mamacate

If Your Friend Told You to Jump off the Brooklyn Bridge...

Would you?

Apparently, my answer would be yes.

I just bought this:

In part due to the presence of this:

And of course the general and extreme fabulousity of it.  And I got it for a really great price, at least I think so: $275 shipped.  At that price, if there's anything funky with it, which it doesn't look like there is, I can get Dave Paul to fix it for me (hopefully, if he's not too busy building hitchers, and I think I'm going to need to sell mine now).

But I do need to tell you that Marcy is entirely to blame.  Seriously.  She didn't just send it to me once, she sent it to me again yesterday.  Just in case I had forgotten.  Or hadn't noticed that the price hadn't been bid up.  Pusher.  I tell ya.

Oh, and if anyone remembers me talking about the wheel that Rhys said "would look good in your new apartment?"  This is it.  Mmm hmm.

I am hoping that the fact that she saw a play with Lynn Redgrave last night and is seeing The Producers tonight and is just hanging around NYC after, you know, the second of three days of 7-hour-long break-filled grueling management workshops, sans enfants, I'm hoping that this will help her see the true wisdom of this purchase.

Now, how do I keep the kids from wrecking it?  Man, I'm hopeless.

PS: If you know anything more about this wheel than I do (which is, um, exactly what's in the description), let me know, will ya?  Thanks.

Random Wednesday

You know how some people have days of the week for blogging certain things, like some people spin on Tuesdays (or at least claim to do so), or blog the knitalongs they're hosting, and some people mock others mercilessly (but amusingly) on Thursdays?  Well, I find that once a week or so, I just have a nice little pile of random things I'm meaning to blog, so, let it be known, henceforth and forthwith, from this time forward until I get tired of it or forget about it, Wednesday shall be Random Blog Post Day, in which I just run off at the keyboard with no rhyme or reason (okay, more so than usual).  Unless I forget.  Or have something else to say.  There's some commitment for ya.

Here goes:

