Busy hands... Ashleigh Baker

I know you wouldn’t think so by reading any recent entries on this here blog, but for quite a while I spent most of my time completely oblivious to the fact that I was expecting a second baby.

Not oblivious in the way of not realizing I was pregnant, mind you–that would be quite an interesting thing–but most of the time, I just didn’t remember. People would say something about it and I’d think, “Oh yeah, that’s right… I’m supposed to be having a baby.”

Quite the polar opposite from the first time around.

I think having a one year old, making two moves, losing a grandparent, an emergency trip across the country and my mom being in and out of the hospital might have contributed to that. Just slightly.

So about a month or so ago I started feeling a little bad about the fact that our newest little boy wasn’t quite getting the brain space his older brother had at that point (as in, every single waking AND sleeping thought) and had this nagging feeling that maybe I should actually think about the new baby a little more often. I mean, we prayed together for him, John and I, and I was making plans for his birth, but I was so very scatter-brained (that’s unusual??) that I seldom really thought about the baby himself.

Until, that is, I made a trip to Michael’s on a whim one day. Troy and I were leaving Barnes and Noble for story time, and I decided to walk across the shopping center and visit that crafty place where ideas start… though usually lasting only until about the time my keys are in the ignition.

When I got home, I sat down at the computer and was checking my email (which is NOT unusual, ahem) when my mom instant messaged me.

I just “pulled a Grandma.” I typed.

What did you do? Spill something down the front of your shirt? she asked.

Yes, laugh. But that IS often what we mean when we say that I have “pulled a Grandma.” Of all the things my grandma passed down to me, the tendency to end up with a spoonful of dinner on my clothes rather than in my mouth is one of them. And it’s not just me. Others of us grandkids inherited it, too. Oh, the sweet sentiment of the thing…

Me: Nope. I went to Michael’s. I’d had a White Chocolate Mocha from Starbucks during story time, but I didn’t actually spill any on myself. Quite the thing.

Mom: What did you buy?

Me: Well, I spent a whole heap of money on a pattern and a bunch of nice yarn for something I’ll probably never finish. I’m going to start crocheting a stuffed monkey for the baby… so that he’ll know that at least for a little while, his mama was actually thinking about him specifically while she was pregnant with him.

Mom: That’s a good idea… since you seem to forget about him. ;) You should really try to finish it, though. That would be so special for him…

So that’s what I did. I started. I tried to finish. And I did.

And, so, meet Mr. Monkey:

The perfectionist in me (which is, um, in every square centimeter of me) would like to point out the mistakes and tell you how many times I pulled out the first ear I made before I realized I actually WAS doing it right. But I won’t. Because, hey, it looks good from a computer screen and you’ll never know the difference.

So I’m thinking that between this little monkey and the zillion and one recent blog posts that talk of nothing but the baby, he’ll know that his mama did indeed think of him while she was expecting him.

And Grandma would be proud. After all, she’s the one who taught me to knit and crochet–and to have several handwork projects going at once, some doomed to never get that final stitch. But she’d be pleased that I actually finished this one. She’d probably have a spot from lunch on her shirt, but she’d be grinning and saying, “Oh, Ashleigh, let me see! Oh, that is just darling.”

Now Troy is napping, and so I’m going to use the rest of this blissful time to go work a bit on one of the other yarn projects I’ve now started. We’ll see how many of these I can finish…