Phe-mom-enal

Dear Mom;

Happy Mother's Day. I have always loved you with all of my heart, but as I have gotten older and hit bumps in the road, I think I love you more now than I ever did growing up. Maybe not "more", but definitely "differently".

Maybe it's because we almost lost you a few years ago. The thought of losing you scared me so much that we changed places for a while. I was your champion, your advocate, your caretaker. I was terrified that I would lose you.

You pulled through, and I'm grateful I have you every single day. Because I know that one day, (hopefully when we're both really, really old) you won't be here. My heart hurts to even think about it.

Andrew told me about an article he read, talking about how fetal cells cross the placenta and go into the mother's blood and stay there. You are a part of me, and I am a part of you. Literally.

We share our relationship with the whole world for an hour a week, and most of our listeners get our relationship. Some don't, and that's okay, because we get it.  We have the same sense of humor, mutual respect for each other as adults, and most of all, we genuinely enjoy each other's company.

There are people who hate their mothers, never speak to them, live thousands of miles from them, and say horrible, ugly things about their mothers. I don't get that. I can't even begin to understand it, and I feel sorry that they don't share what we do.

Good relationships don't happen by magic; you made raising us your career, and you excelled at it. You have always been there, whether we wanted you or not, because you knew that we needed you - even if we didn't know it. You made sure that we were intellectually enriched, but not over-scheduled. You have always been honest with us.

You sewed for us; beautiful clothes, fun and inventive Halloween costumes, and formal gowns as I got older. You knit for us. You cooked us delicious, nutritious food. You did the things that your mom didn't do for you, because you wanted us to have the mother you wished you had.

When I was growing up, I was confident that there was nothing you couldn't do, and only a handful of questions you couldn't answer. Couture sewing? Sure! Pipe whipped cream on cupcakes? Easy. Make a papier-mâché headpiece? DONE. To this day, I am impressed with the breadth and depth of your knowledge.

You were always willing to discuss things and treated us with respect. You taught us that we needed to stick together because we would always be a family, and someday, Sam and I would only have each other left to lean on.

More than the things you did for us, you made sure to do things *with* us. You were always enthusiastic about trying new things, and you taught us that many hands make fast work. You also taught us - by example - that failure is okay. Like when we tried to splatter paint the living room, and it just looked like projectile vomit on the walls. We laughed, took pictures, painted over it, and tried something else.

 You have always been supportive of my crazy ideas, 1000%. When I called you at 11pm one night in 2007 and said, "We should do a podcast! And we'll call it 'The Knitmore Girls'! Write this down!", you said, "Okay. What's a podcast?"

You taught us to love learning by example. I am so proud that you're not one of *those* people. The ones who refuse to move with the times and declare technology "hard". I love showing you the first step, and watching you take off from there. (I especially love when you run into one of your Luddite peers and say things like, "Can you believe that they don't do Facebook/texts/the internet?")

You are the best travel companion a person could ask for; you're flexible, easygoing, and have been known to remind us all that "we can sleep when we're dead!"

I love that Genevieve is your MiniMe, because in a sad, dark, wonderful way, I feel like this way I'll always have a part of you in my life. 

You are an incredible grandmother. Every day I learn a little something new about how to be a better mom through your example. You are loving, but you don't tolerate bad behavior.  We play, we dance, we sing, we snuggle. My home is full of joy, love, and laughter, and I couldn't have done it without you.

You remind me to take deep breaths, to finish my coffee. You are my sous chef in the kitchen, my extra pair of hands with Genevieve, and my sounding board.

When I am unkind to myself, you remind me that *nobody* speaks that way to YOUR baby, and insist that I treat myself with the same respect I show others.

You think it's strange that I thank you every single day, for helping, for being here, but I don't think you really understand how grateful I am. 

Me and the Mouse. Stitches West 2013, photo by @abbyknitz

I hope that Genevieve and I will have the same type of relationship that we have, because I treasure it. Thank you for being a phenomenal mom.