• Starting August 1, I have reduced my hours at my regular job.  That's the grant-funded one that is *sort of* ending at the end of September.  I'm taking a bunch of vacation time that I don't have, and all my freelance clients are getting busy at the same time, and the time is right.  It means no more pension benefits, though, and that's a bummer.  But I've been heading toward this point for so long, it's good to just make the leap.
• It's back to seeming like my work commitments, other than these reduced hours, are never going to lighten up.  It's crazy, because I operate as if the problem is running out of work, when in fact, consistently, the problem has been too much work.  Yet still I worry.  Oy.
• So my boss (the one at the old job, the awesome one who makes leaving really hard because hello, sane bosses don't come around every day) was telling me about this garden party she went to last weekend. She says she didn't have anything to wear, so she went to the mall and bought--get this--a SHRUB.  She found out later (from a knitter also attending the party) that her shrub was, in fact, a SHRUG, but the damage had been done, and her hipness quotient permanently trashed.  There is some suspicion that the staff at The French Connection was messing with her head.  I'm just impressed that she could pull off a shrug at all.  I just can't see me in one, I gotta tell ya.
• So, despite enjoying certain people's snark about knitting, I try to think of myself as rather open-minded and positive, you know, "if you love it, knit it," whatever floats your boat kind of gal.  So what is up with me a) actually TELLING a new knitter announcing her plans to make a poncho that "I'm kind of anti-poncho" and then b) having to hold my tongue when discussing the shrub/shrug incident to keep from starting to rant about why anyone would want to wear JUST SLEEVES.  And I readily confess that a shrug makes more physiological sense than a vest, since extremities get colder faster than the trunk, but from a fashion perspective, I don't get it.  So my whole image of myself as all "knit and let knit."  Yeah, pretty much BS.  But I try.
• Did you see?  The website for Rhinebeck is up, including the class schedule.  I definitely want to take the Icelandic class on Sunday afternoon, and maybe the Weird Science class on Friday.
• Rhys is out of town, and I'm tired.  The kids are at a point where they understand time enough to really get how long she's gone and how long it will be until she's back.  This morning actually wasn't bad, but there has been a lot of drama since she left yesterday.
• In further kid stuff, yet another of their preschool teachers is leaving.  Then I also found out that their teacher in the room they'll be moving to in the fall is pregnant with #2, due in December.  I doubt she'll be coming back--even I can do the math on the cost of childcare for two kids.  We're making a lot of compromises to keep them at this school in the name of connections and continuity--right now, I'm not feeling it.  I may renew my search for a preschool with a half-day program that's closer to home.  Not that I haven't already done my very best, with no success.  With all the talk of family values, you'd think maybe our society would invest in programs that serve CHILDREN?  Stop laughing.
• Speaking of fake family values, did you see Rick Santorum (link is a google bomb with offensive, though funny content, be warned) on The Daily Show Monday night?  Man.  He's one scary dude, and of course loverboy Jon did quite a good job of dealing with him, when it was clear that he was perfectly well-aware of the fact that the only reasonable approach to this guy would be to tell him to fuck off.  In a way it was a little tough to watch, since Jon had to act sort of well-behaved in the face of the kind of crap he normally trashes.  I find it fascinating that The Daily Show has become part of the book-promotion circuit for right-wing politicos.  What's their goal there?  Are they going for the youth market?  Is it blogworthy for right-wingers?  Does it create controversy and thereby press coverage? 
• Oh, and speaking of buddy Santorum and controversy and press coverage, did you see the Boston Globe's reporting of his editorial about the clergy sex abuse scandal being due to all the homos here in Massachusetts?  Now that's a little logical contortion that is really quite impressive.  The clergy in his own homophobic church are abusing children because there are gay people with civil rights in Mass.  Riiiiight.  It's sort of a wonder Jon didn't jump over the desk and throttle him.  Pacificst, schmasifist, I would have been hard-pressed to resist throttling.
• Okay, enough with the politics.  Let's complain about knitting.  Birch?  Man, whose freakin' idea was THAT?  The yarn is, erm, well, not exactly fun to work with, and who decided I should knit with MOHAIR in JULY??? (Yes, I'm yelling, sorry.)  I keep thinking I'm almost done.  I have started the third ball of crack poison yarn and the only thing stopping me from tossing it aside is the knowledge that I will never want to set eyes on it again if I do.  That, and the fact that Kim is working on it in the same colorway and I'll be jealous if she finishes hers and mine is in a corner.  At least that's what I'm telling myself.  In fact I might not be jealous at all.
• I'm swatching some cables in Motley for the afghan Annie is organizing for Kerstin's sister-in-law.  I'll have to see how it blocks out, or otherwise try another swatch, since it's a bit smaller than 8 inches, but Motley is almost as fun to knit with as it is to spin.  And despite being spun via the laziest long draw in history, the yarn looks incredibly even.  Forgiving wool.  Yeah baby.
• My boss' shrub flub is nothing compared to Greta's typo.  Orgasmic orange juice?  Yes, please.
• Got my bryspun circs from Abundant Yarn and everything Grumperina says is true.  Great for lace.  How are we going to get them to make sizes under 3.25mm?  I want long ones for magic loop socks.  Pretty please?
• In other postal news, my secret pal sent me A Gathering of Lace.  AHHHH, thank you secret pal!  This is seriously not helping the startitis I'm feeling with stupid Birch staring me in the face, but I still have FBS and Hyrna Hergorbar to finish, and Henry and Eleanor have already started to question whether I'm making too many shawls.  I plead the fifth.
• So most of us took the MIT Blog Survey, which has actually ended.  But have you seen the Macromedia Survey?  It looks like they're developing a blogging tool.  I suggested that they include the ability to highlight text in your post and right-click, bringing you to a menu that will allow you to google the phrase or select from URLs you have linked to that phrase in previous posts.  How cool would that be, huh? 
• In local news, the founder of Webs' Master Knitter program quit abruptly last week, citing a clash of strong personalities.  There are, apparently, hard feelings on both sides, and a bunch of classes without a teacher.  The founder is planning to continue the program elsewhere.  Webs is apparently planning to continue the program with other teachers.  It's complicated.  My only thought: does this mean I don't have to finish the Fair Isle Lumber?
• That's quite enough for Random Wednesday.  Thank you for playing.

