It is done. Knitted, assembled, ends woven in. It may look like a piece of art, but it’s a piece of shit. I’m pretty sure it’s not wearable, but Mom will never tell me that. It looks fairly decent in the picture, and I learned a lot (like don’t knit the front and back a year apart), so overall it’s a solid first attempt at a garment. Now that it’s done, and I’ve rested a bit, I’m going to get started on my bright pink mittens to match the hat I knitted for myself last winter. Mittens are a much more manageable project. Plus I’m quite certain they will turn out the way I want them to, having knitted many pairs of mittens in the last few years.

Exactly when did it become acceptable to use “way” as an adverb? Sure, everyone uses it to say things like “I ate way too much” or “We go way back.” But there’s a difference between informal spoken English and the formal written word. People now write like they talk, and “way” seems to have completely replaced “much” everywhere. What’s wrong with “much”? Is it old-fashioned? Out of fashion? Are we so out of practice in written communication that it’s “way easier” to maintain a limited vocabulary? I vow to continue using “much” over “way” in all my writing until Webster no longer recognizes the word. And I will continue to shudder every time I read a headline like the Chicago Tribune’s “Democrats promised way more than they’ve delivered so far” and think, what a bunch of morons.

[Edit 8-22-07: Apparently the Trib only uses such poorly constructed headlines as placeholders on the Web. The next day, the print headline for this story was "Democrats feel the heat as promises go unfulfilled," a much more polished concoction and a clue that perhaps the paper is dumbing down for its online readership. Or my original theory could be right and they have a moron editing their Web content.]

So I went completely insane and volunteered to edit the neighborhood newsletter. But I think it will be all right. At the very least I am meeting people in the new neighborhood, away from my kids. I’ve been meeting plenty of people through my children, but it seems every conversation revolves around the children. Nobody wants to see me as more than a mother, nor to think of themselves as the same. Not that discussing your children is a bad thing, but I think I will scream if one more person casually mentions how intelligent their child is. Maybe I should tell them my kid’s a dumb ass and see what they say.

Jake has been going to Safety Town this week, which is rather cool since I myself went to Safety Town way back in 1978.  I had green Mr. Yuck stickers on everything in the house, but apparently Mr. Yuck is retired. Anyway, today was fire safety and they offered a separate session for the parents. I left the session feeling quite anxious about my house and resolving to close every door to every room anytime I leave the house (to prevent smoke damage in case there is a a fire). By the time I got home, I’d decided it is ridiculous to live your life in fear of fire (or anything else). I think it makes a lot of sense to shut off all the rooms in the house when you take an extended trip, but in daily life it’s just letting your fears control you.

Jake had his very first t-ball game last night. It was windy and overcast, like a storm could blow up at any time. Earlier in the week at his practice, it was chilly — in the 50s. The screwy weather made me think about all the different conditions in which I’ve sat behind the team (or for a few years, with the team). I’ve sat through games in everything from searing heat to bitter cold, drizzle to snow. I wonder how much of my life has been spent watching a loved one play ball. There’s probably many more years of lugging a lawn chair or sitting in the bleachers to watch Jake play. He seems to enjoy it. And he makes me proud when he’s the first one to cheer for the batter. If nothing else he’ll be a good sport.