Yesterday went well at work, I think. I just kept my head down and my eyes on the typing, and I got a lot of stuff crossed off my list. My inbox is growing like kudzu, and I need to take half an hour today and whack it back into submission.
I finished the Summer Mystery Shawlette, so that’s two finished objects in four days. I worked a little on BittyBubba’s gift, and last night I cast on for my wedding gift to the new guy’s kids. He told me last night that she is a fledgling knitter and crocheter, so she might think that *I’m* a little weird, but she won’t think the gift is.
I told him I’m a little nervous about meeting his mom. He said not to be, piece of cake.
It’s been more than 30 years since I met the mom of a guy I was dating. I’m a little out of practice.
Got me to thinking about when I met FirstHubby’s parents. He had taken me somewhere for dancing (he hated to dance, but I didn’t know that yet). I’d had a drink, maybe two. I was wearing a long black skirt I had made, pinstriped I think, or maybe it had little lines of infinitesimally small flowers giving the same effect. A black surplice blouse I had made from crepe-backed satin, with a gorgeous ruffle that tapered down to nothing at the waistband, and impressive decolletage. This was in the days before (A) modesty and (B) nursing babies, so the girls were still perky and relatively manageable. I was wearing a fall, turned upside down to give me a cascade of curls.
We were at a club, to hear the band. Nobody famous, but somebody local and good. He looked across the room, and his parents were sitting at a table, so he led me over there to meet them. (His mother loved to dance, every bit as much as I do; she grew up taking dance lessons alongside the woman who would later be my teacher and once told me, “She was always better at ballet, but I could tap rings around her!”)
I didn’t meet the children’s grandmother [seems a little more elegant to call her that, than the children’s father’s mother] until I had been married to their father for a week. She flew up from California to the reception at my parents’ house, looked up at me and said, “You’re so willowy!” thus endearing her to me forever.
I have been blessed with two of the world’s greatest mothers-in-law. Both of them tiny in body and big in heart.
I hadn’t really thought about parents-in-law in terms of remarriage. I am just old enough that age-appropriate men might have lost one or both parents. I have spent most of my mental energy on figuring out if the kids would get along, because so often that is a deal-breaker [or, later, a marriage-breaker-upper].
So, eek. I’m a little nervous, but not throwing up on my shoes nervous. At least she’s a knitter, so we will have something other than a mutual fondness for her son, in common.
I think I need to go knit a little. Or maybe catch a nap before the alarm goes off.
Calm down, Ms. Ravelled; she picks up her knitting one stick at a time, just like you do.
- 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!