And other assorted tidbits.
That, my lovies, right there, is a box. With socks. And other stuff. Addressed. Postaged. Ready for dropping off at the post office to wing its way to the Great White North where people need their socks.
Only 10 months late.
ETA: Officially at the post office, even! Lene, 6-10 days, not counting whatever customs weirdness may happen. At least there are no bees, second-hand or otherwise.
Midwife says baby measures big. That means I get more ultrasounds. I'm mostly okay with this.
Midwife also tells me that occasionally, a doctor at my local hospital (which I hope to avoid) will threaten to call CPS if you try to check out of the hospital with your child less than 24 hours after giving birth. Why do they do this? What is it about people who get off on being mean to women who are all hormonal, uncomfortable, straddling ice packs the size of Texas (hi Stacey) and just want to be at home in the comfort of their own beds with their new babies? Seriously, do they like making women cry? Do they have a death wish? Half the post-partum women I've known are weepy, half of them are raging lunatics. (Peanut gallery can keep to itself which one I am.) Seems like taking one's life into one's hands by pulling that kind of crap. Especially since they're just bluffing and there's no legal reason you can't take your healthy baby home when you wanna.
It doesn't seem possible that fully-cooked humans can be this small.
It's hard to try to teach my kid good manners when a) Daddy is teaching him bad ones, and b) I laugh so hard when he burps. It's the name. He says, "Oops, I barched." I dunno where "barch" came from, but it makes me laugh so hard. It doesn't matter how many times I hear it, either. Try it - say it out loud. Barch barch barch.
Aunt Scarf #2 proceeds apace.
It's currently the only thing I'm actively working on, but I have this waiting to be cast on after Turkey Day.
All of you and your damn silky wool are killing me. I DREAMED about it last night, people. Don't you know that I have a queue and that there are scarves, socks, jackets, and selbuvotter to be knit? You don't even care. You're so mean, you just want me to run out and buy gobs of beautiful soft yarn to make lovely garments.
Yesterday we kicked back in our jammies.
Today we kicked back in our jammies.
Yeah, we got it rough.