Stitchpop

I woke up with so much anxiety but no identifiable cause. Everyone is healthy, we're employed, and we have a place to live. So what do I have to be worried about?

I hate when I can't pin feelings down because it usually means there is a reason but I've just pushed it off and forgotten about it. (Repression: the other white meat) Now it's probably been kicking around all night, generating metaphor-rich, anxiety-producing dream sequences.

Oh well, la la la, out of sight out of mind! Everything's rosy.

I'm heading to the craft store at lunch to pick up some beads for a sweater. I'll probably stop and pick up dog food.

And speaking of the dog… there's a strange power play going on between the dog and the three-year-old. For example, I'll walk into the living room and find one of Finnegan's squeaky toys perched high up on the back of the couch, with Gert sitting innocently beneath it. Then I'll find a rawhide bone under Gert's bed. And his tennis ball in the basket of her bike, deliberately out of the dog's reach.

"Gert…?" I said, holding the rawhide I'd just retrieved from her room. "How did Finnegan's bone get under your bed?"

Gertrude has this sinister, gleeful smile that comes out spontaneously when she knows she's being evil. "I took it, and I put it there," she sang, sporting the widest evil grin I've ever seen.

"Honey, you can't take Finn's toys away. He's not allowed to take your toys."

Then the grin burst into an evil laugh. "Heh! Heh! I know!"

Oh, brother. So I went through the house and gathered up all the dog's toys and returned them to his toy basket. Finnegan watched me with a look that spoke of long-suffering persecution and injustice.

Perhaps it's not time to introduce a younger sibling quite yet. Gert's tormenting time is booked solid.