This time one year ago, I was miserable, for good reason.

Third, aka the boychild, aka Charlie Crabcake, aka the crabcake, is one year old today. Tho he doesn’t sleep and tho he is mighty screamy, we are so lucky to have him and it’s impossible to remember how our lives were before he joined us.

He greets every day with an open grin and likes nothing better than to be woken by his sister. Mornings are probably the only time McPantses remembers to use “gentle hands” on her brother. I think something within her knows how unfun it is to be awakened any other way. She will tickle him gently or pat him wherever she can reach and he’ll pick up his heavy head and squint around for a moment until he sees his big sis, who remains the absolute light of his life. As soon as he sees her, it’s all baby chortles and wide eyes.

I remain smitten with my son. One of the best things about having a new baby is how much it has enhanced my relationship with my daughter. At my house, we are all the better for the boychild.

Happy Birthday, Crabcake!

One Beatles Yellow Submarine fold & mail stationery pad from Fred Flare.

I ordered Nancy Drew. They sent this instead. I never got around to calling them and asking for a switcheroo.

First person to request it via the comments section gets it and another small goodie or two from my massive crafty stash that I hoard jealously.

Have a swell weekend. It’s raining buckets here and my inlaws are on their way to visit for the boychild’s first birthday. I promise to get out the camera and put pictures of my lovely lovely Gifty3 package contents from Oscarcat before the end of the weekend. She’s a really talented knitter and sewer and shares my fondness for small containers to put things in.

Something happened this weekend that reminded me how hard it is for people to step out of their roles in life, where they’re trekking along, head-down, keeping to themselves and staying out of the rest of the world’s business. My husband stepped up to the plate after I pitched a [mostly unnecessary] fit and I love him all the more for it.

Then, this morning, I was standing in line at Starbucks. It’s drizzly and humid-cool here, which meant that the drive thru line wrapped around the store and the line of people inside was 8 deep. I was looking at the junk on the shelves when the woman in front of me said, “oooooooooh. Did y’all see that?”

I didn’t see or hear a single thing, which is strange, considering the car accident that happened on the main road right in front of the store. Everyone stood there for a minute, making small talk and peering out the window in fascinated, open-mouthed curiosity (everyone, including me) when it occurred to me, as I stood there, check card in hand, waiting for my coffee, that I was standing in freaking line for coffee while two people sat in their trucks on the road after a not-good, but not worst-ever car accident.

I was just standing there like a bump on a log, as my mother would say. I said, “Is anyone going to go out there and check on them?” A man in front of me said, “Well, I can tell they’re moving around…”

That was just too much for me.

So I left the store and pocketed my check card and trudged up a muddy little hill to get to them–the man had his window down and I could hear him groaning and I said, “Are you hurt?”

He croaked out “ambulance–I broke my foot.”

Another man came out of Starbucks and I made a telephone sort of sign with my hand, you know when you act like you’re holding a receiver up to your ear? The man said, “how many hurt?”

I looked at the other truck (two white trucks–what are the odds of that?) and a woman was hunched over the steering wheel with her shoulders shaking. I yelled back, “Two.”

The broken-ankle man drove a work truck and there was white paint everywhere. His airbags deployed and he had a busted lower lip from it. His engine was hissing and I told him to turn off his car and said I wasn’t going to touch him because I didn’t want to hurt anything. He was on his cell phone the entire time, groaning.*

I left him to check on the woman and she cracked open her car door and sobbed. She said her knee hurt, but that she wasn’t hurt. She was clearly very upset, though, so I stood there and worked up the nerve to pat her shoulder gently–I held my hand out a few times and reached, sort of, and stopped, and reached and stopped and finally patted very lightly.

I asked if she needed to call anyone and she said she didn’t have a phone and I went to get mine. She said her husband was a teacher at a local high school and by this time, another man had come from Starbucks up to the accident and I handed him my phone after I dialed information and told him to ask for her husband and to be sure to tell him she is okay so he wouldn’t freak out.

Then I went back to the groaning man and he showed me his foot (right foot, broken from pushing down on the brake pedal during the accident) and he groaned that it wasn’t his fault and that she hydroplaned. I asked if he wanted me to hold his hand and told him an ambulance was on the way. He got back on the phone again, so I went over to the woman.

