Boys are not easier than girls.

Nevertheless, I am thankful for my newly acquired sons, and for their wives, whom they love. As the newest member of the Beloved tribe, it is fascinating to see how his boys interact, how that differs from the ways in which my daughters resolve conflicts, and how it can be the same, only pitched an octave or so lower.

Beloved is substitute-teaching early morning seminary this morning. He spent much of the evening after the concluding session of General Conference happily shifting between computer and reference book. My contribution to the lesson is my boombox and CD of Messiah, as today’s subject is Isaiah 40.

I loved having so much of the family here on Saturday night. It was the first time any of my children had seen the house. I told Beloved that, having the girls here at our table, it was maybe the first time I really felt that this was my home. I don’t know if that makes sense to anyone but me.

I have felt at-home here, ever since my first dinner at Beloved’s table. His late wife and I share a passion for color (as well as for Beloved). Her palette is slightly different than mine, but our tastes are similar. So I have felt comfortable here, and as more of my things become integrated with the things which were already here, it has looked more and more like my home.

But it wasn’t until the people to whom I gave birth (well, 80% of them, anyway) were laughing and singing around the table, with some of his kids, that something in my heart eased a little, and I felt that this large and lively posterity was being Kitchenered together.

General Conference, as ever, was splendid. Beloved and I had a true spiritual feast, sitting quietly in our home together. Yesterday I knitted quite a bit on Wingspan. I did the prep work to repair his fishing shorts (tear in one leg when he caught it on something in the boat) and the pocket of his green khakis; what remains is to fuse the interfacing, as the stitching is all done.

I also prepped the repair on my brown mesh skirt, which has resided in the fix-it box since before I moved to the duplex. Once I find the bobbin cover and bobbin and acquire more thread in that color, it will be a matter of minutes until the skirt is wearable once more. I have already embroidered flowers over the tears in the lowest tier of the skirt. [Long skirts and rolling chairs at work are not the best of friends.)

I have pinned the seams which need reinforcement on the black and brown plaid skirt I used to love wearing. It, too, must wait until my sewing machine is functional, and I have no idea if the skirt will still fit once it is repaired (the fit is less forgiving than on the mesh skirt), but both skirts are hanging on the back of the door to the studio, and I feel that my time was well spent.

I spent a couple of hours mending the sweater that sent me back to my knitting needles back in 2005. Nasty woolniverous beasties have chewed multiple holes in it. Patching garter stitch is a fiddlier job than patching stockinette. The beasties also nibbled on the yarn I had cleverly set aside for patching, and I have run out of one color.

Thankfully, I gave the rest of it to a friend at work to make a scarf in all shades of brown. I couldn’t get internet on my phone last night (roaming? in my own house? you’re kidding me!) to send her a Facebook message asking her to bring it to work today. I hope she still has it. I have one last hole to fix in this color, and then I can tackle the other colors. (This is the sweater in rusts and browns with the faux-fox I-cord edging all round it. It has lived in the fix-it box even longer than the brown mesh skirt.)

Tonight Beloved and I will be hauling out our wills and taking the first steps to update them. I have three new kids to remember; he has five. We want to get it all hammered out before we have my attorney (or an attorney) make sure that the T’s are all crossed and the I’s are all dotted. A lot has changed in my part of the tribe since I had my will drawn up before gall bladder surgery eleven years ago.

It is going to be a Cherry Coke day. We got maybe three hours of sleep last night, and not for newlywed reasons. Beloved might be able to catch a nap when he comes home from teaching seminary, but the garden needs watering; he has an appointment with my wonderful dentist this afternoon; he needs to take his mom to her storage unit to get something and to pay the next month’s storage fee; and he wants to get the paperwork to his accountant for his taxes.

As for me? I only hope to stay awake on the commute to and from work, and to keep my nose out of the keyboard while I am there.

This is the part where I go soak my head. I have leftover meatloaf and roast potatoes to take to work today, and a lovely slice of banana bread sent over by daughter-in-love #2.

Cherry Coke. And an IV tube. Where is Bennigan’s and their late, lamented Death by Chocolate when I really need it?