Slowing down

Heavy. Tired. We have momentum in the mornings that ends in fat feet and a spine that wants to stay adhered to the couch. We hurry to sweep, load dishes, change laundry, paint, do worksheets, and make dinner before everyone gets home, sucking every molecule of vertical stamina from my iron supplements.

I have been having moments of comfort and happiness, of excitement at the end of a new milk frother and assortment of k-cups. The old dark thoughts have gone walking again at night when my guard goes down, and they catch me while driving sometimes.

We went to a Royal Scottish Country Dance party and the highland instructor blocked the door after seeing the length of the boy-child's legs. I sat knitting kilt hose for those stick-insect limbs while the old ladies nodded and winked at each other.

Feet like a draft horse.

Pattern to come as I write it down. And OF COURSE I ran out of yarn 3 inches from the toe and needed to order another ball, which of course is back-ordered until February. Became overcome by visions of rampant hose knitting and bought a book of old kilt hose patterns. Who am I?

The cats and my mother have stolen the ugly striped blanket I made, and huddle under it all together against the freezing evening rain, so I have started a new baby blanket.

Umaro, by Jared Flood (Brooklyn Tweed)

Editing illustrations, which I am always certain ruins them completely.

Things are slowly moving along.