Splish splash

Last year, when the CA Lottery hit a major high, I told Andrew to buy a ticket.

"Who knows?" I said, "We could win some money. Please buy a ticket on your way home."

And wouldn't you know it, while we didn't win the big pot, we won a little money. I didn't write about it, or talk about it because I didn't want anyone to think that winning the lottery had changed us.

I promise, it hasn't.

It has been scorchingly hot for a few weeks, so I made a proclaimation that it was time to put in a pool. As these projects sometimes go, I misjudged the cost scope of the pool, but that's because Mom thought we should go bigger, and she - like always - was right.

We only won $7, guys. We bought this pool

The installation was fairly straightforward and quick, and the smell of it offgassing curing reminded me of my childhood. It smelled like floaties and fun.

I put a couple of inches of water in it, while Mom got Genevieve into her adorable swim diaper, and then we let loose with the squirting bath toys.

There was splashing. There was squirting. There was laughter.

Swim diaper!

And Genevieve had fun, too.

That? That?

Every day is a new adventure with Genevieve, and I love it. I think I've declared that I love every phase THE BEST, but really (with the exception of the teething misery), *this* is where the fun really starts.

Genevieve has started talking with some regularity, and is starting to master communicating with us effectively. I've already talked about her incredible passive language skills, but this is both fun and funny. She has discovered that she has a magic finger.

With only a point of her magic finger, she can convince a table full of adults to all share their water with her. To endlessly put labels on objects. And in my father's case, get him to hand over *his* father's watch.

(To be fair, I'm pretty sure if she asked for a kidney, a lung, or his heart, he'd give it to her just as willingly. GrandpaDahling loves her *just* a little bit.)

"That?"

The same little hand possesses the power to grab a grownup (of her choosing) and tow them down the street. While pointing at objects and demanding labels. I stick to simple labels, "tree, bush, flower, car, van, house". Andrew is more precise "oak tree, succulent, poppy, roses, Jeep". And my parents are doing it, too. Just not in English.

"...That?"

Mom, with her wealth of wisdom and experience, suggested that I ask her to repeat the words. I get "tss" for "kiss", "ahpoo" for "shampoo" , "ack" for snack, and "ock" for "Spock". (We have Star Trek drinking glasses. We are awesome.) The list goes on and on, and every little peep from her is a little more communication, another little window into her busy little world.

We ask questions, we get head nods, "Yeah" and multilingual "no"s. She understands body language, and now kisses boo-boos without being asked. She's "rex-ing"(pretending to be a dinosaur) in her own way, and will chase us with gusto, mouth wide open in a silent roar, then squeal with delight as we run away and squeal in mock-terror.

Taking a break to ring the windchimes.

Our home is full of life, laughter, language and love. And that? Is the best.

All hail

Last month, my sister-in-law asked me if I would take LittleJ's prom pictures. She told me the dates and times, and I agreed, because - why not? I have a camera, and enough knowledge to be dangerous.

So Saturday, I packed up my gear, got some inspiration from Pinterest, and headed over. I started taking pictures, and between the hair, the makeup, and LittleJ's natural beauty, all I could see is a 1940's Hollywood ingenue.

[Aside: I should really start calling her Not-So-Little-J, since she towers a head and a neck above me these days.]

It was a beautiful day, and it was a joy to capture all those small details and moments that really reflect how much LittleJ and RockinJ love each other. 

There really is nothing like young love.

The Rose Garden

The last part of the photo shoot was at the Rose Garden, which I - embarrassingly -  had never been to. There were *hundreds* of people there, using it as a beautiful and iconic backdrop for their photos. Fortunately, we were able to find a slightly less packed part for a few shots.

 

Inspiration from an iconic shot

All hail!

The icing on the cake? They were voted prom king and queen.

