Month: April 2005

A Place of One’s Own

I hate to admit my shortcomings, but I have to start by saying that I never read Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. But the title of that book appeals to me as an introvert, as a hermit, as a girl with a messy house because of the slobs kids who live with me. I crave solitude, some days more than others.

Babygirl is suffering from another cold, which means that I am also suffering from her cold. Futhermore, she’s insufferable and determined to skip her nap each afternoon. The other day, I gave up and by 5:00 p.m., she was shrieking and kicking in her crib, throwing the Mother of All Fits. Impressive, yet . . . annoying.

I had to outlast her today. I put DaycareKid to bed at 1:00 p.m. Then, at 1:30 p.m., I rocked CuteBaby to sleep. I allowed Babygirl to watch “one more show,” until 2:00 p.m., and then I used the remote control and clicked off the television and said in a cheery voice, “Time for night-night!”

“No night-night,” she said as she slid off the bed and went to push the power button on the set. I aimed the remote and clicked it off again. I picked her up and deposited her back on the bed. She began to cry.

Ever resolute, she climbed down again and pointed her finger at the power button. I scooped her up and dropped her back into bed.

The soundtrack I like to call “Toddler Mahem” (aka screaming, crying without tears, shrieking) accompanied this dramatic mother-daughter struggle. She hollered, screamed, chanted. At one point, she turned around so she could kick me as I laid with my back to her, feigning sleep. As if I could sleep through the racket. She did not enjoy my immobilizing her ankles.

In the midst of this, I telephoned my husband, just so I could say, “Hey, I wanted to share the joy of motherhood,” while holding the phone to my tantrum-throwing girl, but he was at the post office and said, “I’ll call you back.” Now, what fun is that? When he called back, I let the answering machine pick it up because I was busy ignoring the pitiful cries of my only daughter.

At one point, she begged to go to her brother’s bed. I counted on my fingers, silently, one, two, three, four, five, then said aloud, “NO!” I did this about ten times in a row. We had quite a rhythm going for awhile, but it sure added to her fury. So I shut up and drowned out her distressing cries by promising myself grand promises: The second my husband comes home, I’m going to go . . . but I couldn’t think of where I would go. Where could I go? I began to fantasize about a place where moms could go, a living room where you could get a Diet Coke with Lime and read a People magazine without anyone interrupting or getting snot on your clothes. A neighborhood Moms Only clubhouse where kids weren’t allowed and husband dared not enter. A place where nobody knows your name–“Mom!”

And then it hit me. What I really want is an apartment of my own. Not just a room, but an entire apartment . . . a place where the carpets would stay clean, where the bathroom counters would never be smeared with toothpaste and the toilet rims wouldn’t be peppered with pee. I don’t need a big apartment, either. A one-bedroom would be fine, as long as the bathroom has a gigantic tub with jacuzzi jets. (Hey, I’m dreaming–I can have a big fancy tub if I want.) I want a place where I don’t have to constantly clean up messes I didn’t make, a place where the fridge holds premium ice cream and fresh lemons, a place where the remote control doesn’t disappear every single day.

After thirty-five minutes, Babygirl stopped screaming. I gingerly stepped out of the room and heard CuteBaby’s angry screams. His short nap had ended and he was indignant to find himself alone. Luckily, he’s a sweet, easy-to-please baby, so a bottle cured all that ailed him and he happily rolled on the floor while I watched “Dr. Phil.”

Soon my three boys returned, one of their friends came over, Babygirl and DaycareKid woke up and the pace picked up. As usual.

But I kept my promise. When my husband arrived home (at 6:30 p.m.)–incidentally, while I was vacuuming–I said, “I’m leaving.” I realized I’d been the one to handle bedtimes for a solid week–he’s been gone for one reason or another every night–so I grabbed my keys without regard to my frightening hair and make-up-less face and practically sprinted out my front door.

I had premium ice cream (Cold Stone Creamery Rocky Road), wandered the bookstore, picked up sixty-four dollars worth of stuff at Target and returned home in time to watch “Survivor.” Only one more day until the weekend comes.

