Category: All True Adventures

. . . why would I lie?

See Mel Work and Play and Try to Drive a Car

The smallest project can turn into a sprawling time consumer.  At least it can if you are me. 

At 8 p.m. last night, after my daughter went to bed, I headed for Home Depot to pick up the foam insulation and assorted decorating items.  But first, I took a long look at the van’s interior and tried to imagine shoving  a few 4′ x 8′ boards into it.  I decided the seats needed to come out.

I had to look that up in the manual.  Then I unscrewed one, tilted it back and pulled and fussed at it until it finally came loose.  By the time I finished the second seat, my husband had come out to see why I was still in the driveway.

So, off I went.  At Home Depot, I got an orange cart, then headed over to the building supplies where I quickly realized I needed a heavy-duty metal cart with space for carrying things bigger than myself.  I trudged back outside to find the appropriate cart.

I lost several months of my life inside Home Depot as I wandered and priced items and searched for other items and carted four 2″x4’x8′ pieces of foam insulation.  The two-by-fours only fell off the cart three times.

A surly cashier rang up my items.  I paid.  Then the real fun began.

I reached my super-huge van, the one big enough inside for a dance party (I’m only missing a disco ball–believe me, this van is just that groovy).  I opened the back and pulled the first gigantic piece of foam off the cart and . . . not into the van.

It didn’t fit through the back doors.

No need to panic, right?  I opened the side doors and acted as if I knew what I was doing.  I heard laughter coming from an SUV parked nearby, but I ignored it and muscled the foam insulation diagonally through the door.  For a few moments, I didn’t think it would slide all the way in, but through the magic of geometry, physics and panic, I somehow fit it in.

I was sure I’d never fit the other three pieces in, but one after the other, they slid into place.  I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to get them out, but removing them at the church proved a simple task.

But as I carried the wood and foam and paint cans down the long church hallway at 10:30 p.m., I wished that I were one of those tiny, petite women who flutter their eyelashes so that big, strong men do this type of job for them.  For whatever reason, I am loathe to ask for help, even when it involves Home Depot and power tools.

*  *  * 

My husband rocks.  Today, he stayed at home with the kids while I gallivanted.  I went shopping–my closet has become bare as I’ve cleaned out clothes that no longer fit.  I especially need something to wear to church on Sundays, but I was unable to find a dress department, let alone a dress!  Do women no longer wear dresses?  Marshall’s used to have a rack of dresses, but not anymore.  The local department store has two small racks of random dresses, none suitable.

So, after shopping (I settled on capri pants and some shirts), I headed to a movie.  “The Devil Wears Prada” received a good review in the local newspaper and so I expected to love it.  I did like it–I think Anne Hathaway is beautiful to watch and Meryl Streep was fantastic in her role. 

But I was annoyed by the plot.  We are supposed to believe that the heroine in the story is wrong to excell at her job and that putting her job first (she’s not married and has no children) shows that she’s lost her soul somehow.

I didn’t buy it for a minute.  In fact, I wanted to slap her whiny boyfriend hard across his stubbly cheek.

So, after the movie, I left the parking lot by the alternative route behind the building.  As I turned the corner, I noted (with mounting panic) that my car wasn’t accelerating when I pressed the pedal.  I lifted my foot and the car idled along . . . but when I pressed again, it slowed.  

Oh no, I thought.  This car isn’t fixed after all!   I pressed the pedal once more, the car nearly stalled and then I realized something important.

That pedal, the one I pressed?  It was the brake pedal.  Yes, I seemed to have confused the gas pedal with the brake pedal.  A-hem. 

*  *  * 

I returned home to put my daughter to bed and then back out into the world again I went, this time to buy $200.00 worth of groceries.

I am utterly exhausted, but at least we have food again.  (And shampoo and cat food.)  If I’m lucky, my daughter will sleep past 7:00 a.m.  I hope I’m lucky.  

And Now, Panic-Stricken Whining

And as the minutes tick passed, bringing me closer to VBS, also known as the day when the ship sinks and I go down with it . . .

I feel so depressed.  Why can’t I be one of those moms who just drops off her kids at the church and goes out for coffee for three hours?  Why must I be the mom who stays at home teaching her reluctant teenagers language skills and math and history while trying to shake off the distractions of preschoolers?  I agree with all those women who say, “I could never do that!”  I can’t do it, either.  But I am doing it anyway.

