I feel as if I should explain my absence.
Well, I've been busy. I knitted a scarf.
Oh, and had a baby.
The scarf has a zigzag pattern, but half way through it goes a little wrong. I zigged some zags and totally zaggified some zigs. I was distracted, knitting in hospital, you see. Waiting to find out if my son was brain damaged.
He's not. I'll save you scrolling to the bottom of the post, so thank the deity of your choice. I've thanked them all, and I'm an atheist.
My scarf is kind of fucked up though.
I bake big babies, and I am, conversely, quite small. This one got a little stuck, cut off from oxygen for a little too long and, well, aged his parents by about 20 years in the space of 10 minutes. There are pouches of wrinkles beneath my eyes that weren't there four months ago. I can see white hairs amongst the dirty blonde.
My son had to lie on a temperature controlled blanket for three days after he was born to stop his brain from frying itself. During that time we weren't allowed to hold him. I wasn't allowed to feed him, he was nil by mouth. That kind of thing will give you grey hairs and cause your knitting to suffer, I assure you.
It also may turn you into a tiger-like beast who paces the halls of hospitals, growling and restraining the urge to gut random, smiling, oblivious passers-by.
I cannot count the amount of times we have been called "lucky". By midwives, doctors, nurses, family, friends, the ladies in the local chemist... And we are, I'll admit. It feels almost like a cheat, really. The consultant seemed incredulous that our baby's MRI came back clean, that such a tiny, vulnerable creature could survive that long without air and be so perfect.
But in the back of my mind I wonder, whom do we owe? What karmic balance is going to topple us in return for this prosperity?
And then I reach for my scarf, stretch it out and trace its crooked mistakes. I thank it for taking the hit. Feel the warmth of its botched little hug as I wrap it around my throat.
And give my boy an extra kiss. For luck.