Another Beautiful New England Summer Weekend

Gorgeous, low-humidity weather (yup, still with the weather gratitude), bright sun, cool breezes, wool and friends and good food and margaritas.  Sweet.

Claudia is a lovely hostess.  She has the perfect combination of gracious elegance and friendly openness.  Her home is beautiful (and she does, in fact, have the world's largest bedroom, and a very wonderful fiber room filled with wooly goodness, not to mention a sink specifically designed to accomodate a dye pot, I mean, this girl has priorities!), the company was fabulous and the food and drinks were scrumptious.

The whack of knitters (isn't that what Stephanie called a gathering of fibery folks?) was brilliant, and I loved having the chance to meet so many bloggers in person.  Marcy and Laurie suggested nametags, and Claudia and I, among others, did a certain amount of scoffing and acting like we were WAAAY too cool for nametags before Claudia acquiesced, like a good hostess, to her guest's request.  Well, let it be known that Marcy and Laurie were absolutely right, and as the nametags went on, I realized I knew more than half the people in the room, and could probably identify their carpets, cats, and recent FOs at 30 paces, if not their faces.

Cassie and Juno are talking about whether this sort of gathering is so wonderful because it is rare.  I think there is an element of excitement that would be lost with more frequent gatherings, but I have to come down on Juno's side with this one: this is the point.  The reason I do all the J-O-Bs and the dishes and the cursed laundry is so I can sit in a hammock on a sunny day with my kids, talk about Harry Potter with faraway friends on the phone (even when they inadvertently spill a SPOILER, as Sara's partner Terry did this weekend), explore festabals both wooly and non, and gather with the similarly-afflicted to craft, knowing we share something, maybe something we can't even define.

If you're feeling bereft and geographically challenged, perhaps there is room for a similar gathering near you.  NETA has created a weekend-long event with this purpose, called The Spa.  We just take over a hotel in February; there are no fees, just knitters and spinners and wool.  How do you find your local kindred?

My photos are few and lousy, so I'll resist the urge to post them, and I'll leave it at this: a day of fibery goodness.

Thank you, Claudia.

Sorry, Wrong Number

So, at both the liberal-elite-east-coast-ivory-tower colleges where I work, we received search letters for an administrative position at Patrick Henry College.

If the cover letter's mention of "timeless biblical values" (not to be confused with actual biblical values) hadn't clued me in that we were dealing with a rather, erm, different institution, the name rang a bell.  I had seen Jon Stewart ("the man even lesbians want to shag") interviewing Hannah Rosin about her New Yorker piece on the College.  Further googling also brought me this, including the following quote, with which I wholeheartedly agree:

Nancy Keenan, of the liberal campaign group People for the American Way, says: "The number of interns [from Patrick Henry] going into the White House scares me to death."

Yeah that, and the fact that they'll probably get away with the Rove thing, and the Roberts nomination, and...ugh.  If moving to Canada is the new lesbianism, maybe I need to get right with celsius and "fibre."  Hmmm..."Cate in Ottawa"...it has a certain ring to it.  Not terribly likely, at this point, but a hell of a lot more likely than me moving to Virginia.  As I like to say to door-to-door evangelicals, "sorry, pagan lesbian here, might want to try next door."  Wrong number.  Dude.

Knitting?  Spinning?  Just slow plugging away at Birch, FBS, Motley, and a wee bit more cashmere to ply with the leftovers on one of the bobbins.  I started blogging my knitting because it kept me honest about finishing things, but I'm not sure how well that's working at the moment.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Moon, Moon, Moon

Moon, moon, moon,
Shining bright.
Moon, moon, moon,
My night light.
Moon, moon, moon,
I can see.
Moon, moon, moon,
You're taking care of me.