I am the ship’s captain and my crew is jumping ship, one by one, leaving me on this leaky boat.  I have a hundred kids boarding in four weeks and I promise you, I will not abandon ship.  But it would be so much easier if I had a crew and perhaps someone to help me bail the water out. 

*  *  * 

These are the irrational thoughts of a woman (me!) who just looked at the calendar, counted the weeks until Vacation Bible School and freaked out.

The time has come to clean off my desk.  Make a list.  Telephone volunteers.  Refrain from running away from home.  Ask how many kids have registered.  Plan a meeting.  Try not to let panic overtake me.

In a month, it will be all over.  God help me.  

No More Pencils! No More Books!

Yesterday, we celebrated the last day of school by going to a movie.  (“Cars.”)  Tickets for five children and me cost somewhere around $40.00.  (I could buy two DVDs at that price! I said to myself as we hurried toward the theater.)   

I have recently become devoted to Fandango.com so I purchased my tickets online before we left for the theater.  No line to wait in!  I had no idea if the theater would be crowded at 1:30 p.m. on a Friday afternoon, so we arrived at 1:00 p.m. 

Lucky us!  The concession stand had no line, so we bellied up to the bar and I ordered:  a combo (large popcorn/large drink), a small Sprite (for the two little ones to share) and a second large popcorn.  My twin 13-year olds ordered and paid for their own drinks.  (They love to spend their money.)

Large popcorns come with one free refill, so after paying, we traipsed over to the salt and butter-dispenser.  I pulled out five brown lunchbags from my purse and divided the popcorn five ways.  Then I sent one of my boys back to get the empty popcorn bag refilled. 

I smuggled a bottle of water into the theater for my 8-year old who prefers water to pop.  So now, everyone had a snack and a drink–and I only spent $18.00 on snacks, which was something of a thrifty miracle.

Unfortunately, we had to wait a solid fifteen minutes before the movie started.  My three boys sat three rows ahead of me–one of the boy’s glasses were destroyed by a dog and he can’t see that well, so they wanted to be very close to the screen.  I sat between two almost-four year olds; my daughter, who has never been to a movie, other than “Finding Nemo” when she was a year old, but that doesn’t count because I spent almost the whole movie chasing her as she toddled in the hallways outside the darkened theater and freaking out about germs.

The other three and a half year old is a movie-veteran, having seen pretty much every kid’s movie as it was released in theaters over the past two years.  He sat entranced, methodically placing popcorn in his mouth and chewing without moving his eyes from the screen.

My daughter said, “I don’t want that,” and gave me her popcorn bag.  She scooted back in the theater-seat and due to her small size, the bottom of the seat flipped up, bending her in half.  This became her primary occupation during the whole movie.  She appeared to be doing some type of weird ab exercise, the kind you see on late-night informercials. Open, closed, open, closed, open, closed, the seat flipped and flapped, back and forth, up, down, up, down.

Five minutes before the movie started, she leaned over and said, “I want to go home.”  Flip, flap, flip, flap, flip, flap went her legs.

When the movie finally started, so did a baby two rows behind us.  The baby squalled and I turned and scanned the rows, but didn’t spot the baby.  The crying continued and I turned again and this time, I stared straight into the grim eyes of the screamer’s mother.  She had a hand clamped over the unhappy baby’s hollering mouth.

My annoyance instantly turned into sympathy.  I felt sorry that I had turned to shoot her a look.  (My look said, “Hey, I paid fifty-eight bucks for this–get that crying kid out of here!”)

A few minutes later, I heard the weeping recede into the distance at that mother left the theater.  I have no idea if she came back.

My daughter did watch the movie with interest, though her legs only sporadically stopped flapping the seat bottom up and down.  She ate popcorn, she laughed at funny parts.  Then, finally, she grew bored and said, “I have to pee.”  I said, “No, wait.”  She insisted, so I had to gather my purse and the hands of both three-year olds and crawl over two people.

She did pee and so did the little boy.  We washed hands and returned to the theater, crawled over two people and settled into our seats.  Then she wanted to switch seats with her little buddy.  Then she wanted to sit on the other side of him.  Flip, flap, flip, flap, flip.  Whisper, whisper.

“I want to go home.”

