This morning I mended a hole in a sock, making up with sheer quantity of stitches what my sewing lacked in skill. I deliberately put royal blue thread in a light gray sock, and the combination pleased me but caused Ross to refer to what I had made, when I showed it to him later, as “Frankensock.” Nevertheless, I was proud that I had not let a (rather large) hole in a sock prevent it from carrying out the rest of its useful existence.

My pride was lessened by the fact that it was a brand new sock, an expensive one at that, and the hole in it had been put there by my own self not five minutes after I opened the package. I do not blame me, however; I blame the tiny plastic T-shaped tags they put in new things, in order to fasten to them tiny paper tags that no one needs or wants, and that some people might feel the desire to tug out immediately, against all resistance.

Next time I’ll use a pair of scissors. I can’t afford to buy any more socks.

Dearest nephew-boobala,

I am sorry I laughed at this photo of you.

But only a little bit, really. And afterwards I hugged my computer because I wanted to hug you so much. My computer did not appreciate it; not one bit.

Come to Chicago. The lemon tree has three open blooms for you to sniff and there are monsters on the wall that want to say hello to you.

All my love,
Aunty M.

See you soon, soon, soon.

Such photogenic genes.

My dear Sophia,

Just like your arrival, your first birthday comes like a joyful shout in the night that wakes me from my dreaming state. “Hooray!” it yells, and laughs so sweet my ears can barely hold the sound. It makes me feel older, just like you, and reminds me to cram as much life as will fit into each passing year—so long for you, so short for me—until they overflow with vision and flight and rage and ache and love.

You are the gorgeous gift of genes and generations. Happy Birthday, baby girl.

Love,
Aunty M.

That’s Asher, the baby whose hair stood up on end and who amused me with pooping phone calls and dazzled the internerd* with his eyes and comforted me before I had surgery.

Three!

Sheesh!

Happy Birthday, Big Foot. I love you.

*Estee, did I get “internerd” from you? Now I have noticed a few of my Flickr friends are using it. I find this highly amusing.