They're Really Mind Control Helmets

Me:           "I wonder if I could knit a hat that looks like a collander?"
Lindsay:     "I think that would be crochet, Mom."

I love it when they make string jokes.

Night of the Living Histamines

Three out of four Huff family members are sick.  I'm passing out cold medicine like Halloween candy. 

They all have different sick styles, too.  Lindsay lies in a puddle, with only the occasional whimper to alert me that she's still conscious.  Campbell forgets there's anything wrong with him until he notices he can no longer breathe, and then collapses into a truly impressive coughing fit.  And Phillip gets Mad.  He's always been that way - doesn't notice any physical clues to illness - just gets angrier and angrier until one of us asks if he's feeling unwell, and then he answers, "Well, yeah, I guess I am about to die."  He actually went to work today.  God help his co-workers: We, who also have to live with him, salute you.

I've been slinging chicken soup for a couple of days now, and living in fear that it's my turn next.  And when I say "fear", it's more like mathematical certainty.  There is NO chance I will outrun this crud - not when I'm surrounded on all sides.  I've been wearing a hazmat suit and shooting disinfectant like a teenage boy with Axe body spray, but I can't buck these odds forever.  Nope, all I can do is make sure the groceries are bought and the medicine cabinet is stocked, and wait for the inevitable.

As a career germophobe, I often wonder if the threat of catching a cold is worse than actually getting one.  And I know it's just the crazy talking when I think "Okay, enough already - I'd like to just get sick and get it over with".  But nope, I'm still clear of sinus, smooth of throat, and otherwise pretty much functional. 

Which leaves only me available for daily chores such as dog-walking, dishwashing and lozenge-fetching.  I stepped over somebody's carcass with a laundry basket under one arm and retrieved a wadded tissue from the floor with the salad tongs.  And it crossed my mind for the jillionth time that this Mommy thing is just Super Glamorous. 

Man, I hope nobody's been sneezing on my yarn.


 

All Thumbs

You probably are aware, Gentle Readers, that as a cook, I make an excellent knitter.  I make it a firm policy to snivel loudly and regularly about how I hate to go into the Room Where We Keep the Beer, with any other purpose but retrieving one.  This policy, while providing me with some form of release, has not actually saved me from any cooking duty.  Not even once.

So on Saturday night, when it was time to make soup for dinner, I dutifully reported to the scullery.  Lindsay had two little girlfriends over for a slumber party.  Phillip and Campbell were watching a football game.  And I had a date with a pile of leeks.  And an 8" Chef's knife, which I'm proud to announce, I keep very, very sharp.  While I don't understand food, I do understand tools, and I've always felt that a dull knife, in addition to being miserable to operate, is actually more dangerous than a sharp one.  So I'm pretty zealous with the stone and the steel.  I've wondered if my cutlery compulsions are really some past life experience intruding upon this one; maybe I was once a fierce warrior, and the need to keep my sword sharp is some kind of holdover.  Whatever the reason, my knives hold an edge that could shave a damsel's legs.  Or make short work of a pile of leeks.

Or, as it happens, the end of my left thumb.  I have no idea how I did it.  One minute I was carefully chopping leeks, the next, I had become a super-gross human fountain.  Ever mindful of stuff I need my hands for (like making a living), I was more than a little panicky when the fountain hadn't stopped after a reasonable amount of time.  It occurred to me that this might be one of those go-to-the-doctor times, just in case a stitch or two were needed.  But I had a house full of children, some of whom were not my own, and leaving them alone (and without soup!) seemed irresponsible.  So Phillip stepped up and finished the soup, while keeping an eye on the slumber party (and the game, too, I assume), and I took myself to the ER.

As ER visits go, I really couldn't have had a better time.  It was a rare quiet night at the hospital, and I was in and out in under an hour.  A nice lady doctor did things I couldn't watch to my thumb in order to ascertain and repair the damage.  Then a lovely nurse came and put on bandages.  KNITTED bandages, as it turned out, which I noted with interest.  The action part of the dressing setup involved a KNITTED TUBE, which held all the gauze, etc. in place.  Once that was on, my clever nurse SLICED THE TUBE OPEN (sound familiar, steek-happy knitters?), in order to use its ends to secure the whole rig to my hand.  Sexy!  Knitting is everywhere, Gentle Readers, and it is always Good.

I'm all patched up, and assured the damage is not permanent.  The extreme sharpness of the blade, I'm told, will actually make for faster healing.  The downside is that I'm under orders to stay off it for three days.  So no Hitchhiking.  And no thumb-wrestling.  And no Knitting.

No Knitting.

For Three Days.

My family is twitchy about what it's going to be like for them if I can't knit.  They should be.

Here's the Thistle Stole I would like to be working on:

Paisley has appointed herself its guardian, and is watching over it very carefully:
 

I'm sure I'll be fine without knitting.  I mean, it's only for three days.  There have been plenty of times when I couldn't knit.  I'm sure there must have.  Though none are leaping to mind. 

Phillip is seriously concerned that I'll have to be tied to a chair before it's over.  He may be right.  Please submit suggestions for what I can do with myself for three days that doesn't require the use of my left thumb.