My aunt tells the story of a woman who went all day wearing two different shoes and didn’t notice it till right before her evening’s speaking engagement. At that point all she could do was laugh merrily and point out the mismatch so that everyone could join in the joke.

That story stuck with me, partly because it’s so incredibly preposterous (what sort of woman could wear two different shoes and never even know it? wouldn’t she feel a difference? could a person truly be so absentminded? so careless?), and partly because it speaks to my skirt-tucked-into-panties, run-in-stockings, zipper-down-holy crap! fear of not being completely put together whenever I venture out into public. So every time I think of that addled woman clomping around in her two different shoes for a whole entire day, I chuckle. That poor dear, tsk, tsk.

Well.

Well…

Yesterday I went to church wearing two different boots, one black, the other brown, and I didn’t even notice my mistake until Sunday school, after the hour-and-a-half-long church service in which I sat in the very front row.

I repeat: I WENT TO CHURCH WEARING TWO DIFFERENT BOOTS AND I SAT IN THE VERY FRONT ROW (to boot).

It wasn’t like I was wearing pants or a long skirt, either, oh no no no. My knee-length poofy skirt stopped a few good inches above the boot tops so my boots, in all their mismatched glory, were 100 percent visible.

And I had no idea. I never even noticed they felt different (which they do—the brown ones are more comfortable than the black).

(This extreme cluelessness brings to mind the bizarre tales of full-term pregnant women pooping out a baby in the toilet and then claiming they had no idea. I always wrote those women off. But now, after yesterday’s mishap, I’m not so sure…)

It wasn’t till Sunday school that I discovered my mistake. Getting ready to seat myself, I happened to glance down at my feet, and— I froze. I sucked air. I let loose a series of half-whimpers, half-shrieks, “I don’t believe—! I’m—! Two different—!”

I giggled manically.

“I might cry,” I squeaked. “Or maybe I’ll laugh?”

“They say people only look at other people from the thigh up,” one kind soul offered. Another woman untucked her feet from under her chair to double check her shoes. (They matched.) Everyone smiled and chuckled, but then the discussion turned to other things (clearly, they did not comprehend the enormity of the situation), and I was left sitting there in my two different boots, attempting to exude a sense of calm.

However, it’s pretty darn near impossible to pretend you posses any semblance of equanimity when you’re wearing two different boots.

So every now and then when a huge smile threatened to split my face, I’d duck my head and shake it ruefully from side to side, all my insides—my very veins—jiggling with an overwhelming attack of the giggles.

It wasn’t until we were in the car and half-way home that I pointed out my miss-booted feet to my husband and kids. They howled, and John struggled to keep the car on the road and study my feet at the same time. I hoisted them up on the dashboard to make it easier for him.

Mom and Dad had arrived at our house for lunch before we got home, so, “Shhh,” I told the kids. “Don’t say anything and let’s see if Grandmommy notices.” (I knew Dad wouldn’t. He’s notorious for not noticing haircuts, gaudy earrings, and painted fingernails.)

I sashayed into the house, brown heel-black heel clicking on the tile floor, and hugged Dad and Mom. “You like my outfit?” I asked Mom. She admired my skirt, one she had scavenged for me from a thrift store, and turned back to the table where she was assembling platters of meats and cheeses for our sandwich feast. The kids and I exchanged glances. Mom smiled away, oblivious. And then my younger daughter piped up, “Did you see her boots?”

Mom turned around again and looked. She double-taked. She gaped. And then, and then! The gut-wrenching, foot-stomping laughter completely overtook. We roared and wailed, sobbing with hilarity, ricocheting off door frames and tables, hanging on to each other, rocking and shaking, our shoulders hunched, breathless, eyes brimfilled up with tears.

Of all people, I knew my mom—a woman who leaves the chicken out of the chicken noodle soup, who sits on her glasses and smashes them flat, who boils kettles of water dry—I knew she would get the humor. I was not disappointed.

So now my aunt’s story has been replaced with a new one, the story of one crazy-addled woman who wore two different, knee-high boots to church one Sunday. The poor dear, tsk, tsk.

The end.

This same time, years previous: a meaty lesson, foods I’ve never told you about, physics lesson (it’s horrifically windy again today—what is it with this time of year?), slow thinking

I pick at my kids constantly.

Go blow your nose. No, that’s not good enough. Here, let me help.

