Happy Birthday to me

Last week was my birthday. (38 years old now, thank you.) I received one thing that I wanted more than anything: an afternoon off from life. I dropped the kids off at Grandma's, ignored emails voicemails and the pile of work that I brought home for the weekend, and cast a blind eye on the housework. My sweetie was working some overtime, so I had the house all to myself.

It sounds incomprehensible, but I didn't even knit. I worked on Monet. I have about 1,200 stitches completed so far. (out of 108,000, so barely a blip on the canvas.) It still looks like an indefinite blob of blue, with the ocassional speckle of lavender or gray. I know there are some waterlilies on the first page of directions, a good one to two thousand stitches away.

I can knit a row here and there while waiting for court, but I need a substantial amount of uninterrupted time to stitch. I am not certain if my mother gave me a blessing or a curse with those directions. 1% completed (almost) in two months. At that rate, it will take me. . . . . .17 years to complete. Wait, that can't be right. I should take into account that my stitching time will increase as the children grow older, right?

Also sounds incomprehensible, but I ran out of laundry that day. Oh, there were a few stray items in the hampers, but not enough to run a load. Towels, rugs and bedding were all caught up. I am not sure how long it has been since that happened, but I know not since Doodlebug was born 13 months ago. Caught up on laundry. A second little birthday treat.

Today, it is all about the stolen moments.