Centuries of soaring verse inspired by the lunar lady, and yes, I go with Laurie Berkner again.  I told you it was catchy.

I've been complaining about the weather a lot lately, and now's the time to express a little gratitude.  The humidity broke yesterday, the sun is bright and beautiful, and while it's hot, it's really quite pleasant.

Last night when I let the dog out before bed, I stepped out and spotted the full moon shining above the towering white pines in my backyard.  The air was still with a crisp New England twinge, just cool enough to refresh; a summer cool that always surprised me as a NYC kid at summer camp in New Hampshire.

While the dog sniffed and explored the backyard, I sat on the back step and just watched the quiet, black silhouettes of the trees against the deep blue of the midnight sky.  Finally getting back to spinning Motley last night must have calmed me somehow, because it felt like the first time in oh so many years I have just sat under the moon, late at night, and felt the cool air on my face.  With so much bustle in my days now, and before all the grief and weight and loss of waiting for my babies (I used to ask the moon for a gift every single time she appeared), it was revelatory to sit under that moon and want nothing but what I had right there and then: blue-silver soft light, the cool stillness of a New England summer night, crickets and daylilies and teeming green slumbering around me, and the warm breath of my family, finally made flesh.

I didn't thank the moon, because she doesn't bestow anything, really, beyond light and tides and her own kind of gravity.  She's just there.  For me, last night, that's all I wanted, and I'm grateful that I was there with her.

So thanks.  That's all.

(Not) Perfect

Liz has a great post about Wabi-Sabi and the quest for perfection today.  It got me thinking about something that has been rattling around in the old brain for a bit.

We are, um, slightly addicted to listening to Laurie Berkner in the car.  If you have a preschool-aged child, you probably know who I’m talking about, and if you don’t have one, figure 2 parts Raffi, one part Peter, Paul, and Mary, and a dash of, I don’t know, Suzanne Vega or something.  Folky, poppy, kid music.  With an extreme, severe, and gigantic tendency toward getting stuck in your head.  When Jenny of Three Kid Circus mentioned that she was humming Victor Vito in her head, I went out and bought the CD, not realizing that the humming might well not be voluntary.  Catchy.  Yeah, just a little.

Anyway, there’s a song on the Victor Vito CD called “I’m Not Perfect.”  It goes like this:

I’m not perfect

No I’m not

I’m not perfect

But I’ve got what I’ve got

I do my very best

Do my very best

Do my very best each day

But I’m not perfect

And I hope you like me that way.

Then it goes along to sing similar verses for “you’re not perfect” and “we’re not perfect” and in the end it’s “And you know I love you that way.”

And you know, there are days, driving to school after a particularly intransigent morning, or an afternoon where I literally had to drag them out of the preschool building, when that song is a bit of a balm for my spirit.  It makes me feel a little better about the extreme imperfection of my parenting, and my general self, at those moments, and, well, all the time.  So I sing along with it, rather imperfectly, and it kind of makes me feel better.

The thing is, the kids are listening (this is supposed to be kids’ music, after all).  And in short order, they start singing the song themselves.  “I’m not perfect, no I’m not!”  And then I’m torn.  Because part of me wants to shout out, “You ARE perfect!  You are absolutely perfectly, completely, ideally, and faultlessly YOU, and that is perfection itself.”  And I do think they’re perfect, Ellie in her freckle-nosed, round-bellied, pretend-ballet-dancing blur, and Henry in his blond and handsome talkative seriousness.  Even when Henry steals Eleanor’s Groovy Girl and throws it over the backseat for pure spite and she head-butts him in retribution (yeah, that would be THIS morning’s excitement), could they be any more perfectly three?  Any more perfectly twins?  I’m here to tell you, that’s about as perfectly THEM as it gets.  (Which is why I often have a perfect headache.)

