Socks and Superheroes

I think I might be getting sick, because my normal glass half-full outlook seems to be more of a glass a quarter full with a slow leak. But then again, it may be that my writing career has stalled for the moment, my foot is still messed up (although slowly getting better--I really believe it is), my arse is the size of a barn (although I'm getting on the bike trainer every day), and my daughter Ana didn't even want to ride in my car yesterday because it's so dirty. (Who can blame her?)

It might just be that Jane and I seem to be locked in mortal battle and she has finally, after almost seven years, transferred her affections to her father. She used to be such a Mama's Girl; she and I had a little mutual admiration society. I knew it would end eventually, I really did, but I still don't seem to be prepared.

Maybe that's because Jane is such a creature of extremes (hmmm... wonder where she gets that?) and she'll tell me flat out, "I HATE YOU." I don't think Ana's ever said that to me. Jane writes it down. I wish I hadn't recycled the note she left on her bedroom door after I wouldn't let her watch television this week because it would make a funny picture. It said, "I hate you Mom. By the way, Cep out. Dad you can com in."

Yeah, no sting there or anything. Not taking THAT personally.

Of course, it makes sense because I am most often the one thwarting her on her path of destruction and terror. Dad comes home from work and gets to do THIS:





I always refuse to read comic books but maybe I should rethink that.

'Thimble of Water to the Chicago Fire' Socks Done

I finished the socks for my neighbor Sarah, whose son Jack was killed in a car accident less than two weeks ago. I wanted to finish them in time for the first day of school, which was this past Monday, but I'm just not fast enough. I guess it's okay because I know there is nothing that can bring true comfort to her, no words or actions that will make her feel one tiny bit better.

So, I sat and did what sock knitters through the ages have done: I knitted everything I was feeling into a little pair of red socks in hopes that each intentional stitch of love might grant some ease to my friend. I knitted everything I was feeling into those socks. All my sorrow and tears and grief and my wish for something to do that might bring some comfort -- that might bring a little warmth to her, and a reminder of how much I love her. She might not "get" that; sometimes it's hard to see all that written into a piece of knitting.

But I'll know it is there.