Knittin' with the Girls

Well, except for Bill, of course.

Thanksgiving with the kids was ... the usual wonderful torture. And when I say torture, I mean, of course, fingernails on chalkboard torture, Chinese water torture, toenails being pulled out at the roots torture, wearing your new heels to work torture, being held down and tickled by your big brother torture.

Needless to say, I wouldn't have missed a moment.

And of course, it wasn't really torture. It was just three days of extreme stress, and not because of the kids. It was highly stressful because I took three flipping dogs to Charlotte to celebrate Thanksgiving.  (Mr. Pug was in Utah, blissfully enjoying being pugfree, although he did have to put up with his brothers.) By the time I left, I was just thankful that there were no deaths and no one went to jail.

First, the dogs usually love going in the car ... until they figure out that the car will move and then they won't be home. Usually this takes about to the end of the driveway. Then they start pacing and nosing the windows and whining softly and barking at passing cars and people and trying to nudge open the big Tupperware container of their food and barking at passing cars and looking for their water bowls.

We're not even out of the subdivision and I want to go home myself!

Anyway, by the time we got to my younger daughter's home on Wednesday, I was at my wit's end and ready to put them up for adoption. But the kids were thrilled to be with them and they were ... well, Buddy was just as thrilled. He's really a people dog and just wants to be with lots of people who will pet him and fuss over him and if they scratch his belly, well, that's just a bonus.  But the girls ... let's just say they have my personality and they would have been quite happy to be able to go to their corners to read a book or knit a sock.

The good news is this: Lulu only bit one person and that was just a nip, and it wouldn't have been too serious anyway because she lost her two bottom incisors playing tug-of-war with Buddy. And I forgave her because the child in question was holding her by the ears and pushing her face into Lulu's face and, I ask you, wouldn't you have bitten her too? And Lucy nipped me, but only because Lulu jumped at her because she apparently was protecting her from the same child and Lucy got scared. And Buddy only took off running once, across several lawns, to see some people up the street who looked like they might pet him.

Can you say S-T-R-E-S-S-F-U-L?

No blood, folks! You can move along now. Nothing to see!

Oh, and did I mention noisy? OMG! These people talk all the time. I mean all the time. Yes, one of them is four and this is characteristic of four-year-olds. But what about the grownups and the over-fours? And none of them ever speak in a normal tone. Nope! They yell. 

DO YOU WANT MORE TURKEY? they say.

IT'S TIME FOR BED! they say.

PICTUREKA! they say.

Shhhhhh ... my hearing was blown out by the British Invasion of the 60's and still these people are reverberating like a mudslide coming down a mountain.

By the time we left on Saturday morning, younger daughter was growling herself--apparently dogs shed. Who knew? She was muttering about the state of her baseboards and I knew it was time to go. Older daughter was out of town so she is probably just checking her baseboards out right about now, and wondering how we could have scratched her new hardwoods in the 12 hours we were at her house.

Fact is, they're not dog people. Or cat people. Or hamster, fish, or bird people. Neither of them really likes anything that sheds or poops or pees or asks to go outside to do any of those things.

So, as much as I loved being with daughters and grands, I couldn't wait to get back on the road, to spend seven (yes, I said seven--traffic on I-85 was insane) hours with three dogs doing a repeat performance of their previous pet tricks. And I was so happy to be home, in my own space, that I swore I wouldn't leave it until forced out on Monday morning to go to work. And it was so ... quiet. Blissful!

Instead, Sunday found me at Only Ewe, knitting with the girls and, of course, with Bill. Somehow the house felt really, really quiet and the car knew the way and ... there I was.

And I remembered where home is. Home is where they let you knit without asking whether you're going to make something for me, me, me, and when it's going to to be finished, and whether I could make another one, just like it, but in black and smaller and out of different yarn, and where no one wants the water bowl refilled and where no one's worrying about the state of the baseboards.