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Growing pains, right in the checkbook

Having a baby is a very expensive venture. Especially if your emotional response is to try to own or eat everything in the world, right now this very instant, which is apparently what my subconscious is telling me I must do. You see, I had an appointment on Monday morning. It was understandably emotional, since it was the first time I'd seen anything in there moving of its own volition that actually kind of looked vaguely human-shaped, and not the alien chestburster I was certain had infested Ohio (and me).

Naturally, I had to go to my therapy session...my retail therapy session.

Target is my choice of therapy providers, because although a yarn store can be fun, I can't rationalize six skeins of Crystal Palace cotton chenille as useful or necessary. Underwear, socks and cleaning supplies though....that can be rationlized from here to kingdom come, baby. And we DO need that mildew remover and those two packs of paper towels and some travel-sized mouthwashes, and two six-packs of white socks and a pair of earrings (shh, they're small, he won't notice) and lipstick and.....what? Like you've never done that?

Every time I go into a store, I am amazed by how much money I spend. It isn't that I'm stupid, or can't do math, I just....well, okay. I can't do math. Not in my head. Especially not when I'm talking to my mommy on the cellphone the whole time, discussing how freaking impossible it is to find a store wherein they have not just maternity clothes, not just maternity clothes that I would wear, but maternity clothes that would and CAN wear. Plus sizes, you see, have been banished to the outer reaches of the intarwebs. Like large shoe sizes, you don't get to try them on before you buy. No, you must trust their measurements and their workmanship and HOPE TO GOD that when they say "wide toe" they mean "wide toe" and not "average toe that kind of appears to be wide-ish from this angle, which is all we have to go on because no one in the warehouse wears this size and so we are kind of just guessing from the picture."

I don't want to go online, especially to buy foundation garments. Those are hard enough to get right when you're in the dressing room with six or seven in different cheery colors, guaranteed to show through whatever shirt you could possibly find to wear with them, assuming you can stand the underwires trying to bore through your batflaps and digging strange rune-like marks into your under-girls-area so deep that, should you be mummified in a freak accident involving huge amounts of those little silica gel packets you find in new handbags, will cause a hubbub of excitement among the archaeologists who find you a zillion years later and they'll assume those marks have some sort of bizarre religious significance involving fertility and sadomasochism. Future generations will surely be bad enough that they don't need that sort of confusion about their roots, you know? And yet, there it is.

I think I have digressed somewhere along the way.

What I really meant to talk about was that I have decided the SSP needs US size 13 needles and will go fairly quickly unless I have to swatch for every single frakking square. My answer to this is probably to knit the square, then pick up stitches on each side and log-cabin a garter-stitch until it's 10x10. Hi, wave at the genius over here. Plans for later tonight, assuming we don't go golfing with folks. Well, putt-putt golfing. Y'all know. Columbus may have actual hoity-toity golf courses with country clubs on them an golf tournaments that get televised, but we're going to putt-putt. Largely because none of us really golf like the big kids, and also, it's a six-year-old's birthday.

Does anyone remember how many pattern repeats I put into my dishcloths? Why don't I write this down anywhere?

....did you think that the subject line would have anything to do with the subject matter?