She was still sobbing, so I said, “I am going to hug you now.” (I like to give a warning when I hug someone.) I put my arm around her while she cried and I saw in the back of her truck (it had a back seat) that she had two carseats. I asked where her kids were and she told me they were at daycare. I could smell her perfume.

She bleated, “I had a feeling this morning that I was going to have an accident today.” Then she started sobbing again. I said, “You are okay. The other man is going to be okay. You have insurance. This is just a car. YOUR KIDS ARE NOT IN THIS CAR AND THEY ARE OKAY, TOO. This is a crappy way to start a day, but you are going to be okay. Everythign is going to be okay”

She cried and cried and cried and I just stood there and patted her shoulder and kept saying, “it’s okay” over and over again like I would say to Charlie Crabcake during the night if he was sobbing, because, really, what else can you do?

Firemen and police and an ambulance arrived in a very short period of time and I got out of the way. The other guy who came out of Starbucks handed me my phone and we told the woman her husband was coming. The guy looked down at my heels and said, “that’s white paint all over your shoes. You’d better wipe it off before it dries.”

I stood there for a minute, during this everyday scene, I guess–car wreck on a wet busy road, in my flippity skirt and heels and vintage black velvet blazer and pearls–and looked at my shoes and at the accident scene and at the white paint blanketing the hill and said, “Well, I guess I’m going to get a cup of coffee now. How weird is that?”

And the guy laughed and said, “yeah.”

So I went inside and got back in line again and people asked if they were okay. Everyone thought the woman was really hurt because of the way she was hunched over the steering wheel. They wanted to know if there was blood.** A man in a suit said, “You’re a real good samaritan.”

I said, “The woman is okay. She’s a girl: she’s really upset. It’s what we do.” Everyone laughed.

Before I got in my car to leave, I stopped and told the closest policeman to please remind the woman that she needs to replace her carseats. He said he’d make sure someone told her that.

Since when does checking on people in a wreck make you a good samaritan? Doesn’t it just make you a normal person? I’m one of the least nice people I know–I’m rude and catty and mean and selfish.

By the way, the paint didn’t wipe off afterwards.

And I smell like the woman’s perfume.

* It occurred to me on the way to work that groany cell phone man requested an ambulance when he was ON HIS PHONE! I don’t begrudge a hurt person any telephone calls, but that struck me as funny.

** What the hell? Cue up Don Henley’s Dirty Laundry, willya?

You should hear the girlchild say the word “nervous.” She can drag it out for about 15 seconds and it sounds like Thurston Howell, III.

Anyway, discovering a large patch of fresh (as in still sticky dampish) black ink on two of my fingers upon walking into work and sitting down, finally, this morning, makes me really nervous.

I haven’t written anything this morning.

Is there something sticky leaky-inked hanging out in my purse? The nervous-making part of that is that I keep my pens and pencils (and glue stick, of course, in case I need to glue on the fly!) in a little zippy case in my purse.

Oh. OH. There’s another little zippy case made of meshy stuff with a rapidograph drawing pen (full of sticky black ink) and a travel watercolor set and a few other things in there, too, in case I need to draw or make a watercolor on the fly.

Nope. It’s not leaking, either. Weird stuff.

Oy.

Y’all, I have had it up to here with deleting spammy comments, so I turned registration back on for comments until I have a better solution.

I realize this makes commenting more of a pain, but I figure if anyone ever has anything to say that’s important enough, she’ll do it.

I’m working on deleting 111 spam bits from the entry on 5/29/05. Wugherty.

where daycare is still open, for several reasons, including, but not limited to: sheer laziness.

Last holiday like today, I took the lovely chilluns to daycare and went to see an 11 a.m. movie. Today, I’m not so lazy, tho. I’m waiting on the plumbers to come replace showerheads in both bathrooms, thus kicking off very necessary bathroom renovations (which will take place slowly but surely and will be paid for as we go).

I read somewhere recently that organizing gurus say that the best lists aren’t always the to-do lists that you cross off as you go along because they can be overwhelming and impossible to complete and, honestly, they’re never-ending, aren’t they?

So, I’m going to make a list of what I accomplish today.

