Jerry’s childhood home sold yesterday, after a long and frustrating selling process. Jerry posted about it on his site this morning.
When Jerry and I were early married, we went over there one time and I remember he stood in the backyard — in the southwest corner under the trees — and got all misty-eyed. That’s where Sheila and Tippy are buried, the beloved family dogs.
I hadn’t thought of that as the process to sell the house had been going on.
… How many pets are buried in my parents’ back yard? There’s Fidget, the legendary black cat that will always be my Dad’s favorite — and fodder for campfire stories for the rest of time… Viki, our first Sheltie, who had violent epileptic seizures until we finally relieved her of them. Caruso, the singing cat, who was attacked in our front yard while we were on vacation. Midnight and Twinkie, my guinea pigs. Countless hamsters belonging to my brothers (including Jiffy, who apparently lived for 4 years or something ridiculous). Turbo, a gray tabby who I picked out when I was almost 15, who lived until I was 30. And Charlie, the legendary Sheltie I trained when I was in high school, who died of kidney failure when I was pregnant with Helen.
Jerry has said before that outliving our pets is the price we pay for the joy that they bring to our lives.
One day, I’ll be in my parents’ back yard, walking the south edge of it, getting wistful. I hadn’t considered before the memories tied to the outside of the house.
Alice woke up at 5:08. Crying. Jerry suggested just letting her cry, but Helen’s a somewhat light sleeper. I didn’t want to risk waking HER up, too. So I plodded downstairs and held Alice for a little while covered in a blanket. I thought maybe she was cold, because her room does get a bit chilly with the door closed.
That wasn’t the problem. So I felt around in her mouth — she still only has two teeth, so we’re due for a new batch. She would NOT let me touch her upper gums. I put numbing medicine on her gums and put her back in her crib.
And then I abandoned her to her screaming and went back upstairs. And you know what? Jerry was right. She went back to sleep. And Helen didn’t wake up.
They both woke up around 7.
My mom called my cell phone at 6:25, ready to walk with me and Alice if we were up. I would have enjoyed that, but I was really enjoying sleeping. I’d go walking now, except that the ultra-cheapo double stroller (Evenflo piece of crap) I have is broken, and so I can’t go with both kids (unless I shoehorn them into the same seat… Hmmm… There’s an idea). The parts we need to fix the stroller have been backordered for over a month, and customer service won’t answer my emails. I’m not impressed.
Probably time to get a new stroller. Since I’m made of money and all.
It’s settled. Alice hates me. Why else would she make me get up at 5:24am? Because she’s hungry? Because her diaper’s wet? Because she wants attention? No. It’s because in her conniving, calculating, cruel and nasty little mind, she wants to torture me.
So. I’m up. I’ve been up for over an hour. I’ve done a load and a half of laundry… Waiting for the second one to dry so I can fold it, too. Helen’s still not up. Jerry’s not either, but that’s not unusual — he usually doesn’t get up until 8 or so.
I’m thinking that if she does this to me again tomorrow, I’m just going to go for a walk. With her, of course. So tonight I’ll get out my tennis shoes and socks and clothes to walk in, and we’ll hit the pavement at 6am. If she’s going to be my little alarm clock, I might as well jumpstart my metabolism in the process.
So I’m working on Alice’s sweater. I’ve got the back, both sides of the front, and one sleeve completed. I think I’m going to run out of yarn before I finish the hood, but NANCY TO THE RESCUE… Nancy bought one hank of the same color green (same dye lot) when we were in Texas, and I’m going to buy it from her and replace with a new hank (different dye lot). Dye lot doesn’t matter to her, does matter to me. Slight differences would look weird at this point.
But the sleeves are sort of a pain to make — meaning, I can’t just zone out and knit. I have to pay attention. I have to add stitches on the following rows: 5, 9, 13, 17, 23, 29, 35, 41, 47, 53, and 59. And then knit another row and cast off.
Thankfully, with the stitch pattern I’m doing, counting rows is very simple and easy to do. But it’s still a pain. And of course, I get all OCD about it and want to get through this part as fast as possible so I can move on to something a little less… involved.
I finished one sleeve tonight at a meeting, and a friend was looking at it. He was concerned: “Um, Elaine? It’s not square.” Nope. Not supposed to be. It’s a sleeve, for a chubby-armed infant. It’s trapezoidal.
Trapezoidal. Cool word.