodded. Pneumonia - nope, her chest x-ray was clear; ear infection - negative; strep - negative; flu - negative. End result it appears she has a respiratory virus, which severely aggravated her asthma.

When she woke this morning I expected a feverish child who would want hugs and cuddles all day. Negative to that as well. No fever, and when I last checked in at home, she was happily playing away, albeit still a bit sniffly. But really can someone explain how a child can go from no fever to 104.4 back to no fever in less than 12 hours?

As for me, I'm blaming the new grey hair I found in the bathroom mirror on Nikki.

As an aside - the new emergency room at Middlesex Hospital is quite nice. Way bigger than what I remember the old space being. I hope most of you don't ever have to go visit it, but if you do it's definately looks to be first class.

Grabbing some air

My older son was playing outside with his friends on Sunday, and one suggested they all ride bikes. B carried his bicycle down the front steps, forgetting his longtime protests that it was too big for him. He got it last summer, when he was much smaller. He never really tried to ride it, so since then he’s been hesitant to do so.
But peer pressure is a curious thing. It gets kids to do things a parent would swear their child would never do.
I was at work in New Britain at the time, otherwise I would have sat on the front steps just in case he lost control. B couldn’t reach the ground last year with his toes, and he didn’t trust the stopping power of the hand brakes. Last year, he would get on the bike from the curb and dismount it much the same way.
B called me on the phone, in a small voice, saying he hurt his leg.
“Outside,” he said, “I fell off my bike.”
He wasn’t crying, so I asked if he scratched himself or if he was bleeding.
He assured me no, but his leg hurt a lot.
“Can you come home?” he asked, again in that small voice.
I told him to take some ice and put it on his leg and to lie down on the couch and watch a TV show for a little bit.
“My friends are helping me out,” he said.
Good, I thought. They’ll be joking and laughing in no time and B will forget all about his leg.
Another phone call. “Mom, do I need an ambulance?” B asked, plaintively.
“No,” I comforted him. “Nothing is broken. Just relax.”
“Can I stay home from school tomorrow?”
Always the opportunist, this kid.
Again, the phone rang. “Mom, I can’t breathe.”
Great, I thought. The kid has asthma.
Then, in the background, “I think you’re going into shock.” His 13-year-old friend, Dr. Doolittle.
I wrapped up my desk, told my boss I was finishing in Middletown, and headed toward home.
My husband, who had run out for a short time, which turned into a long time, was unreachable by phone.
As I peeled down Route 9 toward home, I knew B was OK, as I’d talked to him. His panic was entirely self-induced, I thought.
Halfway home, I get yet another call. “Mom, E’s home.”
Then E calls me. “He fell off his bike. I think he’s more scared than hurt.”
Great. I drove to work in Middletown instead of home.
A couple hours later, when I arrived home from work, B was on the computer, taking full advantage of his “injury.”
“Mom, can you get me a drink/something to eat/a blanket/a pencil and paper?”
The next morning, B went to school without incident.
T and I drove toward preschool, saw the Press building had been reduced to a pile of concrete rubble over the weekend, and stopped to watch the construction workers.
Giant Caterpillars kicked up clouds of gray dust.
As a light mist began to fell, T and I watched.
I saw a man in a blue sweatshirt, hood over his head like the Reaper, head toward us.
I know that guy. It’s our neighbor!
“Wow, B really took a header yesterday!” D said.
“What do you mean? Did you see it?” My mouth went dry.
D went on to describe the scene.
B was riding along, talking to his friend, not even paying attention to where he was going. He smashed head-on into a parked car and flew over the handlebars.
“There was clear liquid all over the street. I think he peed himself,” my kind neighbor went on. “I asked him if he was OK, and he kind of hobbled off.”
I said a quick and silent prayer thanking the Lord for my son’s safety.
“Actually, he didn’t,” I said, icily. “When I got home, he was wearing his same pants. It must have just been water.”
I marveled at my son’s ability to walk away from a magnificent accident relatively unscathed.
Then I started to beat myself up for ever doubting him.
The light rain turned to steady as I said goodbye.
My neighbor walked away, headed to breakfast. At least a mile’s walk in the rain.
As I grabbed T’s hand, I thought I should have offered him a ride there.
Then I thought better of it.
After all, he could have left out the last part.
Guess that bicycle will be gathering cobwebs in the basement until next year.
It’s just as well.
B will have probably grown 6 inches by then.

