Winter Hats

My grandson Brody has a royal blue coat. After Christmas I found yarn the exact same shade and decided to make him a hat.  Now I feel like Goldilocks.

The first hat was too big:

Daddy modeling the first attempt

The second hat was too little:



Baby brother models the second try

But the third hat was ... just right!

Brody, the dinosaur

It was ugly but my husband Jerry pointed out that measuring Brody's head and adjusting the gauge of the knit might have helped me in doing the project right the first time.

 Maybe I should have paid more attention to those story problems in eighth grade math.  Perhaps, just perhaps, there may be practical application for mathematical skills after all. 



Happy New Year everyone!

My Reindeer Ears

Our annual Z Indoor Christmas Caroling party was last Saturday night and fun was had by (almost) all.  One of the stellar moments of this special evening was when Miss Brenna Lockaby, age eight, brought down the the house with her spontaneous a Capella rendition of Pat-a-Pan, garnering thunderous applause as well as rave reviews from her audience.  (Jack and I immediately scrapped our plan to sing a duet of Silent Night in German...) 

For the first time ever, there was a dark underbelly to our (normally) joyous celebration.  For decades I have worn the same pair of reindeer antlers to this evening of caroling.  They are classic and classy and include dainty golden bells suspended from a beautiful red satin bow.  This year, however, my daughter, Captain of the Fashion Police, felt I should upgrade and spring for a new pair.  Although I looked, the new crop of antlers available for purchase were lacking in quality construction as well as in bells.  My old pair are nothing if not gorgeous, but I chose not to wear them anyway.

Midway through the event, Jerry had occasion to go into our bedroom and saw the lonely antlers hanging in the closet.  He must have felt sorry for them because the next thing I knew, I was wearing my reindeer antlers again.  God's in his heaven, all's right with the world. 



Did this woman steal my antlers?

Time elapsed and a friend (well, I thought she was a friend...) plucked them from my head and onto hers.  That's the last I saw of my beloved antique antlers.  Did my (former) friend spirit them off?  Did someone else take them from her?  Were my daughters involved?   

Whoever has stolen my reindeer antlers:  listen up!  Put them in a brown paper bag and leave them at my front door by Friday.  No questions will be asked and, if you follow these instructions, no police need to be involved.

Merry Christmas to everyone (else.)

The Haircut

I was getting my hair trimmed for the holidays when my beautician started to cough.

"You must have sucked in some hair," I said.

She just laughed, opened her equipment drawer and fished out a pair of tweezers.

"I use these to get all the hair out of my bellybutton before I leave the shop at night," she said. 

Wow!  That new tidbit of information inspired me to tip my stylist a lot more than I usually do.

The Committee Meeting

A recurrent problem in my life as a wife and mother has been that suppertime often creeps up on me and catches me unawares.  How can this be?  I mean, it happens every day.  You'd think I'd be better prepared for it.

Once I read an article by Rose Kennedy where she was asked her secret for feeding her large brood.  "Long ago, I made up a menu for two weeks," she said, "and I have been repeating it ever since."  She added, "Nobody has ever mentioned it.  They don't seem to notice."

As in love with the simplicity of this idea as I am, I have personally never been able to pull it off.  Not that anyone I ever should have fed regularly would have been more observant than the Kennedy Clan, but that designing and implementing the two-week menu has proven difficult.  I have attempted it more than a couple of times but somehow gotten distracted somewhere between the writing and repeating.  It seems to be a case of inner child rebellion.  (My bratty inner child acts up a lot.) 

Hope springs eternal. My mature self thinks it would be freeing to know what we're going to have for supper days in advance.  Organized me thinks this way I could be assured of having all the ingredients that I need on hand.  Frugal me adds that there would be less waste which translates into monetary savings, a delightful bonus. 

Apparently the whole "me" committee is willing to give this this brilliant idea one more shot.  My inner child will only cooperate if I allow her to bake cookies, but since it's December we all even agree with that idea.

Rose would be proud.