Unfortunately, my husband has an obligation all day Saturday and Sunday is church meeting day. But one day, I’ll have a place of my own. (I wonder if they’ll allow pets in the nursing home?)

A Rambling Tale With No Point

My alarm rang at 5:00 a.m. and I slapped it into submission and slept until 5:10 a.m. I showered, half-dried my tresses, pulled on the clothes I’d draped on the exercise bike last night, wore glasses and a Mr. Rogers sweater. I drove to CuteBaby’s house, arriving at 5:50 a.m. His mom had to go to her military job early again, just to check in. (No physical testing for her because she’s still on the maternity plan.)

I was back home by 7:00 a.m.

By 7:30 a.m., I had baked my first pan of homemade chocolate chip cookies to satisfy Babygirl’s directives: “I want cookies! I want cookies!” Frankly, I wanted cookies, too.

My very long day included:

–twin 12-year old boys who spent more time exchanging nonsense-talk than doing literature lessons;
–two and a half year old daughter who is still coughing, gagging and wiping snot on her sleeves;
–DaycareKid who is not catching on to potty-training (but, hey, at least I know now that he is not constipated);
–infinite laundry;
–really out-of-control, bad hair which I spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating today;
–and CuteBaby (but he took long naps today).

Oh. And a box came in the mail, which is generally cause for rejoicing. The box contained a giant, thick envelope from my mother-in-law. In the envelope were all the pictures I’ve sent her over the years (eighteen years, almost), including the sweet little Creative Memories scrapbook I made especially for her.

Only a few weeks ago, the same mother-in-law complained to me on the phone that I hadn’t sent her any pictures recently.

You figure that one out. I called my husband and he suggested she was preparing to die, which is a fairly morbid thing to say, but that demonstrates his sick sense of humor which is primarily why I love him so much.

We’ve recently been cracking up at the song-list we’re compiling for our imaginary twenty-fifth anniversary bash. (We hate parties. There will be no bash.) I suggested “Hard Habit to Break” and “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover.” He chose “If You Don’t Know Me By Now” and “If You Leave Me Now”. We think it would be hilarious to have these types of songs playing continuously in the background as partygoers clutch non-alcoholic drinks and little paper plates holding slabs of Costco cake. This joke–this pretend song-list–will go on for months, maybe years.

I also love him because he brought me salad for lunch at 2:30 p.m. when he called and I complained that I hadn’t had a chance to eat lunch yet. He brought Subway sandwiches for the boys’ dinner. When he returned home at 5:30 p.m. to find Babygirl imprisoned in her crib throwing a tantrum while I chatted with CuteBaby’s mom while she was picking him up–looking sweaty and disheveled, me, not her–he rescued Babygirl and she stopped crying long enough for him to transfer her to me.

After the switcharoo, she wrapped her sweaty arms around my neck and tried to steer me. No rocking chair. No kitchen chair. She insisted that I stand precisely in the center of the kitchen, no leaning on counters allowed. As you can imagine, this was great fun for me. Okay, it was annoying. My back began to ache.

My husband suggested he take her for a van ride, knowing she would scream, then sleep. That’s exactly what happened. While I buckled her in, she threw a fit worthy of any child seen on Nanny 9-1-1. That’s my sweetie-pie.

So the day ends. Mrs. Darling would be completely horrified if she saw the state of my carpets. She vacuums every day and once a week–ONCE A WEEK–she vacuums under all the furniture in her house (beds, dressers, everything). I am amazed, jealous and mostly, I wish I could hire her to be my Personal Vacuumer.

I want my floors to be vacuumed. I just want someone else to do it.

I am a horrible housewife. When I told my husband about Mrs. Darling’s spic-and-span carpets and lamented about my own dismal housewifery standards, he said, “That’s okay. I’m not a handyman, either, and you don’t hold that against me.”

And when I say, “I hate my hair! What shall I do with it?” He says, as if preprogrammed, “No matter what you do, I always like your hair.”