Your head stinks. Did you use shampoo when you washed your hair? What—? You KNOW soap does not count as shampoo. If you don’t do a better job from now on, I’ll have to wash your hair for you every time you get a bath.

Get your elbows off the table.

Hold your fork right.

Chew with your mouth closed.

Put your knee down at the table. For crying out loud, child, SIT ON YOUR BUTT. Those cheeks are meant to KISS the chair!

Unbutton the top button of that blouse. It makes you look uptight when your shirt is buttoned all the way up to your chin.

Close your mouth. It makes you look dull when you leave it hanging open like that.

Sit up straight.

Give me your hand. Oooo, yuck! Your nails are gross! Fetch the clippers.

Don’t stretch your shirt out with your knee.

Don’t sing so loud.

Don’t BREATHE so loud.

Don’t rock the chair like that.

DO NOT INTERRUPT ME WHEN I’M READING TO YOU!

Your breath stinks. Did you brush your teeth yet this morning? Really? Well perhaps you better do it again.

And so on.

But the tables are turning. My kids are beginning to pick back.

The other week, I sat beside my eldest daughter during church. She tapped me on the arm and when I looked over at her, she gestured to her chin and made a swiping motion, mouthing something about a hair. I swiped at my face, freeing a hair that was stuck to my lip gloss. We smiled at each other.

But she kept staring at me—I could feel her eyes burning holes into the side of my face—so I glanced down again. This time she pressed her lips together tightly, signaling that I ought to follow suit. Apparently, I was gaping stupidly. We giggled, and I whispered at her to stop staring at me and pay attention to the sermon.

Some people might think this picking back is rude, disrespectful of elders and all that. But not me. I find it oddly comforting. My kids’ ability to observe and point out my flaws (the older two are becoming quite perspicacious) shows that they’re judging me by the measuring stick I have handed them. When I look at it that way, their critiques feel downright complimentary!

(And in case you were wondering: no, she did not wear her homemade wire specs to church.)

This same time, years previous: life, interrupted, potato gnocchi, mocha pudding cake

Miss Beccaboo and I are learning how to knit. My friend Anna Maria is giving us lessons and last nightwe all lined up on her sofa, balls of yarn rolling about at our feet, needles poking and jabbing most dangerously.

If Anna Maria was caught off-guard by my stunningly high levels of ignorance, she did not let on. (AM, First you need to do a slipknot. Me, Come again?) She patiently coached us through the tricky casting on, and then got us started on our rows. In between saving us from our mistakes, coaching her own daughters, and petting the dog, she knitted away while regaling us with tales of how women knitted in the olden days.

They knitted while they walked, she said, demonstrating. They put their balls of yarn in special pouches they wore at their belts, and while they walked—because everyone had to walk everywhere back then—they knitted gorgeous stockings with intricate patterns for the wealthy.

Miss Beccaboo was knitting and chatting with her friends, so I wasn’t sure she heard everything Anna Maria said.

But I was wrong.

This morning, she stuffed her ball of yarn into a shoulder bag and then walked around the house while she knitted, just like the ladies of yesteryear.

She also patiently allowed her little brother to try his hand at knitting.

She is much more confident than I am. When she makes a mistake, she just flips the needles over and works backwards, or something like that. I have no idea if she’s doing it right, but it looks like it’s coming together just fine, so I let her go. Not that I could help her if she needed me to, of course.

I, on the other hand, knit slowly and methodically, constantly terrified that I’m going to drop a stitch. I don’t understand how the threads do the things they’re doing, so I memorize how my hands should move and then hold my breath and hope for the best.

I am pleasantly surprised by how much fun I’m having. Knitting is peaceful and addictive, relaxing, yet productive. And, unlike my other interests (such as writing, cooking, visiting), it allows me to be fully present to the children. I can’t look up and supervise, but I can listen and talk. (Well, mostly just listen, at this stage of the game—I am so uncoordinated.) The kids sense that I’m available and cluster around, watching my needles eat yarn and chattering away about all manner of things.

Inspired by our knitting, the littles got out some sewing boards I forgot I had.

And Yo-Yo went to work on a rubber band ball.

I can’t wait to learn more stitches and techniques, or whatever you call knitting skills. (Sweetsie has already put in orders for a hat and mittens and dress—dream on, baby.) There aren’t that many more days left of winter, so I gotta move fast. (Watch out, Amanda Soule! Here I come!)

This same time, years previous: chai-spiced hot chocolate, I don’t like chocolate biscotti, my me-me list, hauling wood