A stitch (back) in time

Recently, I completed a two-Saturday workshop at Wethersfield’s Webb-Deane-Stevens Museum. We were taught to make an 1830s shawl based on a pattern from the 19th-century sewing manual, “The Workwoman’s Guide.”
The pattern takes a little getting used to, as even the most experience of our group had to make adjustments as she went along.
It uses the Victorian Crow’s-foot-Stitch, a dense pattern that provides substantial warmth.
The instructions are: Set up any number of stitches divisible by three, with one over. After having knitted one plain row, begin the pattern as follows: Knit the first stitch, * make a stitch, slip a stitch, knit two plain stitches, pass the slipped stitch over the two plain ones, repeat from *. Purl the whole of the next row, increasing once at the beginning and the end.
Increasing on the purl side is awkward at first, however we discovered that if you do the increases in one or two stitches, it makes a nice border.
Historian and museum staff member Linda Pagliuco led the workshop and tours of the museum’s textile collection, including spinning wheels and looms in the attic. She says the museum offers the workshop every March in honor of Women’s History Month, with additional events. See www.webb-deane-stevens.org for information.
The photo above is my first attempt — with a size 6 needle in Farmhouse Yarns sock yarn. Once I worked it to about 6 inches, I realized it was a little too scratchy to be a comfortable shawl.
My current attempt is done in a milk chocolate-brown cotton-poly Italian yarn with a size 9 needle. However, I’ve put my shawl aside for a time to work on the Classic Elite Silk Top Down Sweater in Butter.
As any knitter knows, working on two or even three projects at the same time is all-too-common.

One man's trash is another's treasure

The longtime Middletown Press building is coming down.
Friday morning, T and I took a drive to buy colorful plastic eggs at CVS. He and I had decided to fill them with jellybeans (T's favorite sweet) and hide them around the yard.
He delights in egg hunts. Last year, his hunts lasted well past Easter. He'd urge me to hide them around the house (empty) over and over again, and he'd spend hours trying to find them. Then it was his turn. To give you an idea of how a 3-year-old's mind works, unfailingly, T would hide them in the same dang places every single time, and I would have to "hunt" for them, feigning surprise that an egg would be hidden in the baby wipes box, under the pillow, on the windowsill, ect.
So this day, I was sure he was eager to get home to get the project started.
But then we drove past the Press.
Excavators, Bobcats, dump trucks, workers in hard hats, piles of red bricks all populated the site, milling about. T was fascinated.
Although it was cold with a terrible wind, he stood on the wooden bench just past the sidewalk and ... watched.
For half an hour.
Fascinated.
Dad walked around the corner, then went up to one of the workers and spoke for a few minutes.
We couldn't hear because of the machines' noise.
He trudged back against the wind, carrying two large bricks in each hand.
T was in heaven.
We brought the bricks home and T went about re-constructing the site with his own trucks. He used the digger to scoop the dark earth in our flower bed area, next to the pachysandras. I winced, watching the dirt spill onto our slate walkway, and his tan pants, winter coat and fingers get really soiled.
But I let him play.
It kept him busy for hours that day, and again the next day and even Easter Sunday.
We drove past the Press this morning on the way to preschool.
The building, only a concrete frame, rose up from mountains of bricks.
It's a difficult sight for one who worked there for more than 11 years.
But T saw the scene not nostalgically as I, but as inspiring.
I'm sure a whole new construction site will be created this evening when we arrive home.

A sure sign of spring

Nope not the birds chirping or the crocus and other spring flowers beginning to push their way through the soil.

Driving down Washington Street today, I saw a something that means spring is really coming.

Resting in the parking lot at Palmer Field were trailers and carnival rides.

Coleman's is coming.

Any bets as to how much rain we'll get this year?

Toy story

“I’m yook-in’ for some new toys,” T said, with the attic door wide open, bleeding heat into the crawl space that serves as our storage area.
(My husband tells me this is physically impossible, since cold air forms a barrier that heat cannot penetrate.)
“Mom! Help me!” he called, while I made the bed in the next room.
We go through this periodically.
T thinks there’s a box — or two — of toys, dubbed “new,” that he has long ago “lost.”
It’s like a treasure hunt for him, a chore for me, as he directs me to open boxes and bins containing potential booty that he spies from the door’s threshold.
He won’t venture any further inside, leaving that task to me, because he thinks there a badger in there.
OK, it was me that told him that years ago, hoping he’d stay out and stop messing up my organized area.
I know terrorizing your kids is one of the top 5 no-nos as a parent, right up there next to remembering to feed and clothe them periodically.
But the only thing T responds to is his badger phobia. Dinosaurs are his friends, bugs are cute, werewolves are not real.
I think he thinks the attic is an infinite source of toys, like how Jesus’ basket yielded unlimited bread and fish.
How nice it would be if the principle applied to all our material wants.
When I’m in there, I’m under pressure to produce something fantastic and never-before-seen, or at the very least — forgotten.
Look what I found: A wooden mouse-shaped clapper, complete with brown felt ears; a chunky, red-wood, old-fashioned string-pull top, his seldom-used indoor tent with the missing pole.
“Gimme dem all,” T instructs me, holding out his little palm.
His response is always the same — and wonderful: “I’ve been yook-in’ for deese forever!” he’ll say gleefully.
“Ganks, Mom.”
I’ll clean up the mess tomorrow.

