There are two words in Spanish that I have to think very carefully before using, because I tend to confuse them, just as I used to confuse the signs for “with” and “shoes” in ASL. The first word means “rabbits”; the second word refers to boy bits, as one of my girls would say. It is a very good thing that Middlest’s SoonToBeEx is several states away, because if he were within range of my phenomenal mental powers, his not-rabbits would be in danger of whisking themselves off his body and vanishing into thin air.
His bimba is pregnant.
I think I might know how the mothers of King David’s authorized wives felt when they learned that Bathsheba was expecting. I think I might know how I would have felt, had any of my girls become pregnant out of wedlock and given up their babies for adoption. I think I might know something of what FirstHubby feels when he thinks about my girls. [We talked about it once, and he always sort of felt that they should have been his. Ours. He prays for their welfare on a regular basis. Good man; but I digress.]
I feel sad. And mad. And jealous that Middlest’s harridan of a mother-in-law gets to be a grandmother because of this pregnancy, and I do not. [Although, it’s not over until it’s over, and Heaven may have a Job’s-miracle in store for our family: a loving, righteous husband somewhere down the road for Middlest, and a healing of her reproductive issues; the age of miracles is far from past.]
In a perfect world, Middlest’s STBX would have been faithful. In a perfect world, that child would be my daughter’s, and I would be thinking of knitting tiny socks, and that baby would grow up with at least a toehold on the gospel. As sad as I feel for my daughter, I feel devastated for that poor, innocent infant, who didn’t ask to be born to a philandering father and a selfish, conniving mother. I can’t imagine what it would be like to grow up in a family where it is the norm to cheat on one’s spouse or to betray one’s best friend. What a charming example they set.
I was not doing very well at trying to be like Jesus yesterday; I am doing marginally better today. I have been making an extra effort to be nice to the people around me, those I speak to on the phone and those I see face to face, because it is not their fault that one of my sons-in-law is behaving badly. But what I want to do is shriek and howl and throw things. Sharp things would be particularly satisfying. This post will have to suffice.
The therapist whom I saw from late 2006 through early 2007 would be very proud of me for not only being aware that I am having feelings but being able to articulate them instead of stuffing them or intellectualizing them. They’re not pretty feelings, and they will pass, and peace will come again.
OK, on to happier topics:
Twelve repeats completed on Adamas. Yesterday was not a good day for knitting, because we know the dangers of angry knitting, chez Ravelled. It was an excellent day for eating pot roast at IHOP, [from the senior menu no less, woohoo!] and for snivelling when finally, blessedly, in private.
After taking the two boxes of photographs and 2BDH’s fiberglass tape over to Secondborn’s, and picking up the new-to-me bookcase that I don’t have quite enough oomph to get out of the car and up the steps, I came home and spent an hour or so online, working out yarn equivalencies for the Nut Border Cardigan, which has moved up to approximately fourth place in my queue. The specified yarn is discontinued [and would have cost me $176 and change]. If I make it in Gloss Sock, I could do it for just under $76; if I make it in Essential Tweed, it would be even less.
More happiness: the front gable, painted and awaiting its decorative gable vent.
The front porch.
A quirkier-than-thou shot of the front door, with mailbox. The paint looks blue because I snapped all of these about 7:30 last night. It’s actually a pale dove grey.
A before shot of the switchplate on the accent wall in my room.
And the last bit of good news for this morning? The first clue for MS4 will be in my mailbox when I get home tonight, and 2BDH will come over after they feed the missionaries and he goes out teaching with them, to bring the bookcase in and to move my TV.
Because tonight, if I am not immediately in the mood to paint the base coat on my bedroom walls, I want to curl up on the couch with my knitting and my Emma Thompson Sense and Sensibility. An evening with Alan Rickman ought to restore my equanimity.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!