He’s a liar, but he’s my liar and he makes me laugh.

Snapshots Out of Focus

Sometimes, you just want to remember a moment. If you are lucky, you’ll have a snapshot as a souvenir. I have these words, which I line up here, neat and tidy, to remind me of life this week.

First, you must know that my husband believes in treating a cough with something, anything. (I don’t treat coughs as I’ve read repeatedly that there is no point and coughs are good, productive, etc., etc.) He heard not long ago that honey works as well as cough syrup. We’ve had another cold here which features a lot of phlegmy coughing. My husband was so proud of himself the other day–(“I could totally be a stay-at-home dad,” he said to me when I walked into the kitchen. I responded as a good, wise wife and I didn’t even roll my eyes at him, because he would be a good stay-at-home dad, but he underestimates the rigors of a solitary life taking care of miniature human beings)–anyway, he’d given Babygirl a spoonful of honey to combat her cough. He felt triumphant, giddy with his achievement.

Later in the day, Babygirl sat on the couch. Cough cough cough cough cough cough cough. Then she said, to no one in particular: “I don’t need honey.”

One morning this week, Babygirl stood on my bathroom counter, harassing watching me get ready. Her pink long-john style pajamas kept slipping over her shoulder and I had a flashback to Flashdance.

YoungestBoy has announced that when he grows up, he will have two children. They will be named “Ray-Ray” and “Yo,” because those are “cool names,” he says. This is a boy who named his (girl) cat “Roy.”

That’s all. I told you . . . it wasn’t a carefully composed shot, sharply focused, telling a story. Just a few blurry pictures, but enough to help me remember.

A Mistake Discovered!

Smoov Someone just brought a grave error to my attention. All this time, you have been unable to go, meet and greet my friend, Smoov of (surprisingly enough) Smoov because she has been missing from my blogroll. How can that be? I adore her! She’s a grad student, a devoted mother of twin 2-year old boys and a brilliant 9-year old girl, wife to a great guy and a full-time employee who works nights doing something which involves dissecting human body parts. She’s hilarious, straightforward, witty and passionate about mountain-climbing, traveling and vodka. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

I added her to my blogroll, which I thought I had done long ago. Go check out Smoov. Tell her I said “hi.”

Go, Read, Greet

Recently, Dale (from Tales From the Wayside) emailed me, asking me how I managed to get people to read my blog. I told him a few things (like the importance of blogrolls, commenting, even using Blogexplosion occasionally). I don’t have 40,000 readers day like some people. And a lot of people find me accidentally because I have the word “photo” in my title. But Gina over at Just Another Day called me her Fairy Blog Mother, and Dale thought maybe I had a magic wand, I guess.

Alas, no such luck.

But I love how some of you found others of you through my blog (you know who you are). For instance, finding comments from Cuppa on Wash Lady’s blog delights me. So, knowing how kind and supportive you are, I’m asking that you go and visit Dale’s blog. Give yourself some time, though, because Dale is not just a blogger, but a short-story writer.

Here’s how Dale describes himself: “I am a 42 year old child of Minnesota who has spent the last 27 years living in the deserts of Phoenix, AZ. I have been married for 17 years (last March) to a woman who is playful as a kitten, possesses exceptional intelligence and so much a part of me I don?t know where I leave off and she begins. I have two dogs, one of which is an intense, serious and dedicated border collie-mix who attempts to herd flocks of pigeons and an Australian Shepard-mix who licks anything that can?t run away fast enough. I am a very large man who lives in a small house and drives a black miniature pickup (perfect color for the desert!).”

Go. Read. Greet.

Thanks.

Open Letter to the Man at the Movies

Dear Man at the Movies,

I only moved my denim jacket off that seat next to me because I thought that curly-haired woman walking near you was with you. I thought she was your wife, actually. So, when you inched past all of those people who arrived early to the movies and sat next to me and looked me in the face and said so gratefully, “Thanks so much!” I only turned and said, “Hey, no problem!” because I thought that woman–who turned out to not be with you–was coming soon. With popcorn or something. She didn’t, though.