So, in the midst of all this perfection, this not-always-desirable and far-from-peaceful perfection, do I really want my kids singing a song about not being perfect?  I mean, I don’t think they’re going to need therapy for this or anything, but I’m just trying to figure out what my stance is.  So I try it on for myself.  What if I was singing that song, and somebody said to me, “Yes you ARE perfect!  You are perfectly scatterbrained, perfectly irresponsible, perfectly sloppy, and perfectly YOU.”  And after recovering from that pretty major back-handed compliment, I might say, um, BULLSHIT.  I’m not even perfectly any of those things (except perhaps sloppy), and I’m not perfect and I don’t want to be.  Perfection is too much pressure.  I don’t want to spin perfectly and I don’t want to knit perfectly and while I imagine I’d like to parent perfectly it probably wouldn’t be very good preparation for life in a world full of real people and anyway, no danger of that happening, that’s for sure.

So perfection isn't for me, but then what do I tell the kids?  Perhaps my resistance to imagining myself as perfectly me, in the glory of all my imperfections, is just the layers of a grown-up life, and perhaps they can still accept themselves as perfect.  Or maybe I should give them the same slack I give myself and say, “No, I tend to think you’re perfect, but nobody is really, and you don’t have to be.  In fact, take my advice, don’t go there.  It isn’t any fun.”

I guess what I really want to protect them from is the idea of perfection.  It’s a word they’ve asked me to define, and I said that someone who’s perfect is someone who never makes mistakes, and there aren’t any people like that in real life.  I want them to strive for wonderful things in life, but I think that the drive to do that is naturally occurring, and sometimes the quest for perfection is what chases it out of some of our hearts.  I know that perfectionism can stop me dead in my tracks if I let it.

For now, I suppose I’ll take the easy, imperfect, lazy-mom approach of which I am so fond.  I’ll keep singing, loudly and off-key, and encourage them to join me in the chorus.  Because I suppose in the end, that’s the point.  “And you know I love you that way.”

Edited to add that I should have linked to my dear friend Sara's column in Bay Windows on a very similar topic.  Thinking about this in the context of disability brings the notion of true perfection to a completely different level, and reminds me that the human version of perfection takes a million different, equally perfect forms.  And because I can't resist the opportunity to show a cute kid picture, I'll link to a photo I posted in response to her original post on the topic.

Something to Show

Well, not much to say, but it turns out that I do have a fair amount to show.  This is only because I haven't uploaded pictures in a while.

Well, despite an early and rather obnoxious wakeup call each day this weekend from my lovely son, who has been doing great since the surgery but has suddenly regressed terribly, possibly related to the otty-pay aining-tray.  Anyway, I'm ready for it to be over.  The early wakeups and the humidity.  But I think I mentioned that.

As I was saying, we did have some fun this weekend.  At the dog festival, we took Scoutie to see Madame Bowowski, who read Scoutie's skull and her past lives.  She told us that in a past life Scoutie had been a roman soldier named Caninus Maximus.  It was all very cute, but also somewhat surprising since Scoutie's nickname around the house is Scoutivarius Maximus.  Perhaps Madame Bowowski does in fact have special powers.  And before my mother, the high school Latin teacher, comments to correct , I know it should have been Canis Maxima.  Or something.  I never took Latin.  Probably for the best.

The highlight of the weekend, however, was the pediatric pedicure party.  That is, the pedi pedi party.  Everyone wanted pink sparkly toenails.  Who am I to argue?  It was kind of a fun, girly, boy-y bonding moment (Henry was hardly going to let sparkly toenails pass him by, and he carries it off in a very manly way, I must say).  I'm looking forward to lots of home-spa days in our future.  Rhys isn't sure she approves, but maybe next time I'll do something less enduring, like blue facial masks or something.  They'll love that.

Despite the dusk-like sky all day today, I did manage to get a photo of the cashmere.  It's 175 yards.  Lacy gloves, perhaps.  The little bits in there are either the  embarrassing flaky residue of my sanity, or goat dandruff, called scurf.  You decide.  I'm hoping it will wash out.

