A very Bitty meltdown

Several weeks ago, I was at Secondborn’s as they were wrangling the kids at bedtime. I sat downstairs during family scripture study and prayers. My legs were just not up to making the climb that day (they have a very tall house: soaring first floor, and the family room and kids’ rooms above that).

In the middle of murmur, murmur, murmur, there was suddenly an indignant wail from the Bittiest. And his father said calmly and sternly, “Do you think it’s a good idea to throw things?”

“Yes!” More wailing.

“Do. You. Think. It’s. A. Good. Idea. To. Throw. Things?”

“Yes!” Bittiest wailed even louder. “Wanna throw!” At which point I hid my face in my knitting to stifle helpless laughter. Boy, can I relate.

I would like to throw cancer down the stairs and then kick it until it stops moving. I am grateful, in retrospect, for all of the crummy experiences I have had in 60 years of living, which have made me strong enough to be useful to Beloved as he struggles with this. But it is so hard to watch him struggle and to hear him moan or cry out in his sleep. (He keeps a pretty tight lid on things when he’s awake, because that’s how our generation was raised.)

He’s lost mass in his shoulders, chest, and back. The sweater which fit him just loosely enough when we married in January, now hangs on his upper body. And he loves that sweater; he has had it for years, and it still looks great. Good news is, he is married to a knitter. And I found the yarn for his next sweater at one of the two closest LYS’s yesterday. Plymouth Galway, 100% wool in a worsted weight. I’ve worked with it before, I think for some of the missionary hats I made while living in Fort Worth. It’s a sturdy, workhorse yarn that’s a pleasure to knit and not scratchy when worn. I was hoping for a chunkier yarn, because hey, Beloved is a big dude. And I would like to give him this for Christmas, or sooner. I emailed Alison (and the Yarn Harlot), because both of them are married to Seriously Tall Dudes. How much extra to calculate, to allow for the extra altitude?

If Beloved were of average height, I would just take his circumference in inches, divide it in half, and that would be how many ounces of yarn I needed in a medium weight. Eight ounces less for a fine-gauge yarn, and eight more for bulky. (I learned this years ago from Jacqueline Fee’s The Sweater Workshop.) That gives me a basic number, and then I guesstimated that if I just bought a whole package of ten balls, I should have enough. If I have leftovers, I can take them back. And if I need more, they have ten more in the same dye lot in the back of the shop.

Am I evil because I just wish the Primary sacrament meeting program (this morning) and Sharing Time (I’m in charge of the lesson) were over and done with, so I can come home and swatch? This is the sacrament meeting that most folks look forward to all year, and it’s never been my favorite, although my kids always did their part and I was proud of them. And I come home in tears after exposure to large numbers of children. Happened after pack meeting on Wednesday. Happened again after the rehearsal on Friday night.

My patriarchal blessing says that I will spend the majority of my time with the youth in the Church. I’ve been a member for 37 years, and except for a few brief stints as a Primary teacher, that hasn’t happened. I thought I had dodged a bullet. Apparently not. It doesn’t help that our Primary president, when she bore her testimony, said that she was happy for the calling because that’s where the Savior would go if He were to visit our ward. I am trying to be like Jesus. Apparently I’m not trying hard enough, because that just makes me feel guilty, and hardly anything does.

Yes, I am laughing at myself. It looks like I will live to be very, very old, which was certainly part of my plan, if I am to spend the majority of my time serving with the youth. I guess I should just be thankful that I am not the Young Women’s president, because I like camping even less than I like being surrounded by hordes of sugar-infused short people, half of whom are seriously estrogen-deficient.