i am victorious!

For as long as I can remember, me and Schmin have had this competition thing going. Since he's the son and I'm the mother I'm obviously responsible for starting it (he wasn't born trying to arm wrestle me to the ground). My only excuse is that I've always had an inexplicable urge to beat him at stuff. It started with racing when he was, like, four. I'd take it easy on him, only doing short distances -- porch to driveway, parking lot to daycare center -- to let him train. As the years wore on, I'd set bigger and bigger challenges and dust him every time. I reveled in my victories. Anybody who pointed out that beating a five-year-old at rock-throwing didn't really amount to much was accused of being jealous.

But the Universe turns on the motto that payback is a bitch; one day the earth revolved and Schmin started beating me. At, well, everything. That's when I started playing the mom card. You know. The one where I remind him that defeating one's mother and rejoicing over it is both lame and depraved.

Ah, good times.

I can neither defend nor resist the drive to beat Schmin in a public forum. When it comes to the races, I'm an old gray mare ready for pasture as far as Schmin's concerned (I know, I've asked him). But I can still see, which means I can still take me one humdinger of a photograph. And so I am laying down the gauntlet.

Below are pictures taken by Schmin and me on our visit to San Francisco in March. Each of us had a camera, and with every shot much chest-thumping and many declarations of greater skill ensued. I won't say who took what so this can be a clean contest. With your help, dear reader, I can put that Schmin in his place for the love of crazy moms everywhere! Vote in the comments. The loser's buying dinner. I've already got my fork sharpened.

(I should add that each set contains one photo taken by Schmin, and one photo taken by me. So vote for either a or b in each set. To think, I write tests for a living.)

SET 1:

a.

b.
SET 2:

a.
b.
SET 3:

a.
b.
SET 4:

a.
b.
SET 5:

a.
b.

SET 6:

a.

b.

SET 7:

a.
b.
And just 'cause the photographers are so darn cute:

there's one born every minute...

a knitter, that is.

I was only home for three days, but I went prepared, knowing that at some point during the whirlwind visit, I was going to find the time to teach my 13-year-old cousin how to knit.

My father is the oldest of 11 kids, so I have lots of cousins, age 13 and otherwise. Many of them are fair game for knitting, but I chose this particular cousin, S, because she's had to come up in the school of hard knocks. One of our aunts is raising her because her father, my uncle, is in prison and her mother is on a batshit crazy crack pursuit.


In spite of it all, my cousin is a lovely girl. She's smart, matter-of-fact, funny, and self-contained in that way that's necessary when you've faced a lot of uncertainty. Drugs and prison overshadowed my own childhood, so I understand where she's coming from. My aunt worries that S spends too much time alone in her room, but I don't. In high school, I'd spend entire summers holed up like that. I can't say I grew into a social butterfly, but I can hold my own in polite (and impolite) company. S will be fine. I know it.

When you're the kind of girl who likes to engage in a lot of me time, it helps to have yourself a good handcraft. And so I went to Toledo armed with Lion Brand and size 13 needles for S. I gave them to her on Saturday night, while we were hanging out at my sister's graduation party, and taught her what to do. Not that I had to show her much. A few instructions once or twice and she was off.

It wasn't long before she was showing a family friend how to knit. It was very sweet and very fun. After our friend left, S kept working on her scarf until it was time to go home.

The next day was to be my last full day in town and naturally I had a host of plans and committments. I wasn't thinking I'd have to add S's house to the list, but when we met at our grandmother's she mentioned that she'd gotten up that morning and worked on the scarf until it was done. All she needed to know was how to "close" it. And so we drove to her house.

I showed her how to bind off, which she picked up in about two seconds, and voila:

You have to love a girl like this.