In less recent spinning, I photographed the Copper Moth tussah back when that firey orb was still gracing our sky, that is, last weekend.  I think I've been putting off posting it because the pictures really point out how different the two skeins are.  One is 240 yards and the other is about 300 (next time I'll actually attach the paper to the skein).  So I can probably get two scarves out of this, and a scarf was what I had planned in the first place.  But having them be unintentionally different makes me want to make a shawl or something.  Warped, I know.

Also in old news, a couple of skeins of the wonderous Motley, which, when I return to him after spinning the cashmere, should be quite an experience in relaxation.  Motley is a blast to spin and just flies onto the bobbin with minimal effort, in no small part thanks to the work of my friends at Zeilinger's.  However, the finished product is not as enticing as I might like.  It reminds me of an old yarn, now discontinued but alive in my stash, called Ballybrae, if anyone remembers that stuff.  Not bad stuff at all, in a rustic sort of way, but not the luxury I sometimes hope for from handspun.  Don't care, though, as it makes me happy.  And it still wants to be a cabled cardigan. 

All that said, and I will leave you with a little wool porn.  I promised some Motley in good light, and Motley in good light you shall have.  Look closely and you can see that Motley was well-named.  He actually has black and white fibers, rather than gray ones.  He wasn't spotted--I saw the freshly-shorn fleece--that's just how his wool grew.  Kinda cool, huh?

Say goodnight, Motley. 

Good night, Motley.

Other People Have Things to Say

Since I got nuthin', nuthinnuthinnuthin, not even a photograph of my mediocre skein of handspun 100% cashmere (with large chunks of sanity spun right in!), with Birch and FBS both chugging quite slowly along, and Hryna Hergorbar just waiting for some new needles that won't break when I try to knit with them, I pretty much got nuthin' for you today.

Nice weekend, if you like 137% humidity and cranky kids who insist on getting up at 5:00 in the morning, which, frankly, I don't.  At least it was a weekend, and we actually had a very social time with a visit from Nana, the kids' godparents, and even a dog festival at which we saw Marcy and Oley, who is even more handsome in person (well, Marcy too, but I meant the dog).  Just, you know, I'm not fond of the whole crack of dawn tantrum routine.  I could live without that part, is all I'm saying.  That, and the humidity.

The j-o-bs continue their up and down insanity and I've just decided to take some dramamine and wait for the ride to end.  I know I need to have some work and some money, and I know I don't want to work full-time and do full-time daycare, so I know this juggling act will continue in some form for a good long time, but man alive I'd love to just have a thing that I'm doing right now, just focusing on raising the kids and not trying to do the whole career thing and network and blah blah blah, or, less appealingly, the obverse, with Rhys home with the kids and me being the glamorous career woman (ha!  haha!).  In the end, the juggling act is the right thing, but right now I wouldn't mind dropping a few balls, just for a moment.  I'm sure you're sick of hearing about this.  If it makes you feel any better, I am too.

All of this is to say that while I got nuthin', Jenny of Three Kid Circus, a parenting blog I just adore, and I have high standards for such things, has a great post about, well, about watching them get big.  And how that changes you.  Go see.  Really. 

On the fibery side, Juno, Laurie, and Lee Ann are rapidly becoming excellent spinners, making amazing yarn right out of the gate.  Juno is discovering that this addiction is far more important than silly things like, oh, sleep, and happily, Lee Ann's Spiff is coming to understand the importance of such activities.  Laurie has found an excellent mentor, and the plans for world domination are proceeding apace.  Stephanie is even taking down notes on how to get started.  Abandon hope, all ye who think you are going to get away with not learning to spin.

Back to today's j-o-b .  Photos of cashmere and minute progress and such forthwith, and all that.  Maybe I'll even have something to say, or, goddess forbid, an FO to show at some point this week.  No promises.

And as for the 5am tantrums and the 137% humidity, enough already, okay?  If I could be allowed to sleep until, say, 6:30, by the time mamarhys goes on a business trip all next week, I'm just saying I'd kind of appreciate it.

And the Winner Is....

Caroline of Pink Tea!  (And thanks to my old pal, random.org for picking her.)

