Yesterday was my seventh wedding anniversary (as opposed to my mothering anniversary which coincides neatly with Blake's birthday, or the anniversary of the day I came out of retirement to clean up this rotten desert town.) I feel cautious in saying this, as there have been many storms this month, but I think it went pretty damn well. I got up with Blake and hurried through a number of chores and giftie preparations so that when the Boy woke up we could concentrate on getting him to church with his accordion.
(Aside: at the beginning of the summer, I signed him up for special summertime music. I thought it would be a good deadline to learn the new instrument, plus he'd be the lead-in to two weeks of tween instrumentals. If you haven't already guessed, standards are looser in the summer. This was a good plan right up until Saturday, when he began to panic, hence straightening his accordion path on Sunday.)
The Boy was excellent, and although there were a couple of train wrecks, people were too busy singing and clapping to mind. You definitely have surprise on your side when you walk up to the front and pull out an accordion. Even people who have been told aren't quite prepared for the majesty that is our creaky, dead-grampa-smelling accordion. It's just that awesome.
Blake fell asleep during the service, and thus chose books over a snack when he woke up (he may have been sleep-addled, as this is not a typical choice). We came home, made a massive 5-egg mushroom & cheese omelette, and revelled in the Boy's victory. Then there were presents.
(Aside: In all churlishness, I was a little afraid of what the Boy would get me. He had told me a few days before that he was starting from scratch, due to the massive series of fights we'd had after my birthday. I try not to get my hopes too high, but this year is wool-themed. It's relatively easy. Just Buy Me Yarn.)
I had made up a little knitting basket in honour of the Boy's fluctuating interest in knitting. There was exciting thick-thin Romni Yarn (and most importantly for the Boy, it was blue), two balls of the cheap cotton I'd picked up last week in Watertown that he'd admired, a pair of Brittany Birch needles to replace the ones I sat on and broke, and a copy of Knitting With Balls (the modern man's guide to knitting, which isn't nearly as stupid as it sounds). I also popped in a co-operative educational card game we'd picked up on the night we went dancing, and The Dangerous Book for Boys (a how-to omnibus which may very well have been his favourite gift. It rocks my socks, too.) The basket was to be for his stash, projects or whatever. I was pretty proud of myself.
Then he pulled out the ballwinder & swift.
Um, if you're not into yarn I just lost you completely. A ballwinder and swift are two tools that turn skeins (that yummy figure-eight of nice yarns everywhere) into a ball suitable for knitting. For two and a half years, I've been using God's ball winder and swift (i.e. my hands and my knees/my kitchen chair), which can be actually quite therapeutic if you enter into it with the correct spirit. I'd always consoled myself by holding that my lack of gear made me more like the knitters of old. Well, turns out that was just me being brave because I love my new equipment!! We wound two "yarn cakes" yesterday, one of which Blake immediately adopted and took with him on his overnight to Camp Grandpa. We'd've done more, but it's actually better to leave the yarn in a skein until you're ready to use it. More stable that way.
This constituted a second victory for the Boy, so we celebrated by watching Blake dig in his new giant grandparent-built sandbox all afternoon. It's the Cadillac of sandboxes: cedar planks, 900 pounds of soft sand, 8 feet by 4 feet…they went to town on this one (Sandbox Town, one assumes.) The next step is to trick it out by painting sea creatures on the seats and sides. Gorgeous.
My dad came over in mid-afternoon and picked up Blake for his night at Camp Grandpa, leaving the two of us to read, knit, work on the computer, snack, listen to ska, and generally indulge ourselves in the way that the child-free folk do. Unfortunately, I started feeling ill, so we cancelled our reservations at a nice restaurant and made do at a cheap Pho place instead. (Mental note: next time I'm sick, I'm going to avoid the tripe.) And then we caught the early show of Stardust, which was a) dashing b) complete c) only changed in a few tiny ways, one of which was disappointing, one of which made little difference and once of which was an improvement. So hooray for that! It's always good when a special occasion is complimented by a good book adaptation. Bravo to Mssrs. Gaiman & Vaughn: you have ensured that my anniversary did not descend into disappointment.
And as I have never made a habit of writing about the other stuff, we shall draw our curtain here. Happy anniversary, Boy.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*