She called the name of her friend over and over.  He didn’t hear her, completely engrossed in the movie.  I can see why his parents take him to movies all the time.  He, the boy who cannot walk without leaping and kicking, sat immobile, except for one hand bringing popcorn to his mouth.  I think he blinked, too.   

Finally, she got his attention and had nothing to say.  Flip, flap, flip.

“Mommy!  I need to poop.” 

I told her she did NOT, and she gave up asking.  She has realized that declaring her need to vacate her bowels is a Get Out of Anywhere Free card.  For instance, when she whispers that in a stage-whisper at church, I hurry her out of the pew.  Because . . . well, just because.  But in the movies?

I really did like the movie.  I did not particularly like my movie-companion, however!  She will not go to another movie anytime soon.  This is a child who can barely be convinced to watch an entire television show.  I won’t be paying five bucks again for her to fidget and exercise her already taut abs.

*  *  * 

Today my 8-year old played in the final baseball tournament of the season.  (Hooray!)  His team took third place.  This was the first game I’d seen this year–my husband normally takes him, but today, my husband took my older boys to a Mariner’s game at Safeco Field.  (My husband tried to make me feel guilty about missing all the other games by launching into a chorus of “The Cat’s in the Cradle,” but I am not easily guilted.)

The funny thing is that my 8-year old could have gone to the Mariner’s game, too, but he was invited to a birthday party and he chose the party.  So, I went to his baseball game and took my daughter with me.

They won the first game, and played in a second one, so he was at the field from 10:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.  When he went to the birthday party at 3:30 p.m., I took my daughter to Costco to drop off film and shop (mainly for a roast for dinner tomorrow).

She had been begging to go to “the dolly store” to get another dolly (because you can never have enough dollies when you are almost four years old).  I took her to Goodwill where the doll bins were stuffed full of rejected and neglected dolls.  She picked out two, played in the toy aisle as long as I could stand it and then finally, we returned home.

And that, my friends, is about as much fun as I can stand to have in one weekend.  (And it’s not over yet!) 

(Oh, and we aren’t quite finished with school yet–we have to wrap up History and my Reluctant Student managed to leave himself a generous helping of Spelling over the summer.)

Raindrops Keep Falling on Her Head

  


June rain.Originally uploaded by Mel 128.

This is what June first looks like here in the Pacific Northwest. And so, if you’re a kid growing up here, you play outside in the rain anyway. If you’re me, you half-wish the rain would stop and half-hope it continues because when it stops, you will have so much work to do trimming the ivy and slashing down hedges and digging up weeds.

When it rains, you can stay indoors without guilt.

Retail Therapy

What I love about shopping at thrift stores (especially Value Village) is the almost-unconscious rhythm of the search.  Today, I arrived at Value Village fifteen minutes after it opened for it’s Memorial Day half-off sale. 

The parking lot was packed and every aisle was full of carts and kids and harried mothers and the occasional man.  The children’s clothing area was unusually treacherous, traffic-jammed with ruthless women slapping clothing into their carts which were stuffed full, stacks and stacks of clothing with a toy stashed here and there for good measure.

I watched a mother try to talk her pre-teen daughter into a costume for Halloween.  The daughter wanted to believe–I could see hope yearning to smile in her face–but I knew she thought her mother was deranged.  I did, too, but don’t tell her that.  She went on and on in a falsely cheerful voice:  “And you could wear your boots and you would look so cute!”

I heard a mother threatening to “beat yer butt,” and I heard countless children whining and crying and yelling.  I was just glad that none of those children or mothers were related to me.

The hours glide by while I am shopping, swishing and clicking the hangers, checking for brand names, stopping occasionally to examine a shirt or a dress.  If the price is right (fifty-percent off a thrift store price is always right), the condition is near-perfect, and the tag shows a brand-name, I buy it.  I examine quickly, I decide quickly, I walk quickly, and yet, the time slips away. 

I don’t really think while I shop.  Sometimes, the annoying tune of the background music worms its way into my skull and repeats on an endless loop, but usually my mind drifts free.  Thrift-shopping is as close as I come to meditating.  I’m in an altered state, one keen to find bargains, particularly those from The Gap, Lands End, Hanna Andersson, Healthtex, Eddie Bauer, Tommy Hilfiger, and Carter’s.

Today, I found three heavy pottery pots which will be perfect for the “Fiesta!”, our Vacation Bible School.  It doesn’t get much better than that. 

