Baby knits

Baby, my youngest (who is actually almost nine years old) is knitting himself a scarf. It had to be red yarn, because that is his favorite color, so he got some of this sparkly Xmas yarn out of my stash, under strict supervision of course, and sat down to knit. I cast on twenty stitches for him, and he carefully counts every few rows and announces that he still had twenty and only twenty. Yes, this has been a problem before.

Our cat sits next to him on the couch, waking up only when he shifts the yarn from underneath her. One of the times he so rudely awoke her, she meowed in his direction. My oh so adorable Baby (does anyone remember the show Dinosaurs? "I'm the Baby, gotta love me!" Yes it is deliberate on our part) says he hates when the cat talks to him like that because it makes him lose count.

Before you ask, yes he is actually pretty normal.

Except for when he was very small and had an invisible friend that lived in his finger. Truth, I swear. He called it Pidgy (from Pokemon, I believe) and boy, did that ever freak me out. Luckily, as number seven, my freakouts with this child are way minor.

Not sure how my other kids turned out so normal, tho.