***

Dear Senator Blunt,

I'm sure you have hundreds of letters waiting for you, constituents irate about your vote today and your unwillingness to work in the favor of the American public instead of  yourself. I'll be brief.

Senator Blunt, I'm scared. I have a 21-month-old son, and frankly, I'm terrified of what our country will be like by the time he's ready to go to kindergarten. I worry when we're at Target picking up paper towels and bananas; I worry when we're at the zoo to see the tigers. Maybe part of being a parent is that constant fear for your child's safety, but Senator Blunt, you're not making this easier. You are, in fact, making it worse. I want my little boy to grow up without having to worry that a bad person will break into his school and start shooting guns. I want him to run and jump and play and read and do all the things a little boy does.

His name is Henry. He likes blocks, cars, and cheese. He gives open-mouthed kisses and meows every time he sees a cat. He doesn't know about cowardice and he doesn't know about ego or pride, but even he knows when he's done something wrong.

Make it better.

Sincerely,

Kristin

***

Angry mothers of the world: unite. Write to your Senator. Tell them about your kids. Tell them about your fears. Tell them that ain't nobody got time for that. Tell them that their term will end soon.

Sweater, we have had good times. We have had bad times. And by the looks of you, this should be a good time. All finished up, button bands and collar sewn on nice and neat, complete with rustic buttons fashioned out of driftwood.

But you don't fit my husband, sweater. You're a little snug (I say) and just kind of weird. Or maybe you fit perfectly (he says) and everything feels just right.

But there is no maybe about this:

That shawl collar is THE WORST. I was so excited after my marathon seaming-and-finishing extravaganza. It was 11:00 on a Saturday night. I dashed upstairs and lo, Justin was still awake and ready to try on the sweater of his dreams.

He looked like a damn woman.

There is nothing, nothing masculine about this sweater. At least not with that collar.

Worse from the back? Yes."But Daniel Craig wears a shawl-collared sweater! So does the guy from the LL Bean catalog!"

Friends, as much as it pains me to admit this, my husband is not Daniel Craig. He is not built like an inverted pyramid. He is built like a tall, slim, delicious piece of man who looks horrible in shawl collars.

Remember that part in Jurrasic Park where Newman is traipsing about in the rain and he sees a sweet little dinosaur and all of a sudden it goes batshit crazy and eats him?

That's pretty much what he looks like in that sweater.

So the collar and button bands are no more. The good thing is that they were knit last and seamed to the body. The bad thing is that I have to figure out what I want to do now. The LL Bean version (which this is modeled after) has a ribbed buttonband and collar. I'm probably going to go in that direction, but with a crew collar instead of full on shawl. I'm also going to install a zipper instead of screwing around with buttons, which will give me some extra room in the body.

(And since you will ask, yes, I tried it on, and yes, it looked great on me - BECAUSE I'M A GIRL - even though it was about two sizes too small. Which tells you exactly how bad it looked on him.)

Of course, with just a few exceptions, nobody except me and Justin can understand what he's saying. The exceptions, however, are awesome.

Annie? Are you okay?Henry M. is not a shy creature. He will gladly climb into another mommy's lap at storytime (we haven't gone back; it was awkward for everyone and my feelings were hurt) and he has no qualms about marching right up to someone new and giving them a good hug around the knees. So his greeting of choice is somewhat appropriate.

Hi.

Hi delights him. He says it to me every few seconds when I'm trying to get something done. He says it when he wants to be cute (which is all the time) and when he's busy touching everything that's not his. He says it loudly first thing in the morning and then says it quietly when he peeks his head around the bathroom door to watch Justin shave.

And then there's bye. BYE. Always in capital letters, always shouted, always very emphatic. We're leaving the gym? BYE! He's done video chatting with Gram? BYE! Mommy is done working for the day so the sitter can go home? BYE! (He literally chases her to the door. A gentleman always escorts a lady to the nearest exit.) Time to flush the toilet? BYE! Mommy is turning off the TV? BYE!

The one person who never gets told BYE is Gracie, his digadigadiga. And judging by the permanent worry etched on her face, she would like to be told BYE the most.