Mommy Math

This past week can be summed up in a simple equation:

stomach virus (1 husband + 1 preschooler) + double ear infection (1 infant) = one tired momma

Thankfully everyone is back at school and work as of today.

Anyone willing to be the odds maker as to whether or not I can avoid getting sick as well?

Mouseke-toodles!

A pair of fried eggs revealed the intruder.
My husband slid them from the tiny frying pan onto his plate, next to a slice of rustic 7-grain toast.
“Honey, look at this!” I heard him yell from the other room.
“What does this look like?” he asked, indicating what looked like a handful of ¼-inch-long, coal-black miniature seed pods.
“Caraway seeds?” I offered, perplexed.
“Mouse droppings,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“No way do we have a mouse,” I returned, never having encountered one in all my life.
But he was certain; dumped his plate in the garbage, then opened the metal drawer under the oven, where we store the pans.
“Yup!” he said, pulling out pot after pot onto the floor, inspecting the insides for droppings.
He was right. We had a mouse.
As visions of mousetraps snapped in my head, I cleaned the area, making sure to wash my hands afterward.
T scampered into the kitchen. “Here, mousey, mousey; chirp, chirp, CHIRP!” —like he was calling a cat.
The next morning as Dad and B slept, T and I hatched our plan.
“You know how Gramma has those mouse traps that snap shut and kill the mouse?” I asked him.
His eyes grew wide.
“I’m going to find out a way to capture the mouse without hurting him,” I said.
“Yippee!!” he yelled. “We’re gonna catch a m-owwwww-se.”
As I set about looking online for “humane mouse traps,” it occurred to me T was thinking we’d keep the little guy as a pet.
First we looked up “mouse droppings” to make sure we weren’t dealing with — gasp! — a rat.
Next, we watched two You-Tube videos demonstrating a homemade trap using white mice. It worked within minutes, the video assured us.
We had all the elements: a paper towel roll, peanut butter, cheese, newspaper, container, books and blocks.
I pulled out the under-oven drawer and T and I set up the trap in the now open area.
Stack up the books and blocks to the level of the trash can, place a gob of peanut butter at the end of the slightly flattened paper towel roll; balance it precariously, so the baited end is over the receptacle, crumple newspaper in the bottom; and place a slice of cheese on top. Move the contraption to the wall, where mice travel for safety.
The plan was the mouse, drawn to the dark hole of a tube to investigate, would run toward the peanut butter, his weight would force the tube into the garbage can and he’d land on soft newspaper, find the cheese, eat his heart out, then fall asleep with a full belly.
The first morning, T woke up before sunrise and thumped downstairs.
“We caught the mouse, Mom!” he yelled. I ran to the kitchen.
No mouse, just a tipped-over tube.
But, upon closer investigation, the cheese had tiny gnaw marks along all four sides.
We were on the right track.
The next night, we set out a toilet paper tube. And a deeper pail.
I asked T if he thought the mouse would remember the previous night’s trap.
“I don’t know,” T answered, after thinking a minute.
The next morning, T was up again early. “We caught the mouse, Mom!” he yelled. I ran to the kitchen.
No mouse. No tipped-over tube, either. This mouse was smart.
Inside the trash can, the now dried-up piece of American cheese bore the telltale mouse tooth marks.
From what I could tell, the only two ways this guy got out of that pail were another mouse held onto his tail as he walked around the toilet paper tube and dangled into the pail, nibbling to his heart’s content. Or, a friend pulled him out.
Stymied, frustrated and out of cheese, T and I took a break from setting up the trap last night.
But I’ve got plans. Tonight, I’m recruiting our 4-foot kitchen garbage can for duty.
T's got his flashlight ready.

I fought the hat

And I finally won.

Back in December I wrote about the hat that was supposed to be my grandfather's Christmas present and how I couldn't finish it in time. I put the project in "time out" for a bit. Really, I wanted the yarn to think about why it should work with me instead of against me in making this project.

After the baby knitting was done, I took it back out and tried again. I went up on needle size and added some stitches and then last week I looked down and realized it was finished. It was a little bit big on me -- which I took to be a good sign, as it should fit my grandfather.

The word I received at work tonight - my grandfather was happily wearing his new hat while watching UConn basketball.

For those who care the pattern is Kent's moss-stitch-beret, with some adjustments for my failure to make gauge - brim was done in size 7 needles and the body of the hat in size 8s. I also cast on 100 stitches instead of 90. For my version I used Malabrigo worsted in Azul Profundo.