I returned home in time to lay down with my daughter for nap-time.  She slept and I crept out of the room to de-clutter and start laundry and clean the kitchen.  When she woke, I took the kids to the pool which just opened.  I wore jeans and long sleeves and took a fleece jacket just in case.  They wore swimsuits, even though the high temperature was below sixty degrees today.  (The pools are heated, but still!)

Now that the pool is open, I feel like school should be over, but we still have three weeks to go.  I dread slogging through these final weeks, but slog we must.  At least we’re getting close to the finish line.

And now, tomorrow has almost arrived, so I will hurry upstairs to catch David Letterman’s monologue before falling to sleep.  The mornings will be early again this week.  I dread that, too.

When the Tide Ebbs

After church today, we met some friends at a local beach to explore during an unusually low tide. We hurried down to the edge of the water, past the rocks covered with slimy seaweed and meandered right for awhile. We came upon a few sea-stars, crabs and snails before deciding to turn the other direction.

Our friends arrived and while the children ran ahead, she and I strolled and caught up on the news. She used to live in my town, but then they moved to Hawaii, then to North Carolina and recently back again–but now, on the other side of The Bridge.

We went under a pier and came out on the other side. The boys were having a fine time looking under rocks and digging.

And then my 3-year old daughter stepped back, bumped into a rock, lost her balance and fell. She braced her fall with her hands.  

I quickly lifted her to her feet and checked her hands and sure enough, she cut the edge of one on a barnacle-encrusted rock. I had a tissue in my purse and when a small circle of blood appeared, she asked for a new tissue. She clamped it on her injury and then, it must have started to sting because finally, she started to cry.  

She’s so much like me.  She refuses to be comforted.  She wouldn’t let me hold her, wouldn’t accept a hug, wouldn’t talk.  Only cried and cried.  I used to think that my parents must have really screwed up because I never remembered being comforted as a child.  I remember having deep slivers embedded in toes and scraped knees and a bitten tongue, once, but I don’t remember hugs and wiped tears and comfort.  Once, I worked myself into an emotional lather, thinking of how this lack of comfort had scarred me forever, blaming my parents.

But watching my daughter today as she handled this pain made me realize that I probably did the same as a child.  I refused hugs, refused sympathy, refused tender ministrations.  I’m like that now.  When I’m sick, I prefer to be left alone in my agony.  I don’t want to talk about it.  I just want solitude.  I will die in peace, thank you very much.

When I see something in my children that is clearly a genetic response to a situation, I see again that so much of behavior is nature, not nurture.  This makes me feel so much better about my mothering–on one hand, I’m shaping the future.  On the other, I’m just along for the ride, keeping them alive until they are adults.

We left the beach soon after my daughter cut her hand.  She cried all the way home, then fell promptly to sleep on my bed.  She still wore her hot pink jacket.  The tissue stuck to her injured palm, even without being held.  It stayed there until bath-time when I poured water over it, dislodged it before she could protest and bandaged it again.

She asked me, a few minutes ago, if the sea creature had scissors.  I explained about barnacles and their hard shells and off she ran to report the news to her daddy.  “I’m going to go tell Daddy about the barnacles!”

(Mr. Safety, my husband, would like you to know that this sort of thing wouldn’t happen if he’d been in charge.  And I say to that, fractured collarbone.  I am so happy that he was in charge when our then-3 year old fractured his collarbone in a tumble off the couch.  I will use that information for the rest of my natural life to remind Mr. Safety that Accidents Happen.)

Almost Midnight and Here I Sit

My 3-year old has been a fairly reliable nighttime sleeper for quite a while.  I can’t tell you the specifics because my brain synapses no longer fire since I’ve been living with at least one child under the age of four for thirteen long years.  But trust me.  She normally goes to bed easily and sleeps all night, waking up ten to eleven hours later.

Except last night when she woke up at 1 a.m., 2 a.m. and 3 a.m.  And tonight, when I put her down at 8:30 p.m., 8:50 p.m. and 9:50 p.m.  (My husband tended to her that last time.)

I don’t have a point, either.  I’m just saying that I’m distracted and tired.

*  *  * 

Today, my back yard was filled with men (okay, well, three men) who put together one of those mammoth Rainbow Play Systems.  Now we have a slide, ladder, fort, sandbox, two regular swings, one tire swing, swinging rings, and a partridge in a pear tree. 

