Here, Fishy Fishy Fishy

Tallest Fuzziest Nephew joined a swim team this summer.

His AntiM was delighted because she used to swim too and, well, it seemed a bonding point.

Turns out swim team for the nephew is nothing like what it was when I was a kid. I mean, they swim, but other than that, it's very different swimming in 2009 in the Denver Parks & Rec League and swimming in 1982 in the Alpine League for Suburban Kids Who Live in Covenant-Controlled Neighbourhoods.

Despite those differences,† I was eager to attend a meet and support my nephew.




I believe he may be less interested in swimming laps than becoming a Ninja Towel-Master.




That last one was taken without flash to highlight the blazing fast blur of the towel.%

Dr. Doom was asleep in the car when eBeth dropped TFN off. Brother called her to come in when swimming was immminent, but the good doctor wasn't quite ready to wake up yet, so eBeth hauled him in, groggy and anti-social.




The store of oddly-coloured dum-dums I keep in my purse‡ for just such occasions really helped in the wake-up process.§





For posterity, here is Tallest Fuzziest Nephew beating the snot out of his "competitors" in the 25 back¶:




You're welcome.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Which include no snack bar, no teeny tiny Speedo suits for boys and tattooing event numbers on the kids' arms with a Sharpie.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I get two every time I go to the bank. And the roomy Rory allows me to carry a much greater variety than I used to.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): More or less at the request of my fuzziest nephew. "Was it a blur? Was it so fast you can hardly see it in the picture?"

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): "The blue one will turn your tongue blue."

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Sportsmanship and every-kid's-a-winner clearly does not extend to aunts.

A Tale of Three Sweaters

I figure I should leap in after a prolonged absence with knitting. 'Cause knitting still makes it all better, right?

[SUMMARY: Behold the awesome power of knitting.†]

So I checked with eBeth on what the Tallest Fuzziest‡ Nephew might like, knit-wise, for his ninth birthday.§

He loved the sweater last year, so I'm making him a new one this year. This time, I'm going raglan so I don't have to block and piece and sew and be an hour late to dinner again.

This:



is the graphic from a bag in Greetings From the Knit Café, which I've turned on end and graphed for the sweater. In a fit of creative malaise, I'm going with roughly the same colours in Cascade 220.¶

Turns out kids' sizing is a little weird. Or my pattern sizing was a little weird. Or maybe a charming amalgam# of the two.

To make a long story short, I ended up knitting a 34" chest, which seems ENORMOUS, vis-a-vis my makes-Kate-Moss-look-like-a-Russian-women's-shotput-champion nephew.

The first time I cast on, I did it under the auspices of a size 12, which is a 28" chest on my chart.

So I frogged.

[SUMMARY: Say goodbye to Sweater One.%]

I cast on again, placing my B markers for the center front increases and my A markers for the raglan sleeve increases. I roared through seven inches of sweater by Sunday evening.

[SUMMARY: I have superpowers.††]

The growing smugness I felt at having mastered some version of intarsia in the round‡‡ should've been a BIG clue as to where my hubris was leading me.§§

When I picked it up Monday evening, I heard a tiny *ping*, a delicate warning bell somewhere in the back of my head.

I knit a round.

*ping*

I knit another.

*PING"

I mused as to why one would remove the B markers, per the instructions, when one still had to do the raglan increases every other round...

*PINGDAMNIT!*

That was the sound of me finally realising I'd been increasing at the B markers for the raglan and ignoring the raglan sleeve increases entirely. One-fourth of a sweater... unusable.

[SUMMARY: Ask not for whom the brain pings.]

So I frogged it, a much harder task with two balls¶¶ and a couple of intarsia strands hanging around.

Last night, I cast on for the last time.##

[SUMMARY: Say hello to Sweater Three.]

If this one doesn't work out, the kid is getting a potholder.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And pay no attention to the Marin behind the curtain!

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): He shaved off the mohawk. I told him he has to stop changing hairstyles now so I don't have to find a new name for him every week. First person who points out the folly of using wild and mutable hair as the basis for a lasting nickname gets it in the nose.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): August 29.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Superwash, of course. Providing hand-wash-only sweaters for a nine-year-old is a good way to never be invited back.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): This is my favourite word today: amalgam.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Which was going to happen anyway, because I'd just realised I had, for the first time in my entire knitting career, TWISTED THE STITCHES WHEN I JOINED IN THE ROUND. This sweater is cursed.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): When the radioactive kitten bit me (which really happened, other than the radioactive part... probably), I really was hoping for the ability to climb drapes or lick my own ears or even just sleep wherever I wanted. I guess if some fascination for string is the extent of it, at least I'm no worse off than I was before.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Actually, doing intarsia in the round successfully makes me feel like a superhero.

§§FOOTNOTE (the twisting vines of hubris): One's hubris can get one in such trouble.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (two balls... heheheh): *Beavisgiggle*

##FOOTNOTE (two pounds - my head hitting the wall and the wall hitting my head): Other than realising when I joined in the round after the neck increases I forgot to cast on the other 13 stitches... but I don't think I'll have to frog for that. Just go back a couple of rows. This sweater is definitely cursed.