If I wasn’t already completely in love with Forrest’s babysitter (possibly the most adorable teenager I’ve ever known), she won over whatever little part of me was holding back when we came home after a date to discover that she had tucked the little guy into bed like this:
In case you don’t recognize it, he’s cuddled up under the blanket I crocheted for him. It would bother me if he just didn’t care for this blanket—I am severely wounded by his burning hatred for it. An arrow through my heart, I tell you. Simply not loving it is not enough . . . the child throws a fit every time it’s presented to him, and angrily tosses it off if I try to put it over his lap while he’s watching TV or reading a book. But his deep love for his babysitter (which, in all honesty, makes me feel a little insecure . . . he’s way more excited to see her than he ever is about me) is enough to cross the great divide, and he didn’t utter a peep when she unwittingly tucked him into bed with The Blanket of Doom. Never mind that it was on the floor outside his crib when we got him up the next morning. I’m sure that was an accident.
This is a pair of “cowboy shoes” Jeff brought back from Argentina almost 7 years ago—I laughed long and hard at the poor fellow for wearing these shoes that he spent 3 pesos (about $1) on. I told him they were the stupidest-looking shoes I’d ever seen (I believe I may have called them “grandpa shoes”), and he insisted that everyone wore them down there, they were so comfortable, blah blah blah. But they look kind of familiar, don’t they? I think TOMS is enjoying the last laugh now as we all jump at the chance to spend $40 for a pair of their $1 Argentine cowboy shoes. They’ve even won me over—the very style I once made fun of Jeff for wearing is starting to look pretty darn cute to me.
I’m slowly but surely (emphasis on slowly) building up a stock of crochet accessories for my booth at the upcoming Queen Bee Market this April—a handmade marketplace running alongside Snap Conference at Thanksgiving Point here in Utah. I can’t decide if I’m more excited about it (an entire market of handmade goodies! my own booth full of my own items! a chance to meet some of the fun and creative ladies whose blogs and shops I admire!) or scared silly (what if my booth is the one ugly sore thumb that looks like it was decorated by someone’s blind and senile great-grandma? what if no one buys any of my crap? what if I can’t make enough to fill my booth and it looks empty and ridiculous? what if I finally meet all these bloggers I’ve emailed and chatted with and they totally hate my stinking guts?). Deep breaths. Iiiiiiin. Ooouuuuuut.
My sister and I were googling “baby depression” the other day because Forrest was being so lethargic and grouchy . . . can a toddler be depressed? Google says yes, but his Exorcist-esque rocketing of cottage cheese-y vomit all over the car an hour later led us to reevaluate our diagnosis. After two days of lying on the couch downing a steady stream of apple juice and watching non-stop Monsters Inc., he seems to be feeling all better now. But don’t those sad sicky eyes just break your heart?
I’ve spent weeks searching for the perfect homemade wheat bread recipe—mine always comes out crumbly and dry, but I’ve finally struck gold thanks to Janssen and her delicious recipe. It’s soft enough for sandwiches and spreads, easy to slice without dissolving into a pile of crumbs on the counter, and so tasty. Thank you, Janssen!
I just finished reading The Diving Bell and the Butterfly this morning and . . . wow. Just wow. The true memoir of Jean-Dominique Bauby, it tells of his life with “locked-in syndrome” after a devastating stroke at the age of 44. He woke after a 20-day coma to find himself with a fully-functional mind in a paralyzed body—his only way to communicate was through blinking one eye. I often find this sort of book—the story of someone overcoming their hardships, triumphing against all odds—to be gimmicky and tired. I’ve heard it before, and I don’t want to read yet another tear-jerker inspirational tale . . . but this book was different. It was so powerful and real and simultaneously simple and awe-inspiring, minus all the schmultz that plagues so many “triumphant” stories. Give it a go. I’m glad I did.