A Tryst of the Wrist

It was during a Break the Fast at the Freer's. Brother Freer was a counselor in our single’s ward’s bishopric, and often invited the young adults over to mingle in his backyard. It is sometimes painful to think back on those activities. Reflecting back on the “good-clean fun” we use to have makes me clench my teeth.
Like playing Red Rover in the Freer's backyard, after breaking our fast.
Imagine 15 young adults (that’s 18-30 year olds) clasping hands and singing “Red Rover, Red Rover, send

{insert the name of a fish from our shallow dating pool}

on over!”

Sadly, there are worse more pathetic documented activities than this,
but you get my point. (Disclaimer: view the link at your own discretion)

I don’t remember how well I knew Mike then. I’m guessing our friendship was at the epidermis level: not too deep yet, just on the surface. We’d danced together. And I liked him as a person. Not yet as a moose. Maybe I even fancied him a little. Whatever-

He obviously felt comfortable enough to plow into my clasped hand!

Causing two of my fingernails to bend back. Which miffed me more than anything.
I don’t keep my fingernails long out of habit: keeping them short for karate and also when bored or stressed, I tend to bite them. So achieving a white nail plate is a big deal for me.

A. BIG. DEAL.

That night when I got back from the activity, I dolefully clipped the rest of my nails off.
The next day, I ran into Mike. (Not literally. Oh no, that’s his method of concourse!)

And he noticed.

My nails.

And asked why I had clipped them.

That, was a big deal for me too. :)

Last night, we were playing with Caleb. And we taught him Red Rover.
Mike and I sat on our knees and held hands.
Caleb would sing the calling song with us and excitedly dash.
He was content to run into our clasped hands again and again.

I am glad for clasped hands.

I'm Covered. Thanks.

this Sunday blog post is brought to you by rhinopharyngitis




Nimble is not how I would describe any fraction of me, especially my fingers. In particular when I am sewing…
Funny, now that I consider it, because of the invention of the sewing machine my fingers have littletodo with any of the stitching process. So what is my problem?

Ah-hem. Let me start over.

Nimble is not how I would describe any fraction of me, especially my patience. In particular when I am sewing. I don’t line fabric up correctly, my tension is often set too high, I am hasty to use scissors- and how.do.I. wish duct tape was an acceptable textile binding!

Recently I have resolved to make N.H. a blanket. I’m going to attempt to duplicate Caleb’s kiki. Notice how I don’t say reproduce? That’s because I didn’t make his blanket.

One year our ward in Flagstaff was experiencing a baby boom, so the Relief Society made a stash of blankets for the upcoming arrivals. I remember receiving Caleb’s blanket:
My Relief Society President (who was our birth instructor and also had a baby recently) and one of her counselors (who I visit-taught and loved very much) came to my cramped apartment, which seemed even more claustrophobic than usual by the looming moving boxes, sat on my floor, chit-chatted and bestowed Caleb’s blanket.
I didn’t use it for more than a play mat for months because Caleb seemed to swim in it. That is laughable now, seeing how his toes creep out at night from beneath it.
Another sister in that ward crocheted a white blanket with blue trim for Caleb which we used to wrap Caleb in for his baby blessing. We will wrap all our sons in that blanket for their blessings.

Blankets.
…writing this is helping me make connections, relative details.

Like, how even Emma has a blanket. It’s in Caleb’s closet. Stored with his blessing blanket. It was made by another sister, she was my nephew’s teacher at the time but I knew her and her husband for a very long time before that. She had heard about Emma through my mother. I received the blanket in the mail shortly after the funeral. It was a white crocheted blanket with an angel in its pattern. It’s a nice token.
Much like the crafted kimonos and caps donated to the hospital for birth and bereavement. I kept Emma’s pink kimono and cap; it is nice to have something that held her…

I guess blankets are important. Coverings are important.
They are an emblem. A type.

I’ll think about that more today.
(You can too, if you want.)

And maybe, with this perspective, just maybe I’ll be more resolute to align my fabric, to find the right setting, and be more considerate and deliberate with each cut?

Hmm.

Heads Up!

Someone is going to look like their big brother . . .

OH AND...