The one where I remember that

life is a series of adjustments.  I got my mom moved up here to Little Rock from the wilds of southwest Arkansas yesterday.  It went well, better, in fact, than I expected.  It was hard last night leaving her, knowing that she literally had no clue about where she was and why.  That’s the heartache of all caretakers of someone with dementia.  My mom is a grown woman, but has the mental capacity of a small child, maybe 5-6 years old.  There are still brief flashes of the person who is my mom, but most of the time, she’s a child in an adult body.  It felt like the first day of first grade when my kids were little; having to entrust her care to someone besides me or Mr. Iknead.  I cried then too.  I cried for Mom, I cried for myself and I cried for my dad.  He passed away a month ago yesterday and I keep running into the fact of his death like something I’d stumble against navigating a dark room.  When does it get better?

Knitting.  I’ve done a ton in the past couple of weeks, partly because of the car time I’ve had (Mr. Iknead prefers to drive, I prefer to ride.  One more example of our fitting together, I suppose).  Now I’m getting anxious about running out of Manos for the Drop Stitch Shawl.  This happens every time I get close to the end of a project, you’d think I’d catch on that, but still I think I’ll give Yarnmart a call in the morning, just in case.

Here’s a picture I love – Mr. Iknead and the apple of his eye, the Papoose

He’s not crazy about her or anything!

People travel to wonder at the height of the mountains, at the huge waves of the seas, at the long course of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars, and yet they pass by themselves without wondering.  Saint Augustine (354 A.D. to 430 A.D.) Early Christian theologian and bishop