Knit wit

I decided recently that I wanted to learn to knit. I think my friend Kitty (no that isn't your real name, but your real name sounds like that, and I don't use real names on my blog, so you're Kitty) is disturbed by this decision, since it came on the heels of me reading this book. It's a horribly sad book about a woman who loses her 5 year old daughter to a rare form of strep. It's a true story. It's gut-wrenching and heartbreaking and I found myself audibly sobbing during the single afternoon it took me to read it. I could not put it down. My heart skipped a beat at her description of her daughter. She had beautiful blue eyes, blond hair with bangs, and glasses. Which is exactly what Ruthie looks like. At one point the author described how they had to decide whether or not to put her glasses in the casket. And they did, so she could see her dreams. I'll wait for you to dab your eyes so you can read further.
Okay, so this woman turned to knitting in her grief. It brought her tremendous comfort. And I was interested in her descriptions of learning to knit and what she made, etc. Now I can see why Kitty is slightly concerned that I am trying to mimic the life of this woman who lost her daughter who looks almost exactly like mine. But really, I was interested in it before. I just never had enough motivation to start learning. But after reading this book, and another fiction work by the same author, which also leans heavily on knitting as a theme, I asked a few friends who knit what they recommended to get me started. They recommended this book. After checking the online catalog, I found it at one of the local libraries, and while checking it out, noticed a flier for a "Learn to Knit" class at another branch. Fate, I tell you. Fate. So I signed up. And last night was the class. I figured, since knitting has become much more popular among younger people, that this class would be chock full of younger women ready to learn. Nope. Not even close. I was easily the youngest there by 2o years, not counting the librarian who was helping run the class. But it was fun, and I learned how to fix a mistake I have continually made during the few weeks I have been trying to teach myself.
The class was in the evening, which left Benny with a free evening with his daughters. How, you might ask, did he spend his time with his two PRESCHOOL AGED children? Why, he took them to a bar, of course!Apparently, the NY Giants SuperBowl trophy was on display at a local bar/pub (restaurant if you are the father of the children and trying to defend yourself to your wife). He wanted to dress them up in their Super Bowl shirts and take their picture, since taking your picture with the trophy was the big draw. Fine. Take them TO A BAR. Hopefully I will be so entranced by my knitting that I'll forget where you've gone. He waited in line in the bar with my little girls (who, if you don't remember, are the offspring of an alcoholic mother...albeit a recovering alcoholic). He made it a memorable experience for them. Ruthie got to sit at the bar on a stool, and Helen got to sit ON the bar. And Daddy almost got into a bar fight (while holding our two year old) over someone cutting the line. And when I returned home at 10:30 (from a post-knitting trip to hell (Wal-Mart) with my neighbor, I went upstairs to find Ruthie fast asleep in a puddle of urine. She never wets her bed. And Helen was in her crib, sleeping with her Taggie over her head, like she had the spins and the night light was causing her head to split open. It was all way too reminiscent of my first attempt at college. My children were hazed before they even got to Kindergarten.
This morning they continued the trend by behaving horribly and being altogether too cranky. Hangovers, no doubt.