You sat alone. And that seat on the other side of you was empty. So why didn’t you use that armrest, intead of hogging my left armrest? Didn’t you realize that you were crowding me? Yes, you smelled good. Why? Do you always scent yourself when you go to the movies alone? I couldn’t identify your cologne, that’s not because it wasn’t strong enough. Believe me, it was.

Can we have a word about your habit of pouring a handful of M&Ms into your mouth and then crunching them loudly? You’d enjoy them more if you ate them one at a time. Trust me. That’s what I did. Did you hear me? No, you did not. That’s because I am considerate. And also because I want my candy to last through the movie.

My denim jacket made my lap so hot, but I hope you were comfortable.

Next time, sit next to someone else. I go to the movies alone because I like to be alone. And don’t try to catch a glimpse of me or linger so you can say something to me on the way out. You cannot outsmart me. If you walk slow, I will walk slower. Every time.

Just so you know.

Signed,
Solitary Near Seattle

p.s. The movie was “The Interpreter.” When I wake up, I’d like to be as tall and thin and blond as Nicole Kidman was in that movie.

Rainy Saturday and Car Keys

Last week, when it became apparent that my husband wouldn’t be able to go away for his four-day weekend trip, I suggested he go to Portland to visit a friend after the funeral. We used to live near Portland and retain a few friends, a taste for Buster’s Bar-B-Q and a love for Portland bookstores (Powell’s and Pilgrim Books–I think that’s what it’s called).

So this afternoon, after he took YoungestBoy to his first baseball game of the season, off he went, driving a borrowed Lexus. (Our regular cars are unreliable to drive so far, he thinks. He is Mr. Caution.) He told me his cell phone battery was low, so he’d have it off, but that he’d call me when he arrived. It’s only a two or three hour drive. I hugged him and sent him off, told him to take his time, stay as long as he wanted. He needs a break, even a short one.

An hour or so after he left, I relented and agreed to take my kids to Target so they could spend the money that has sizzled holes right through their pockets. Because my husband had borrowed the Lexus, he’d parked our old Mercury Sable behind our old Chevy Astro van.

And then, he took the set of Mercury Sable car keys with him.

I often accuse him of forgetting to hang up the keys on the fridge, but I almost always have to apologize later when I find the keys in my purse or my pocket. This time, I said to YoungestBoy, “Hey, what car did you and Dad ride in when you went to your game?” He said, “The blue car.”

So I had not driven it last. That meant he did not hang up the keys on the fridge.

For one dismal moment, I imagined myself in my house with my four kids for thirty-six straight hours. It’s not the imprisonment that scares me, but the idea of it. There are many days I don’t leave the house, but I could if I wanted.

I called his cell phone, but it was off. Then I remembered the second Mercury Sable car key we have, the one which can’t hang because the black plastic part that encased it broke off. I ran upstairs to check his dresser drawer. Ten thousand pennies, but no key. I returned to the kitchen, dumped the striped junk jar I keep on the kitchen windowsill and there, amidst the nails and Barbie shoes and marbles and chains, I found the key.

So, we went to Target and GameCrazy, too. The boys are all happy. Babygirl picked out bathtub toys and cookies. We bought a take-and-bake pizza and returned home.

When he called, I told him I was cursing his name earlier and he confessed that he had the key. No harm done, I said. Have fun!

The twins are watching television, Babygirl is playing on the computer and YoungestBoy is playing Nintendo. The Brio train tracks are scattered on the floor, the laundry basket holds now-wrinkled clothes, and the leftover pizza is cold on the counter. Tomorrow, we are playing hooky from church (my husband suggested it).

And that’s my rainy Saturday report.

Losses

My dad knew he was dying, so he called the local pastor of the Assembly of God church to make a floating reservation for his own funeral. He met with the funeral director and arranged for his own cremation. He prepaid $400 for the small plot where the urn containing his ashes would be placed.