Afterwards, while the men were sitting around swigging bottles of water, one of them explained that two years ago today, his father died.  And so he’d planned to come down here and construct the play system today, in memory of his dad.  Did I mention that he donated this play system to us in the first place?  (His kids outgrew it.)

I think it did his heart good to see my kids frolicking and swinging and christening the fort a “castle.”  My daughter has never, ever been so dirty.  At one point, she scampered inside, grabbed a pink fleece hat and ran back outside where she flopped down on her back in the sand and proceeded to make “snow angels,” only in sand. 

*  *  * 

My 13-year old sons have nearly finished their second year of school-at-home.  A few weeks ago, we read a children’s version of some excerpts of Don Quixote.  My blue-eyed twin, especially, adores the ideas of knights and swords and quests.  He laughed out loud as I read of the exploits of Don Quixote and his sidekick.  Then, he asked if I could get him the book Don Quixote. 

I explained that the actual book is really long and challenging and he said, very seriously, “Mom, I think I can handle it.”

The book arrived from Amazon two days ago and he’s a dozen chapters into it.  He thinks it would be a fine thing, indeed, to be a knight and to wander about seeking quests while carrying a real, live sword.  I just want to clutch my throat and close my eyes in gratitude for this teenage boy who still thinks a fort can be a castle and who calls himself “Master King” and offers to knight anyone, including his 3-year old sister.

The midnight hour approaches.  Seven hours until the house begins to wake up again.  And how much sleep does a mom need? 

(That’s right.  Just ten more minutes.)

Feeding the Alleged Homeless

My 3-year old daughter and I went grocery shopping tonight.  The shopping car weighed a ton by the time I wheeled it to the check-out lane.  I’m not sure I purchased enough ingredients to cook more than one decent meal, but we have enough snack food and lunch components to feed the men who will be installing our (used) Rainbow Play System tomorrow.

So, as I parked the cart in preparation for unloading and paying, I remembered that I’d forgotten bottled water.  Now, I do enjoy a cold, refreshing bottle of water, but I think of it as a luxury item because, after all, we do have tap water and drinking glasses and even ice in our house.  But my husband adores the plastic-encased water you pay money for at the store and the kids super-adore it and that’s why you can never find a bottle of water in the fridge when you are actually in dire need of a chilled bottle to take with you in the car.  Or to school, in a backpack.

We abandoned our cart–for the second time (the first time, we left it unattended and full to the brim right next to the deli counter because my daughter clutched herself in a very unladylike manner and declared, “I NEED TO PEE!”)–in the check-out lane and rushed a few aisles over to the drink aisle.  As I scanned the shelves for the cheapest bottled water, a voice floated right up to me and snapped its fingers in my face. 

I looked up, bewildered.  Me?  Are you talking to me?  I focused my eyes on this woman, right there next to the bottled water.  I tuned in just as she said, “And I’m homeless and hungry.”  I might have blinked a few times, confused, and then I said, “Well, if you want, I’ll buy you something to eat.”  And I took note that she reeked of cigarettes and seemed to be about my age.  

(Last time a beggar surprised me in a parking lot with a story about being homeless, hungry, blah-blah-blah, I handed over a few dollars and then vowed that next time, well, next time, I’d offer to buy some peanut butter and bread, just to call the beggar’s bluff.)

This time, I had a strategy and I offered food.  She said, “Really?” and I said, “Yes.  Meet me at the checkout lane.”  Then I allowed my daughter to grab an overpriced bouncy ball from a display and herded her back to our cart.  I muscled a case of thirty-five bottles of water with me.

And the lady with overprocessed white-blond hair appeared at my lane a few minutes later.  She plopped down two yogurts and a sports drink (whew–I was all ready to give her a little lecture about my not buying alcohol) and two oranges.  She said, “Thank you so much!” and I said, “No problem,” and continued to unload my groceries.  Then she asked, “Hey, would it be all right if I got some beef jerky or something?” and I said, “Sure!”

And so off she darted to look at beef jerky.  When she reappeared, she added beef jerky (“If it’s all right with you–it’s $5.99,” she said) to the conveyor belt.  And I smiled, but without really looking into her eyes and said, “It’s okay.”

Then she walked away again.

While the checker scanned my items, I said, “Hey, did you recognize that woman right behind me?”  She said she hadn’t noticed her.  I explained that the woman claimed to be homeless and I just wondered if she was a regular at the store.