Mousie-see-Mousie-do

First, thank you all for the outpouring of kind comments, empathy, and positive mojo on my last post. As the comments came streaming in, I was touched at your honesty and willingness to share your own challenges with body image, and your struggles and strategies to resolve them. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Now, on to something a little more cheerful. 

I've written about how I don't really see a lot of myself in Genevieve. When I was growing up, I remember Mom talking about what it was like having two kids who looked nothing like her. (When I hit adolescence, I started to look more like Mom.) I joked this last weekend that it only took Mom 30 years to have a baby who looked just like her.

Recently, I'm seeing a little more of myself in Genevieve, and in the best places. First I saw this:

Curls!

But it's more than curly hair. Genevieve has reached the age where she's doing amazing and funny things every day. She has developed a sense of humor, and it is completely delightful. She has also entered the phase where she wants to do everything I do, and that is an unusual combination of challenging and a lot of fun.

The first Mousie-see-Mousie-do thing that happened was a couple of weeks ago.

The sun was shining, Genevieve had taken a fantastic nap, and we were in the van running errands. I had the windows down, the Pitch Perfect soundtrack(which is FANTASTIC, by the way) playing,
and I was singing along to Party In The U.S.A., when I heard a perfect, appropriately-timed, delighted, rock'n'roll "YEEEEEAH!" come from the backseat. [Parenting win!]

And then there was today.

We were at Rasputin Music, picking up a couple of CDs for Genevieve (my daughter loves Adele!), when the store music came on. It was jazzy, with a good swing to it. She stopped in her tracks, looked at me, and busted a move. Just like we do at home (or the produce aisle), when a catchy song comes on.

Joie de (Gene)vivre!

It's days like today that remind me to focus on the things that are wonderful. I could be stuffy. Serious. Perfectly coiffed and no fun.

Or I can dance in the aisles with my daughter. You can guess which I choose to be.

Me and my shadow.

Ample, bodacious, big

This post hasn't been easy to write. I've been trying to find the words, to try and cheer it up, but that has just resulted in quietly, privately, agonizing over something that I know a lot of people have felt before, or are currently feeling.

I have only lost 25 of the 40 pounds I gained when I was pregnant with Genevieve. I can't blame not being able to shed the pounds on anyone but myself- I was down to 8 lbs above my pre-pregnancy weight when I started *really* making ice cream last year. And then the scale crept up, the way it always does when my beloved ice cream and I rediscover our love for each other.

Me? I love the flavor, the texture, the euphoria that comes with each bite. And my beloved ice cream? Sticks to me like a faithful friend.

More specifically, it sticks to my rear end, making it more ample and ensuring the legacy that my mother bequeathed upon me, which her mother bequeathed upon her, which I will pass on to Genevieve. An ample behind. A bodacious booty. A big butt.

Fabulousness is also part of her legacy.

It never has bothered me before, really, because as soon as my pants started feeling snug, I would (and could) do something about it. The insidious thing is that the bad feelings don't just hit you like a tidal wave, they creep up on you until one day you realize that you don't like how you look in the mirror. Slowly, the same way your pants gradually get tighter and tighter, until the day you realize that you are being positively strangled.

The first time I noticed it was my birthday, when Andrew gave me a 10-class yoga gift certificate. It came with a very nice note, but all I saw was subtext. And the subtext read, "IT'S BEEN NEARLY A YEAR AND YOU ARE STILL FAT. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FATSO."

I didn't cry in front of my guests, but there were tears, later.

How do you reconcile not liking what you see in the mirror with wanting to raise a confident daughter with a positive body image? I feel like a hypocrite, but I know that I haven't ever felt this way about my body before.

The worst part is how keenly aware I have been; when you're crawling and squatting to play, you notice when you don't have room to move in your pants. After two months of letting my vanity win out, I gave up and bought larger pants. Fat pants.

You know what? I'm happier. I can comfortably play on the floor and the pants *look* better on me- imagine that, pants that fit properly LOOK better, too. The only problem is my perception of the number on the label.