Sorry, Grace. You've been struck by a smooth criminal.

So no more lists. No more goals. Just get up in the morning, feed yourself and the other people/animals in the house, and avoid laundry at all costs.

That being said, I did decide on a personal theme for the year. And clearly, it's not about doing things (like blogging about it) in a timely fashion.

2013 is my own personal Year of the Albatross.

That is one sassy albatross. Thanks, Department of Wildlife and Fisheries! Or the Department of Conservation. I downloaded this three months ago. Sorry.So this is the year that I will try to finish all of those languishing projects - the Fireside Sweater (a sleeve and a half to go!), our wedding quilt (chopping up what I already have and trying something that could either be wonderful or awful), and maybe even quilting that very first quilt from Kristin: The College Years.

To celebrate, I bought the materials for a new quilt.

You also look really good in hats.Nineteen months sees you running, yelling, and causing mayhem everywhere you go. You use a fork with aplomb and you are still terrible at drinking. But I have a suspcion that you are terrible on purpose because you do love a good dip in the water. Sloppy drinking is the fastest way to have puddles at your disposal. I think you drink at least eight glasses of water a day, so while you're well-hydrated, I fear for the college years.

Dr. Natasha said you have the motor skills of a two-year-old (rock and roll, dude), but you need to work on your talking. You talk all the time, just not in a language we can understand. That's okay. You say "mama" when I'm not around, yell "Da!" when you need something, and still say, "digadigadigadiga" for "doggie." "Bye-bye" is a big favorite, and this week's new word is "car." Except you sound like you're from Boston and just say, "Cah."

Henry, there are cahs everywhere. I'm always so glad you're in the car with me or else I would have no idea what else was on the road with us. I'm equally grateful for you always pounding on the window, showing me "outside." Outside! It's still there! Can you believe it?

What the hell is going on out here?Outside has seen a lot of snow over the past week. Enough snow that Daddy's work has been canceled twice. Gracie loves the snow and has been romping across the yard like an overgrown rabbit. You, on the other hand, are not a huge fan of snowdays. We don't go bye-bye on snowdays, and Mommy is usually crabby because she's policing the three of you. Mommy feels like she lives at the zoo.

But the first snow day was a huge day for you. That was the day you decided it was time to use the potty. Repeatedly. All day. Daddy had his work cut out for him, trying to wrangle you back into your pants time and time again. We're not pushing the whole potty thing, but you seem to dig it. It is so much fun to get naked and have people read you stories while you try to shove your hands between your legs into the toilet. It's even more fun when you pee all over Mommy. Like most things in your life, you're the boss here.

We're following your lead, Henry M. You want to use the potty? Sure. Switch your naps from morning to afternoon? Great. You need a hug and a kiss before bed? You bet. Eating yogurt with your hands?

We're going to have to have a talk about that.

That's my name on the cover. You can buy my book on Amazon, and it's in the Library of Congress. The whole thing is insane.

The bulk of my work is in educational publishing. I really love it, and I get to do all sorts of neat things like script interactive textbooks, create continuing education courses, and edit actual textbooks. Recently, I've been able to write a lot of fiction (such a treat), historical fiction, and non-fiction. It's pretty much the job of my dreams. It was a twisty, strange path that got me here, but I'll take it.

Anyway. I wrote the book last summer, mostly while I was spending a week and a half at my parents' house with Henry. I researched it for about a month beforehand (and realized how very little I write things by hand - major cramping via note-taking) and then wrote like a madwoman every night after I got home from teaching a fiber daycamp.

Seven months later, two hardbacked copies showed up at my door. I don't know if I've ever been so proud of anything. True, it's not the way I imagined my first book would be published. It's not a novel, it's not widely distributed, and the target audience is 4th - 6th grade boys. But the joy of having my own "about the author" bio more than makes up for it.

I have two more books on the way, one about the influenza pandemic of 1918 and one about the Oregon Trail. Is there anything cooler than that?

My favorite tangle is the one on the right sleeve, Paizel. I have a pretty tough time with feathers and paisleys, so I was pleasantly surprised by how great that one turned out.

