It was my first Rhinebeck. And with all that’s going on, I was bouncing around in anticipation. Danielle and I rode together and shared a hotel room, and met up with MafiaMom, who shared a bed with me.
[sidenote: alas, there was no chance of a torrid Rhinebeck love affair for the Mafia, what with my work-wife in the next bed and my Mom snoring away at my side. not that I was hoping for a torrid love affair or anything. nope. not me. ahem. argh. and a little grrrr. and another apology to everyone i flirted with over the weekend. it can't be helped. terribly sorry. I will not be better behaved next time. i lie promise.]
Anyway … back to the beginning … Danielle and I dashed out of the office a wee bit early on Friday evening, so we could compensate for Danielle’s slow ass driving - sit in traffic with 1000 of our closest friends get a head start. I loaded all my gear, and got in the passenger seat. On the floor was an enormous bag with a fat envelope that said, “open the bag first, then this.” I opened the bag. I saw miles of knit squares. I read the letter, and the spreadsheet(!) of names and blog addresses. And I said:
Holy Shit.
Oh my God.
Are you Kidding?
Are you Serious?
How the Hell?
Oh my God.
This is Incredible.
Did you really?
What?
How?
I was in total and absolute shock. The best kind of shock. The kind of shock that says I’m being held up and surrounded and loved and snuggled by this not-so-imaginary crowd of generous friends, many of whom I’ve never met in real life. How can this be? How can I be so lucky? Really? What have I done to deserve this unbelievable expression of support:
-a mere 2/3 of the Maf-ghan seen here, being held by my favorite LYS maven-
I wanted to roll around in those miles of wooly squares. I wanted to wrap the blanket around and around and around me, like a shield. An amulet. A protective coating. A skin. Giving myself a layer of lanolin that would keep the rain drops from reaching me. And then sit in front of a fire, knees drawn to my chest. Let the heat penetrate the knit stitches and get trapped in there. And watch the flames dance in the fire. And see the flames morph into lovers-to-be and adventures-to-be and learning-to-be and Little-Man-growing-older and my-whole-life stretched out in front of me. Knowing that each of those stitches, trapping heat against my body, represents the kindness of people in far distant homes.
Then Danielle started telling me the stories. And I read the cards and the tags. And then I came upon Danielle’s square, which looked so familiar. I saw the yarn at her house, she explains. It was the first yarn she spun on her new Schacht! Oh my god, the first yarn from the wheel? That’s seriously important yarn! With that realization, I lost it. The floodgates opened and I cried (and I.do.not.cry.I.just.don’t.). Deep heaving sobs. All over Danielle’s handspun square. All over the Maf-ghan-in-progress. All over every single one of the 80(!) squares sitting in my lap. [sorry guys]
While driving, she hugged me (thank you Cambridge traffic). After getting it together, ahem, I spent the next hour fondling each and every square, reading every single card and tag and present, and listening to stories about how I almost discovered the project on countless occasions, and how many people were involved, and about various seaming parties and conversations and well-wishes. And I cried a little more. That’s how the rest of the trip to Rhinebeck went — I fondled, I cried. I fondled, I cried a bit. I fondled, I teared up. And so on. Until we stopped for dinner and I got it together. Then the clouds broke open and the sky cried on my behalf, while I drove white-knuckled through torrential downpours toward the Hudson River Valley.
At Rhinebeck, I hugged a LOT of people. And thanked them. I occasionally checked the spreadsheet (that Danielle … she is seriously organized) to see if so-and-so participated, to be sure that I wasn’t hugging and slobbering all over someone who had no idea what I was talking about. For someone who.does.not.cry, I told a LOT of people about the crying. I bought fiber, two of Maryse’s cards (including the one featuring her Maf-ghan square), and a Golding spindle. I spun. I knit. I met and hung out with a whole cast of incredible people. I misbehaved. I drank at every opportunity (thank you yarn-company-sponsored open bar at the Ravelry party). I spent some hardcore Q.T. with some of my favorite people on earth, including MafiaMom, who wore the poncho I finally finished. I taught MafiaMom to spin on Julia’s wheel. Julia’s wheel was clearly built to teach; it’s the Jonathan Kozol of wheels.
She took to it, but the fiber complained a little — Mafia on the right. MafiaMom on the left. Telephone cord: like mother, like daughter, even the same fiber.
I got an early birthday present from MafiaMom, who found his beautiful antique yarn winder at an estate sale
I brought some beautiful Cider Moon sock yarn from the stash, promptly tangled it, was thankfully rescued by the ever-generous Team Cheryl and Terry …
only to wind it into a center-pull ball so tightly that no amount of tugging would release the center. Even Sara couldn’t pull the center out with a crochet hook. Perhaps that’s a sign that I need to relax?
I watched Cate cut her Autumn Rose.
Which is when I met the awesome crazy Canadians that I tailed for the rest of the weekend.
And, since it is now 1:59am, the Sox have won the World Series again (yeah Sox!) and Xifey has finally returned from her nightly jaunt to the next door neighbor’s house, I need to sleep a bit before I’m expected to act like a professional human being in a few hours.
There will be more blogging about Rhinebeck, because I still need to do the link-fest. As well as more blogging about the Maf-ghan, including links and pictures and the stories behind each and every square. And there are a couple of other AMAZING bloggy prezzies to post about. But right now, I’m going into radio silence as I:
1) wait to hear about the used car that I’m trying to get at auction (i.e. half price), and
2) wait hear if my offer was accepted on a very cute condo. gotta get outta this place, if it’s the last thing I ever do**.
Please send some of that amazing loving energy to the condo deal. Remember how we got Ms. 1890 together? Let’s do it again. If the Maf-ghan is any indication, then clearly my peeps are capable of incredible acts.
*extra points to the person who can identify the post title without googling it. big points to the person who can say the next line. kisses to the person who knows this one**.
*** ETA: Danielle would like me to add … if anyone is still interested in knitting a Maf-Square, there are a couple open spots. Email her at ASwimInKnits AT yahoo DOT com.
*** ETA #2: Danielle says that the remaining spots are now taken. Thank you to everyone!!
]
The delight of waiting for 
That said, the best story about the unique experience of a lesbian couple doing a surrogacy for two gay dads in Massachusetts (got all that?) is that I was required to sign an affadavit of non-paternity. Yes. Really. Because B-Dad is the bio-Dad, and despite the fact that they used an egg donor, Wifey is still considered the “mother” until non-bio S-Dad completes his co-parent adoption. Have I lost you yet? The birth certificate administrator at the hospital was twisted into a pretzel trying to force the computer to accept her data entry. Apparently a male husband is the presumed father of a baby born to his female wife while they’re married. Sure. Fair enough. But … if he’s not the baby daddy, he fills out an affidavit stating that yes, they’re married, and no, he’s not the father. Because Wifey is legally married in Massachusetts, the computer lists her as such. So when the birth certificiate lady tried to enter B-Dad and Wifey as “father” and “mother,” the computer spit it back, requiring that I, as Wifey’s spouse, sign off my paternity rights. Enter the Mafia, an Affadavit of Non-Paternity, a Bic pen, and loud peals of laughter. This was certainly the most ridiculous thing I have ever signed. Let it be known: I am not now, nor will I ever be H-Baby’s Daddy. Signed: The Mafia, with love.
