I used bright colors this time.
As for me, I'm fine. I am not getting anywhere near enough knitting done, seeing as I somehow have to empty out the closet of my knitting room/office, which is set to become a baby room. This is a terribly stressful proposal: I've never in my life been good at clearing out things. In fact, I hate doing it. And I married a guy who really, really likes doing it.
The stash has to find another home in a house with little storage. Mr. MGY knows better than to suggest the attic, but we might not have many other options if I don't start tearing through some of this yarn pretty soon here.
What's that? Sell some of it off?
Otherwise… I would talk about myself, but here's the thing. You go through the nastiness of infertility treatments, and if you are one of the lucky ones, you arrive at a curious place. You've come from a place where being around pregnant women is like wearing a sandpaper bra. Hearing about babies, pregnancies, all that: sandpaper.
Then suddenly your hands are made of sandpaper. Your voice, your entire appearance is made of sandpaper. Somehow, other people don't seem to mind - skin like leather, I suppose. But you suddenly are the thing that caused you terrific pain for all that time.
And being open about it, well, that's weird, too. Just Friday night, I had the following conversation with a couple gals at a show:
M: When are you due?!
M: An Aquarius!
T: Oooh. I heard that January and February babies are the healthiest, because they were conceived at the most beautiful time of year.
me (laughing): This one was conceived in January and then spent three months in liquid nitrogen.
M: I guess she'll have two signs, then?
Generally I try not to drop conversational bombs like that. I just thought that astrology and extreme medical science would make for an interesting intellectual mix.
If it were only my story, I would just tell everything here in blogland, because it's pretty intense and it could make for some cool reading. But it's not just my story.
Mr. MGY has said straight-up that I need to write this out somehow. Make something from it, turn it into something worthwhile. I will, in time. But for now, as tempting as it is to write out everything and retell this story in a way that will fit these events more comfortably into the awkward spaces of my memory - isn't that what autobiography does? - it needs the right time and place.
Until that time and place comes along, I'll be doing my best to knit up the stash. Wish me luck.