Caroline, email me and let me know your address.  I see you're a spinner, and hopefully you've recovered enough from spinning that pound of Cormo to consider attacking a half-pound of camel.  If not, I'll photograph my sock stash, or, if you're really cruel and unusual, you can make me spin it up for you.

It would be entertaining at the least.

Thanks to everyone for the fabulous suggestions and ideas.  I love them, and I'm going to put a link to these ideas in the sidebar as soon as I have the spare brain cells (I know...).

I particularly love the variegated yarn idea, and it reminded me that I have four pounds of worsted weight blue-faced leicester/alpaca yarn that I bought to dye, sitting in the stash.  I'll try to dye some up before the first meeting, though, you know, good intentions and all that.

Anyway, this was wonderful (and it's so exciting to get comments from folks for the first time).  I might have to do this contest thing a bit more often now.

I'll keep you posted on how the teaching goes.

In Over My Head, For a Change

It seems that all the teachers in my kids' preschool/daycare knit, or are learning to knit, or want to learn to knit.  I've been talking with quite a few of them about starting a knitting group for a while now, but I haven't had time or energy to organize it, and no one else has either.

Until now.

Jessica, who was Henry & Eleanor's toddler teacher, and was also the long-suffering babysitter who sat for me on the weeknight Stephanie came to town, the night I stayed out until midnight because adult conversation and microbrewed beer and knitting buddies I'd never met before but who seemed like old friends immediately and Morris Dancers and The Sock and its adventures were just too much for me to tear myself away.  I'm weak.  No surprise there.

So dear Jessica, who turns out to have a blog even, has learned to knit, and folks, she's a goner.  She showed me, oh, about two feet of a Blue Sky Alpacas ribbed scarf she started two nights before.  It's lovely.  And I will also note, good taste in yarn, no?  She told me that late at night she seriously considered getting out of bed to knit more.  Like me, I know you're shaking your head.  You know where things go from here.

So, with this newly-minted addict on the case, the preschool knitting group is now happening.  I have offered to serve as knitting consultant, and a few teachers have asked if I'm willing to teach them how to knit from scratch.  I really want to do this, since these folks have done so much for our family, and, well, as everyone knows, knitters recruit (almost as much as spinners do).

I've taught a handful of people to knit, but it has always been one on one. I have never had a class or a mini-class where I had to give instruction to a group, and not have an interactive, back-and-forth, tailor it to your learning style kind of teaching experience.  I usually give Stitch 'n Bitch, some big needles and some sexy yet simple yarn, and help them cast on a garter stitch scarf using the long-tail method.  If casting on gives them heart palpatations, I cast on for them and tell them I'll teach them again for their next project.  And that's about all I got.

I could use some help.  And I have noticed that a good way to get lots of help is to offer up yarn or fiber from the stash.  I'm not entirely sure what to offer, and I'm not at home so I can't take pictures, but if you're a spinner, you can have a half-POUND of camel to spin (and I promise, it will drive you insane).  If you're not a spinner, you can have a choice from my sock yarn stash (enough for a pair of course), or, if you choose, a skein of 2-ply camel spun by yours truly (along with my sanity, which will be spun right into the yarn, or more accurately, into the pile of small broken bits of yarn I will generate while trying to spin it).  The skein will be at least 150 yards, more if my sanity holds up.  You're aware of the state of my sanity.  Plan a small project.

So, what do you have to do to earn these valuable prizes?

Give me your best tip for teaching knitting to beginners, link to a web resource for teaching knitting, or recommend a book, or even better, a handout to offer to beginning knitters at our first meeting.  Post it in the comments.

At 10 pm on Sunday night, I'll randomly select a winner from the comments, and then everyone will win by getting ringside seats to the undoing of my sanity while I try to spin up that camel fiber (I'm feeling all cocky now that I'm long-drawing cashmere with one hand, if only for seconds at a time).  I reserve the right to stack the deck, so if you want the sock yarn or the camel to spin yourself, make sure to mention that and I'll enter you twice.  (I might be just kidding about that.  We'll see.)

Okay, GO!