So far:

laundry in dryer (school napper blanket for the girlchild, who is partying like a rock star with my parents today, and is not at school; extra sheet and various school laundry items for the boychild; and towels, etc.)

laundry about to go in washer (complete with stain-treated stuff that I leave til the last possible minute, aka “the time when we’re finally out of clothes)

living room picked up of toys and kid detritus*

dishwasher emptied and halfway refilled

trash emptied

started cleaning up hangup clothes in my bedroom and putting away shoes, etc

massive laundry sort on my bed: will wash, fold and put away LOTS of clothes today

the boychild’s room picked up (laundry removed, bed made)

all boychild stray socks found and put in next load of clothes: he seems to scatter them about the house and car. I think he’s leaving a trail for someone to find, but the newsflash for him is that the only creatures who care about baby socks in this house are the dogs, who eat them like candy.

extra yarn and projects cleaned up and put on top of flat rubbermaid container that goes ‘neath my bed; will squoze yarn into already overfull container in a bit

off to vacuum, must empty vacuum canister first: DONE!

tiara/crown that needed a tape mending, tossed. It’s not mendable.

worrying about how to quell tears that will surely ensue when McPantses discovers above: commenced

shoes put away

jackets hung

moving scary dog statue from current location b/c boychild wants to pull up on it and chew on it: considered

Premaxx sling covered in cat hair where cat has napped in it for months: hand-washed twice, soaked in vinegar to set color, washed twice more: drying in sink; will be sent off for someone else to try

all ceiling trim, window casements, doorways, tops of pictures, etc., in house: dusted with long mop with rag mop attachment sprayed liberally with Endust; left to do: remove rag mop attachment, clean and hang to dry

four loads washed, two loads folded and put away/hung, one load drying, fifth load waiting for wash when water gets turned back on

plumbers: greeted, paid once, called back to fix leaky showerhead that was still leaking; money spent seems to have doubled in return visit; two showerheads replaced; bathroom remodel tile/enamel dude business card received from plumbers

bathroom remodel dude called; appointment for Thursday afternoon secured; worrying about sticker shock of two minor bathroom tile/enamel remodels: commenced

grande Starbucks coffee frappucino: sucked down, can you tell?

bills placed in bill-ometer; paperwork portion of bills placed in “to be filed” drawer

vase of already dead Valentine’s tulips in McP’s room cleaned up

kitchen counter: slightly more cleared, but not entirely; continued avoidance of same: ongoing

*”detritus” is one of my favorite words

This morning, the boychild and I headed out to run some quick errands and we stopped by the knitting store to get a 16″ circular in size 7 because, it turns out, Truvy Jones was right–I should make ribs for a hat with a needle a size or two smaller than the size I’m using on the hat. Otherwise, the ribs get lumpy. So, again I start on the manhat.

While Crabcake and I were in the knitting store, we saw a beautiful little girl wearing the largest hairbow in existence plogging away at a scarf. I asked her age (seven) and the woman with her (grandmother, maybe?) proudly told me the little girl had just learned the day before. I was so impressed–the kid had two feet of a narrow scarf done already. She’s a much more efficient knitter than I am by a longshot!

I knew, as I watched this new knitter, that McPantses would love to be there. Plus, she’s a lefty and I wanted to be sure she learned to knit properly. I went home and explained things to McP and she was, indeed, fascinated. We finished lunch and zipped back to the knitting shop to start McP off on a scarf of her own and $32.50 later (oy vey), my crazy knitting lady was repeating some knitting rhyme about sheep and fences and holes to show McP how to make the knit stitch. They teach lefties to knit the same way they teach right-handed people, so we could have stayed home, but the true magic of knitting, for Mcpantses today, was in the shop visit.

Unfortunately, the other little girl was already gone, probably wearing her completed scarf wound around her neck, and McP was sorely disappointed that she missed her knitting doppelganger, but she had the best time sitting in a gossipy circle of southan wimmin knitters. And, if you’ve never sat in such a circle of knitters (or handsewers or smockers), you’re missing out. It’s a delightful mixed nut container of old money grande dames, complete with cushion cut diamonds dripping off of knuckly fingers (you know those women who look outdoorsy and impossibly skinny and comfy in whatever they’re wearing, whether they’re gardening or hosting a charity ball?) and regular women who just plain like to knit and a handful of proud gradmas of the non grande dame set. It’s like that scene in Gone with the Wind when the women are sitting around the table waiting for the men to come home after clearing out the camp where Scarlet was “attacked.”

