What are the chances…

That this guy with a freaking jackhammer the size of one of my children 10 feet outside of my front window


who jackhammered the sidewalk (with no apparent goal that I could divine) for hours and hours today, has any relationship to this big honking mistake in the shawl edging?


That’s what I thought. I’m not taking the heat on this one.

I had a conversation with a friend a little while ago who made the observation that my third book may be suffering from “third child syndrome”. You know the one, where your first child has two baby books, fourteen albums (complete with records of their first nail trimming) a scrapbook and a box of memorabilia, then your second kid has an album and a baby book with some of the stuff filled in, and then the third child has only got three bent photos where they appear by accident in the background of a picture of the damaged porch you took for insurance purposes? Yeah. Me too.

I got to thinking about that a little, and she may be right. I love the third book. It’s just as special as the first two, it certainly represents the same amount of work and passion and love, but somehow (this may be related to my discomfort with praise of all kinds) its the only book that didn’t have a launch party, or even a family welcome. It just turned up (much like my third child) and made itself at home on my bookshelf and was suddenly there, like it had always been. My friend asked me to consider giving it a party. (My friend may just want to get out of the house more, so her motives are somewhat suspect.) So while I’m not giving the book a formal launch, I am always up for a party, and you guys are invited.

My birthday falls on my usual knit night at Lettuce Knit next week, so I’m going to have a birthday celebration/ hey-its-a-book party there next Wednesday evening, June 14th, about 7:00. (Many thanks to Lettuce Knit for forking over the store.) I’ll be getting a year older, signing books if you got one, and buying some yarn hanging with my knitbuds to whoop it up. Come one, come all. I might bring beer.

(Remarks about how having a birthday party at a yarn store makes the most sense they have ever heard of and is not weird at all, gratefully received.)