Villagers all, this frosty tide,
Let your doors swing open wide,
Though wind may follow, and snow beside,
Yet draw us in by your fire to bide;
Joy shall be yours in the morning!

Here we stand in the cold and the sleet,
Blowing fingers and stamping feet,
Come from far away you to greet—
You by the fire and we in the street—
Bidding you joy in the morning!

–Kenneth Grahame, from The Wind in the Willows

Advent is my favorite season. I didn’t know it was a season until I began choral singing for the Episcopalians — I knew the word only in the context of the many Advent calendars I made to count down to Christmas in my childhood (the tour de force being a rather intricate model castle for a young friend). But I could have told you that I liked the weeks of festive preparation, of secret gift-making, of gathering greens to decorate the house (my only horseback-riding accident was precipitated by finding myself unable, at full gallop, to untangle a branch of scarlet-berried hawthorn from my wooly glove and my mare’s mane), of tramping out into the damp fields to cut a spindly fir, of eggnog and satsumas and caroling in the cold, as much as the climactic morning with the stockings and presents under the tree. And in recent years, I’ve liked those weeks of anticipation more than the event itself, grinchy as it may sound to say so. (I get, quite frankly, a little overwhelmed under the deluge of generosity from our dear ones. If I could get everyone on board with thoughtfully choosing — or even making — a single gift per family member, I’d be vastly happy.)

Now I like the thought of this season as a time of beginnings, of preparation, of watchfulness and mindfulness that the winter earth is sheltering and nourishing the seeds that will thrust up and shake themselves free when the sun returns.

And so Advent feels like the right time to share that a little field-mouse has drawn himself — or herself — up by our fire to bide. In the way of little mice, this one didn’t wait for an invitation, but quietly established itself in the coziest way possible and made its own plans to appear in the outside world in June, when the world is warm and lively again. I haven’t knit him or her anything yet, but these summery little slippers are waiting to cover a set of tiny toes…

The thing I’d most love to make for this second babe is Leila Raabe’s Spire Blanket from the new LOFT Collection. In that wonderful Old World color, blue flecked with red, exactly as shown. I’m sure that later I’ll be seized by fits of inspiration to design anew for my little one, but Ms. Raabe has already crafted every detail of this blanket just as I’d wish. (And really, why put pressure on oneself to design as well when one is already contemplating knitting a big lace blanket involving 1600 yards of fingering-weight wool? Will the baby care? I expect not.) But I am determined that this child shall be no less thoroughly swathed in woolen handknits just because it wasn’t anyone’s firstborn. You’ll learn, little field-mouse, that this is how your mama shows she loves people.

Yes, joy shall be ours in the morning.

So wrote Ruth Krauss in her delightful book of definitions, A Hole Is to Dig, which you should read whether you are a child or live with one or not.

My hands are writing a grant and publishing a curricular journal. They are knitting gifts for friends who read here. They are performing liposuction and a double amputation/reconstruction on a sweater, which I really feel ought to qualify me for some kind of knitting doctorate if the patient lives.

But for most of most days, they are the only pair of hands that will do for holding all 48 crayons until they can be carefully replaced in the box (some of them upside down); the best pair to hold for companionship or to steady against when eagerness outpaces feet; the pair that can do “Itsy Bitsy Spider” again; the pair that can slice cheddar (”tseeeeeese!”) into manageable pieces; the pair that can lift and stroke and comfort after a tumble.

I’m going to be out of a job before I know it. My girl can already fetch her own boots when she wants to go outside; climb the steps of the tallest slide at the park (with Mama’s hands at the ready just behind, of course); put Papa’s socks back in the drawer upon request (Papa himself could learn a thing or two!); carry a dirty bowl to the dishwasher; pat the animals gently; play the “niano;” and pour bath water into a funnel to turn a paddle wheel. One short year ago we were here:

This photo is blurry because she detested tummy time. (In fact, it may be the only one I ever took… it seemed heartless to point a camera at one’s offspring sobbing into the rug because she couldn’t lift her gigantic noggin.) This is better:

Not to be too nostalgic for this sleepy wee person who exists only in memory; I’m really quite thrilled to see her growing and learning and experimenting. I love discovering who she is a little more each day, and likewise sharing with her more of who I am. (We dropped the car off at the mechanic this morning and walked home in the rain, Ada in the front carrier and the two of us wrapped in Mr. G’s big red raincoat. It was a slow walk because Ada wanted to touch the dripping leaves of every shrub and overhanging tree while I told her the species. I figure if a child can discriminate between polygons by the time she goes to kindergarten, she ought also to be able to tell a maple from a birch and a redwood from a cedar.)

But I did suffer a pang for the fleetingness of babyhood when she fell asleep in my arms this evening, which she so rarely does anymore. I have to remind myself, as I read Barnyard Dance for what feels like the forty-seventh time since lunch, that this is the most important work I can do. That “hands are to hold” is perhaps more obvious than that “rugs are so dogs have napkins,” but no less true and sometimes, when patience is fraying, not much easier to remember. I am keeping my hands ready for holding as often as I can.