And then one afternoon, a few weeks later, he died in the back bedroom, the lavender room where I’d spent my teenage years.

I called the hospice nurse and she came immediately. She cleaned his body and called the funeral people. While we waited for them to retrieve his body, I called the Assembly of God pastor. He’d been my own pastor for about ten years and had often told me that I was one of his favorite people.

Me: “Hello? Pastor M____? This is Mel. My dad just died and I wanted to make sure we can have the funeral on Saturday.”

Pastor M.: “Oh. Saturday? Well. Hmmmm. I don’t know. We just had a revival and the janitor is on vacation and I’m not sure we’d be able to get the tables set up again for Sunday.”

Me: Shocked silence. “Oh. All right. I’ll figure out something else. Thanks.”

I ended up calling a pastor in another town. When I asked if we could have the funeral at his church, his immediate reaction was, “We can work something out. We have a wedding scheduled for that afternoon, but we can do it.” Then he said, “What did you say your name was?”

He hadn’t recognized my voice and as far as he knew, I was just a random stranger calling a number I’d found in the yellow pages.

Today, my husband was supposed to fly to Las Vegas to meet his college buddies for a long weekend. He’d been looking forward to seeing his friends and getting away from the constant demands and pressures of his life and I was thrilled for him. No one deserves a few days away more than me him.

But instead of going to the airport today, he spent his day preparing a funeral homily and spent his evening with the family of a child who died last Friday. He returned home at 9:45 p.m. Tomorrow, he’ll conduct the funeral of a five-year-old boy who happens to share the name of our youngest son. He’s not sure he’ll be able to get through his remarks. I know he’ll do a remarkable job–even if he has to pause while he cries–because he is a remarkable man and pastor.

The family doesn’t even realize what my husband gave up this weekend, but in light of their terrible loss, a weekend trip seems insignificant. Almost everything seems insignificant, as a matter of fact.

Ayelet, Oprah and Me

I never watch Oprah anymore because I have lost control of my life. Furthermore, I have lost control of the remote control, better known as the “Clicker” in my house. But today, Babygirl only wanted to rock in the big green recliner after her nap because she has another (!) cold. In DaycareKid’s absence, we did just that. And I watched daytime television while CuteBaby rolled on the floor and sucked his socks.

Today, lo and behold, a former blogger, and current novelist/columnist and wife to Pulitzer-prize winning novelist (Michael Chabon)was the guest. I’d even read the New York Times article the show focused on, the one where she talks about how she is “in love” with her husband, but not her four children. She mentions, in fact, that she loves her husband more than her children. This admission has caused quite a stir. I wasn’t shocked when I read it because I am so used to people saying things that don’t resonate with me at all.

Ayelet doesn’t speak for me, even though I am a 40-year old mother of four children, too. That’s because I’m not “in love” with my husband at all. I think all the talk of being “in love” is silly, as a matter of fact, and frankly, irrelevant.

I don’t believe in being “in love.” Love is a decision you make, not a feeling you feel. What is the point of declaring who you are “in love” with as opposed to who you merely “love”?

The whole quibble (of semantics, if you ask me) reminds me a lot of the puzzlement I felt when my dad explained to me that he still loved me, it was just that he no longer loved my mother. Those were hollow words. Is love so capricious? Love just flits away, like a shy bird? Or it melts away like an ice cream cone left in the car on a hot day? I always thought that if my parents could stop loving one another, they could certainly stop loving me. And that was before I understood that love is an action, not a description.

Oh, I’m familiar with the distinctions between the different types of love. C. S. Lewis talks about the four types of love in his book “The Four Loves.” [The four Greek words for our word love are “storge” (affection), “philia” (friendship), “eros” (sexual or romantic love) and “agape” (selfless love).–from the Amazon.com link.] And I think Ayelet was probably trying to communicate that she loves her children differently–not more, not less–than her husband.

But then, no one asked me, even though I, too, am 40 and have four children and one husband.