Just as it was time to pay, the homeless woman reappeared.  She stood behind the checker in the next aisle, clutching a backpack and a soft drink with a straw.  The checker said in a low voice, “I haven’t seen her before,” and I said, “Oh.”  Then we reached the items for the homeless woman–I’d separated them so they’d be easy to bag.  I said, “Just add these, but bag them separately, okay?” and she did.

As she scanned the items, though, she murmured, “Are you buying all this for her?” and raised her eyebrows.  I said, “Yes,” and then, “It could be me,” when, of course, it couldn’t really be me because I would never make decisions that would land me in a grocery store with bleached straw for hair begging for food.  So I amended my statement and said, “Or someone you know,” and I was thinking then of drugs and how they steal yourself from you and how you could end up in the grocery store, waiting for a stranger to purchase a few items for you so you could save your cash to buy drugs.

And the checker handed me the bag.  I sneaked a Hershey’s candy bar into the bag and handed it to the stranger.  She said, “Thank you so much!” and I said, “You’re welcome.  Good luck!” as if she was going to compete in a spelling bee or maybe bid on a house at auction.

She strode out of the store, heading right, while I used all my body weight to shove my cart out of the store heading left.  My daughter and I stopped for a moment to ride the coin-operated car (well, she rode; I watched) and then exited to the parking lot.  As I struggled to guide the cart to my 1987 van while keeping my girl from being struck by a careless car, I saw the woman in the distance, walking across the parking lot.

I noticed she was walking down the street when I climbed into my van.

When we turned left at the stoplight, I saw her at the bus stop.  I glanced over as we drove past and saw her spooning yogurt into her mouth with the same quickness I use when placating a gaping baby-bird-mouthed baby. 

Was she homeless?  Where did she get a spoon?  Was she saving her money for meth, as I suspect?  Does it matter?  It really didn’t to me.  For that woman was someone’s daughter and that is enough reason for me to spend $10.00 unexpectedly on a stranger at the grocery store.

I hope she is warm tonight and safe.

Details, Unnecessary

I went to King’s Bookstore in Tacoma yesterday and felt a mixture of awe, longing and hopelessness. (Awe=Look at all these books! Longing=I want to curl up and read for ten years straight! Hopelessness=So many books . . . what is the point of adding to the stacks with an original work?)

I only had ten minutes before my movie started at this non-profit movie theater. I felt so cosmopolitan, shopping in the local independent bookstore and viewing a movie in an independent theater.  The streets were mostly deserted, though, because Tacoma is Tacoma, not Seattle. 

(The book I bought? Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.) At the movie theater, the woman who sold me my ticket tally-marked the movie I intended to see in a column. Then, she moved over to the popcorn area and sold me popcorn. I counted about a hundred seats in the theater itself. What an odd experience compared to the fifteen screen megaplex where I usually see a movie. (Cheaper, too, almost by half.)  And, I’m sure you’re wondering what movie I saw: “Thank You for Smoking,” which I chose by default. 

My husband has taken my daughter and her three year old buddy to the park, so I’m enjoying a guilty moment of freedom from her incessant crazy demands. When she woke up from her nap, my husband said, “You need to get dressed and comb your hair,” for she was wearing her 8-year old brother’s pajamas and had a head full of fuzzy curls. She decided this meant that she must take a bath–STAT!–and furthermore, she wanted her friend to watch her. I said, “No, he will not watch,” and she cried pitiful tears into the bathwater before forgetting her woe.

Then she poured cupfuls of water over her head and used two brushes at once on her head. She looked pretty much the same post-bath as pre-bath, except her clothes matched (sort of). Pink flowers and green leaves on pants . . . entirely different pink flowers and green leaves on jacket which was wholly unnecessary because it’s supposed to be eighty-five degrees this afternoon.

Anyway. I should be cooking up a scrumptious dinner at this very moment so the big kids will have something worthwhile to complain about.  But it’s so much more fun to blog about life than to live it.

A Mish-Mashy Hodge-Podge Sans Conclusion

My daughter insisted that she would sleep outside tonight, in the backyard, in her underpants, thank you very much. “Night-night, Mommy!” she waved as I opened the sliding glass door and stepped inside.

I called her bluff and when I heard the theme music for SpongeBob Squarepants, I opened the kitchen window and informed her, “Hey, SpongeBob is on!” and she scurried inside. Then, curled on the couch, she let me know that she planned to sleep downstairs, on the couch.