What I can't manage to do is get out and *go* to yoga. But the great thing about yoga is that you can do it basically anywhere, with barely anything. So, I'm going to start doing yoga with Genevieve, and hopefully a combination of the yoga and the mouse-wrangling will yield some positive results.

(I also got fat yoga pants, since getting into my regular yoga pants was like trying to stuff too much filling into uncooperative sausage casing. There is nothing that motivates you less than your *exercise* clothes being too tight.)

Part of having positive body image is learning healthy habits. I need to model these if not only for my own health, but for Genevieve's as well.

Enough complaining. Let's walk, Mama.

Fortunately, I have my own personal trainer, who is a huge fan of long walks.

The love you bake

If you follow me on Instagram, you may have seen what I can only describe as the creation of a woman on a mission.

If you want your cookies to turn out *exactly* like mine, you need some equipment. The initial cost outset of these is a little daunting, but I PROMISE it will be worth it.

I do three sheets of cookies at a time because my AMAZING oven has an incredible convection bake feature. (I read the manual.) Even doing them one sheet at a time will yield incredible results.

Equipment list:
- Pyrex Cookie Sheets (You can use any cookie sheets you like, but I LOVE these ones.)
- Size 16 scoop. (It's roughly 1/4 cup per scoop.)
- Silpat, or or other non-stick silicone baking mat

Browned butter chocolate chip cookies with a Nutella swirl and sea salt

Ingredients

1. 4 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2. 2 teaspoons baking soda
3. 2 teaspoons salt
4. 2 cups (1 lb) butter, browned
5. 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
6. 1 1/2 cups packed brown sugar
7. 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
8. 4 large eggs
9. 1/2 cup Nutella
10. 3 cups semisweet chocolate chips
11. Grey sea salt

Directions

1. Brown butter in a medium-sized saucepan, where you can see the color change. Brown until the butter is fragrant and nutty, but not black. Immediately pour into a 2-cup glass/Pyrex measuring cup to cool.
2. COMBINE flour, baking soda and salt in small bowl. Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar and vanilla extract in large mixer bowl until creamy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Gradually beat in flour mixture. Stir in morsels
3. Using a butter knife, gently swirl in the Nutella.
4. Put the dough in the refridgerator for 30 minutes.
5. Preheat oven to 350F, or 325F if you're convection baking 3 sheets at a time.
6. Using a size 16 scoop , scoop 6 cookies per cookie sheet onto a silicon baking sheet (like a SilPat). Sprinkle each rounded mound LIGHTLY with Sea Salt.
7. BAKE for 11 to 15 minutes or until golden brown at the edges. Allow to cool on baking sheets.

Search, share, and cook your recipes on Mac OS X with SousChef!

Any leftover dough gets scooped onto wax paper on a cookie sheet, goes in the freezer overnight, then gets put into a ziplock bag with baking directions written on it in Sharpie.

(If you go this route, let them thaw for 1 - 1 1/2 hours before you bake them for best results. Or you can do what KidBrother Sam does and eat them as cookiesicles.)

Because in the end, the love you make is equal to the stuff you bake. Right?

**EDITED TO ADD: forgotten chocolate chips and a Pinterest-friendly photo, should you be inclined to pin.

The Danger Dilemma

Spring has arrived in the Bay Area. One of the many great things about this point in Genevieve's development is that we can take her outside and let her run, jump, and explore.

"Behold, all this. My Mousedom!"

The problem with this is that she wants to run, jump, and explore. You see my dilemma? Fortunately, Andrew is a roughing-it, rock climbing, camping type. And this is where we run into what I affectionately call the "Danger Dilemma".

Andrew is a brilliant man, and an incredibly loving father, but crazy hormones and irrational fears about danger lurking EVERYWHERE have led to some come to Jesus sane, logical, and loving conversations with my mother about differences in parenting technique, which we bonded over.