Well, okay.

I've never knit Justin a sweater, and I felt bad about it. But hell, I haven't knit myself a sweater in years. So while part of me was glad to be able to do the wifely thing and crank out a nice cardigan for my nice cardigan-loving mate, the other part of me was all, "Yeah, I'll get right on that after I finish RAISING THIS CHILD."

But I was somewhat smart and chose a yarn that would work up quickly. I didn't finish by Christmas (I was buried in deadlines of all sorts and wrote a kids' book about the influenza pandemic of 1918 - no joke), but I spent much of that holiday week knitting knitting knitting. And when we came home, I ripped, ripped, ripped, because I didn't like the way the decreases messed with the pattern. Now we're all better.

Time to steek.

Sing the Jaws theme with me!

This was my first time actually machine-sewing twice on either side of the steek. It was much, much easier than I anticipated. I'm glad I didn't dilly-dally and put it off until spring.

And the cutting? I fear no scissors.

Snip.

Now all that's left is button bands, a fancy shawl collar, and sewing the underarm seam. I also need some leather buttons. Have any good button sources?

I haven't done much paper piecing before, so I was...unsure of how things would progress. I had a really hard time figuring out which color went where (the first block has almost 30 pieces), but it all got much easier once I sat down to sew. I think I only had to rip out pieces three separate times, which is pretty good, considering I was simulatenously yelling at the Golden Globes.

This is a really neat pattern. There are actually nine paper-pieced patterns inside. Each comes with a story about that particular house and the person who lives there. When we're done, we'll have the whole neighborhood. This is Carlos's house:

Carlos is a painter, and he's currently focusing on the color blue. I've deviated from the original color story. My quilt will be the neighborhood at twilight, and I'm hoping I can make the sky look like the sun is setting to the right. We'll see. I think it will work.

We're meeting monthly to work on our blocks, but I kind of want to start #2 now. I think I love paper piecing. It took me three and a half hours to get that thing together (not counting planning time), but it zoomed by. Next month: The Cahills.

I can't wait until you understand Santa so I can use him as a threat against you. I can't wait until you can form the words for what you want instead of just flexing your little fingers and yelling. I can't wait until you stop destroying lamps twice your height. (We have a morgue of broken lamps in the guest room, Henry M. This is your fault. You have already been docked more allowance that you will ever get in your life.)

But 'tis the season for snuggles and thick down comforters and sweaters that make you look like a fat German child. You're in to all of that, too. But now that you can run - nay, stomp - every where you want to go, you are less content with sitting and lying down. You are constantly climbing, opening, throwing, banging, and wobbling. Daddy thinks you're part Weeble. I'm glad you're not twins.

We went to see Santa a few weeks ago. Your initial reaction was disgust and horror that Mommy would put you in someone else's lap. I think if we did it again, you'd be okay with it because you're learning that Mommy doesn't do anything you like. Mommy is your arch-nemesis (and your greatest love. You're a complicated person.). So the first picture we got looked like this:

We went back in time to 1962 specifically to take this picture. They validate parking there.You were very stoic in the rest of the forced photos, probably because you a) noticed that Mommy and Daddy were still there and b) there were ladies watching.

Luckily, Santa lives in a Crayola-land of slides, mirrors, and so many things to touch. So we spent the next half hour going down this slide:

And all was well once more.

You are a trial of patience, Henry M. I was not fully prepared for toddlerhood, nor for your stubbornness and curiosity. I didn't realize that once you could walk, you'd want to charge directly into the street to have a little lie-down, leaving me to wrangle a screaming banshee back into the house so I can remove the leaves from his hair. I had no idea that your little fingers could do so much damage in such a short amount of time and that your mild interest in the telephone would grow to a full-blown obsession. (Daddy gave up today. I have no idea who you called. I'm just glad we have free long-distance.)

I think about your Santa picture from last year, when you were so small and snuggly and ... easy. I liked you more back then. But - and don't tell anyone - I think I love you even more now. Sneaky little turkey.

Love,

Ma...ma...ma