McP was most proud of the four inches of scarf she knit with great help and attention from me, who sat on the floor next to her, guiding her along the way. I explained the term “muscle memory” and told her that by the time she’s done with the scarf, her hands will remember how to knit for her, maybe forever. She’d complete a few stitches or a row and have the ladies stop and check (”look, look! I’m doing it!”) and everyone would make the appropriate noises and go back to the conversation in the room* and she would alternate between knitting and listening and watching, with wide eyes.

Though I didn’t learn to knit until a few years ago, I learned to embroider when I was four. The first thing I sewed, with great help, was a dress for a barbie doll. I remember the fabric exactly (seventies orange, red and white floral with a bit of black–slightly stretch jersey with lots and lots of polyester). I remember where I was in the house when the dress was finished and I remember my mother stitching a tiny snap onto the top of the dress in the back so it would close properly.

Of course, when we got home this afternoon, McP was ready to abandon the knitting for the day. I think outside of the special shop atmosphere, it wasn’t quite the same, so paper dolls were the afternoon crafty.

I cannot believe a 5 yr old can knit, but I don’t know why it surprises me. I’m so glad the women were willing to welcome her into the fold. I’m never entirely sure where I fit into the fold, but as long as I drop in every once in a while (and, more likely, as long as I keep writing checks there), I’m pretty sure I’m in there somewhere, even if it’s just as consumer with benefits, you know?

A hundred years ago, when children learned to knit and sew, it wasn’t handing down the crafts. It was teaching necessary life skills. We’re lucky to have the choice today (we still send our shirts out to have buttons replaced, sometimes for free at the dry cleaners, who are the button-ruiners anyway, or sometimes for $1/shirt at the tailor’s, even tho I could sew on a button tailor-style in 5 minutes flat), but I hope my kids’ kids see the value in the skills.

* One of the women there today has a son who eats competitively.

Yeah.

He’s in some thing in Vegas coming up pretty soon.

Everyone was quite excited about it.

The last two weeks have been a haze of kid sick. First the Crabcake, with the teeth (he sprouted four the first week in February and may have sprouted another two, to bring the grand total to 12, last week and it looks like his entire mouth is about to erupt into more teeth at any minute*) then both kids with the puking and the pooping and the fevering and and and

and now I am really tired.

I missed far more work last week than I have leave.

I think last night, the boy woke every 30 minutes, on some tortuous schedule of his own biology and making, and today, I am hungover with tired and dangerously near tears–the kind of tears that just erupt (like the teeth, see?) on their own for absolutely no reason, so if someone pokes his head in my [blessedly quiet, always the same, thank the Lord] office today to so much as cross his eyes at me, I am sure to commence to sobbing.

And at the same time, my kids are healthy (except for exceptions to this: see above) and sweet (except for the screaming: see below) and I am lucky and there are five boxes of Girl Scout cookies on my desk this morning, which I take as a sign from above that I should gorge myself and have a Diet Coke to go with it, even though I started out today with a specific plan of a peanut butter-covered rice cake in the a.m., an orange in the afternoon and a hard boiled egg at some point in between, along with much water.

Screw that. I want to see if I can stuff down an entire box of Samoas and a stack of Thin Mints in one day.

* Usually the Crabcake is very selfish in his teeth displays. He doesn’t like to open up wide to show the world what’s going on inside his mouth, but lately, with the screaming, it’s been pretty easy to check things out. I am starting to think that instead of just the regular grouping of teeth, he may get teeth in rows like a shark. The better to bite me with, of course.

Regarding the screaming: he has started pulling up in his crib all the time now, so every time he wakes in the night, he lets off a great loud fart, hikes himself up in the crib and looks at me in the bed and starts screaming. The screams are horrible, loud girly horror movie screams–screeeeaaaammmmmmmmmmm! screaaaammmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!–and he screams once or twice and then just stops to look at me and make sure he’s woken me, which tells me that he’s perfectly fine and is just awake and wants me to share his woken misery. I don’t know if he just likes the noise or if he thinks it’s the best way to get a reaction or if he’s stuck standing up and can’t plonk himself back down again on his bediapered behonkus or what, but it’s so loud and screamy that even the Husband can hear it from the deep and dreamless recesses of his perfectly perfect slumber from our bedroom down the short hall.

I’m looking into the purchase of a small-gauge tranquilzer gun with a night scope. I think I can hit a meaty fatty fat fattamano thigh from the bed, even through the footie jammies.