Very distinguished with her walking stick

Conversation #1 - The Stick

Me: I can't believe he's letting her play with a stick. A stick! She's going to impale herself.
Mom: It's not a sharp stick. He's right there.
Me: But! It's a STICK!
Mom: What do you think children have been playing with for THOUSANDS of years? Now drink your coffee.

Dressed for action.

Conversation #2 - How high is too high?

Me: Do you think he's throwing her too high?
Mom: No.
Me: It seems really high.
Mom: Genevieve seems to be enjoying herself.
Me: I think I should say something. He's throwing her above the roofline.
Mom: [Pause.] I think you should drink your coffee.

Maybe not *quite* the roofline, but still.

Despite my worries, I stand back and watch the two of them have a good time outside, occasionally venturing out to take a few pictures and steal a few kisses. Andrew and Genevieve have their own relationship, outside of me, and it's a pleasure - mostly - to observe it from a short distance.

Her giggles say, "Fly me HIGHER, Daddy!"

I'm sure I'm not the first, and I won't be the last mom to worry. But, kids need a little danger, right?

Magic kisses

When Genevieve was but a wee mouse, when she would bump herself and cry, Mom told me to kiss the boo-boo, then say, "All better!" I'm sure this was to make both Genevieve and me feel better, but it didn't seem to work.

Then, like with so many things in parenting (and life), all of a sudden, it DID. She bumped her head, I kissed, and BAM! Tears stopped. All better!

"Behold!" I announced loudly, "I have arrived as a Real Mom_TM. My kisses have magical healing powers!"

A kissy montage

I basked in the glory of my newfound power. All of the groundwork I had laid had come to fruition. I was reaping what I had sown! I am MAMA, hear me give noisy, magic kisses!

And then, in a moment of incredible productivity and grace, I banged my forehead on a lamp. Sharply. I hissed (in lieu of saying some Very Bad Words), and put my hand on my forehead.

Genevieve looked at me with Great Big Eyes. I knelt down, pointed at the offending spot, and said, "Kiss it and make it better?" 
 
Without a moment of hesitation, Genevieve kissed *my* boo-boo. My heart swelled at her empathy, as I announced, "All better!"

What you do will come back to you as a parent. It might take a while, but the payoff is totally worth it.

Measure in leaves

I bound off Genevieve's Playful Stripes cardigan while she was napping a few weeks ago.

It's exhilarating finishing the knitting on a sweater. Especially a little sweater. But really, the best part is what comes AFTER the bindoff.

Playful Stripes cardigan by Alana Dakos

Casting on ANOTHER tiny sweater.

Cascade cardigan, by Raya Budrevich.

This sweater practically knit itself. "Just one more leaf!" I would think to myself, knitting frantically during naptime, after she was in bed at night, until my eyes started to cross.

It has to be some seriously good knitting for me to pass up on sleep these days. I can't even begin to tell you how much I enjoyed knitting this sweater. I even enjoyed *blocking* it. (MADNESS!)

The yarn (Cascade Greenland) is delightfully round, robust, and substantial, which makes it an utter joy to knit with. It's the next best thing after working with my own handspun.

While I was working on it, I couldn't help but think of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, which I've had memorized for some time now. "On Sunday, he had one nice green leaf, and he felt much better."

Nice green leaves

Then I went all If You Give a Mouse a Cookie on this sweater. I dug through my button box and found caterpillars, but it wasn't enough. We found oranges, grapes (not entirely accurate, but close enough), strawberries, a butterfly, and apples (with the help of a friend). I also found grosgrain ribbon with The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

I remember reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar to KidBrother Sam, when he was little; how he used to say "cal-i-pittar", how we would count all of the fruit and poke our fingers through the holes. And now we're sharing this with Genevieve, and creating new memories.

It's not quite finished, but I am already so excited about this sweater. It will be something beautiful that reminds her of one of her favorite books.

I guess, sometimes you measure love ... in leaves.