Parents: honorary team players

It's the last game of the city basketball season and my son's team is matched up with one of the best in the intermediate league of 10- to 12-year-olds.
The teams go through their paces, warming up in two lines, one shooting and the other returning the ball.
B starts off the game in offense position.
All season, B's played with variable effort, 8 a.m. games see him slightly foggy in the first quarter — he's still waking up. In later games, he shows middling effort — with occasional bursts of glory.
And ... they're off!
Right away, our top ball handler, a stick-legged boy, smallest in the league, who as singlemindedly as any pro player uses his explosive speed to dance around, in between, over and in one magnificent instance — through the legs of a leaping forward twice his size, falls then skids across the floor like it's waxed to a high shine.
But it's not — this is skin to wood and he's smacked his knee for the umpteenth time this season.
We've got to watch this — the audience of aunts, uncles, grandparents, players waiting for their game in the next hour, older siblings goofing off, little brothers and sisters figeting as they devour their Skittles, and parents — who shout, "Shake it off!" and sit rigid, half a court away from their injured son, torn between dashing to his aid and remaining part of the amorphous crowd, bobbing heads of parental concern.
But — he's up! — squeezing the tears from his eyes and limping as the coach arcs his arm across #12's slight shoulders, and a ripple of applause runs through the spectators.
The game resumes. Our team shows a ferocity it's never before displayed, hungry for this last win. But the other guys are taller and faster and work together like one 10-armed, smooth-running machine.
We onlookers may see that dynamic, sizing up the match swiftly from the bleachers. But our kids are in the game, each a pawn with his moves known, but knee-jerk reflexes triumph — we're racking up fouls like brass rings.
But — hey, parents, we're not part of the action. We're not even on the floor.
"Stop him!" I yell, "Cover your guy!" and "Get the ball!"
(My husband smugly says, "It's called 'defense.'")
I don't know basketball, I want to scream at him, I never even paid attention to a game before B began playing three years ago. I'm Mom, B's number one fan and a vital component of his game!
But I'm not, really.
Last year, I asked B if he heard my direction from the stands, my uncontrollable commands and howls of praise.
"No, Mom. Just stop screaming. You're embarrassing me."
Thanks, kid.
A boy tumbles just inches from my seat in the front row. I see him slam down on his right side so hard his sneaker flies off.
It's my son!
It all happens so lightening-fast, the ref's got him up and hobbling back to his spot under the left side of the hoop before my maternal instinct even kicks in.
My kid's never been hurt, the crumpled heaps on court have always been other parents' boys that I've been sick with worry over for the long few minutes our collective injury resolves itself.
B's eyes are red, and wet; he's grimacing, trying to run but markedly last in the pack — if this was a herd of Plateosauruses, my 4-year-old's obsession with all things dinosaurs so ingrained in my head I'm of pack mentality, invisioning my older son's certain doom from a pouncing predator.
But it's only a game, Mom! And B's out of it now — the ref's realized he's too momentarily hurt to continue play.
He's safe! I want to yell, but this isn't the Mesozoic Era, it's a bunch of fifth- to seventh-graders' last hurrah.
Two minutes on the clock and we're matched 25 to 25, then up a point, down two, matched again, 28 to 28.
Two long blasts of the ref's whistle. "Two minutes overtime," he says, barely audible without a mic.
My son's on the sidelines, red-cheeked with his chin in his palm. That's me, I think, vainly inserting myself in the game. I can still cheer on my teammates ...
Shoot after shoot barely misses the hoop. The other team racks up the foul shots because our guys are playing full-court press — it's do or die.
Miraculously, all the other team's shots are uneven — one of two or no foul shots make the hoop, then we meet their score, surpass it by one or two, then they advance ...
I can't take this anymore, I think, like I'm the one out there leaping and desperately trying for half-court baskets.
Double overtime — this one-hour game turns into one and three-quarters.
"Sudden death," the ref explains gravely, like he's on camera. "No foul shots, it's gotta be a two-pointer. First team to makes a basket wins."
32 to 32. I'm ready to throw up. I don't need to be here, I realize. If I stay or walk outside for air, the action will still continue.
But I'm unable to stop watching, drawn like a magnet to the drama.
Our best scorer takes a wild shot as his teammates pound the empty metal folding chairs with their fists — thunder.
It's in! Our team goes nuts — B's jumping sky-high, his good leg leading across the court, plunging his fist in the air.
Wow: what a game. B takes a couple shots on basket with a few of the stragglers as the crowd disburses — "Good game," parents assure each other, alternately triumphant and — in fairness — consoling. "Great season," we tell the other kids and their parents. "See you next year."
I gather my son, his sweatclothes, coat — my faculties — and head for the car.