I do love her polite defiance. When I tell her, “Hey, go pick up those toys,” she’ll say, “No, thank you.” After her bath (right before she went to bed in her room, as usual), she said, “I spit water right there, on the floor.” I furrowed my brows in the classic Mom Disapproval Glare and she said, “I’m sorry, Mama.” But the spark in her eyes and the impish grin said otherwise.

* * *

Today was a most glorious day. I had an eye appointment at Costco at 10:40 a.m., which I managed to stretch into a solitary daylong excursion. More on that in a minute, but first I must tell you about the eye doctor, or as I like to think of him, The Pocket Doctor.

From his tiny white shirt to his little shiny shoes, he was just like a real doctor, only miniaturized. His nose was tiny and perfect sculpted, like Barbie’s. When he leaned in close to peer into my eyeballs, the scent of Ivory soap wafted from his tidy hair.  I had complete confidence in The Pocket Doctor and couldn’t stop thinking about how handy it would be to have a replica of a doctor to just tuck into your pocket or purse.

Oh, and weirdly, my eyes are better, not worse, and so I have a lesser prescription. When we finished, I ordered the contacts, then faced the wall of glasses to pick out a new pair. (My old pair is 9 years old.)

The Costco clerk came out from behind the counter to stand next to me as I contemplated the choices. Too many choices! They were sorted into three areas: Men, Women, Contemporary. I stood in front of the Contemporary section, trying to imagine myself in these little rectangular black frames or those small oval pink ones and the clerk said, “Well, these are cute,” just as I started saying, “I don’t think I’m cool enough to wear any of these.” She said, “Sure you are!” but that was just mercy speaking.

I scooted over and picked out a pair from the Women’s section, but not before picking up, putting on, taking off, putting down the same ten pairs of glasses over and over again. I just couldn’t decide. But finally, I just picked one. Good enough for the next ten years.

* * *

Last night, my husband and I went to a movie. (Can you guess what we saw?) For the first time, I bought tickets online, which was pretty terrific. No standing in line to purchase tickets . . . and a very small crowd in the concession area. We stood behind three people in a line and I immediately wanted to switch lines. I had a hunch, but my husband, Mr. I-Don’t-Like-Change, said, “No, this is fine.” So we waited another ten minutes, finally realizing we really should have moved to another line.

As we finally headed toward the theater, I said to my husband, “You know, this one time I saw a movie on the opening weekend and when I first got to the theater, I thought, hey, it’s not even full, and then I walked into the movie and it was packed . . . kind of like this!” And we saw that the seats were full. . . and then we found two spots right on the floor, front and center. Perfect.

If I were a different sort of person, a person with a big mouth, a person unafraid of being bashed in the mouth by a stranger, I might have uttered these words:

1) ARE YOU TALKING ON YOUR PHONE DURING THE MOVIE?! SHUT UP! and

2) GET YOUR TODDLER OUT OF THIS THEATER! THIS IS NOT A MOVIE FOR TODDLERS! HIRE A BABYSITTER, YOU MORON!!

But, I’m not that sort of person, so I just said to myself, Now I have something to blog about. Aren’t you lucky?

* * *

Oh, and finally. When I returned from my daylong adventure (Costco, Wendy’s for salad, Joann Fabrics, Value Village, Trader Joe’s), I returned to my driveway in time to see my neighbor holding something at arm’s length with her index finger and thumb, hurrying across her yard.

She was walking back when I disembarked and I said, “What happened? Did something die?”

Then I heard the squawking. Two frantic Steller’s Jays were swooping from tree to fence and back again. Apparently, the neighbor’s cat had killed their baby bird and both birds had turned into John Walsh, desperate to find their missing offspring. The neighbor kept saying, “I feel terrible! I feel terrible! I feel terrible!” and scolded the cat who did not feel terrible and who was still lurking under a bush, a serial killer longing to kill again.

Did you know that Steller’s Jays form monogamous long-term pairs? They were still screeching and hopping from roof to tree to fence and back again when I finished carrying in the groceries.

* * *

Tonight, while I clipped back a wicked bush (with spiky two-inch needle-like thorns) near our gate, the boys played a game in which they threw a ball over the house to one another. If they’d broken a window, I’d really have a tale to tell, but they didn’t, so I don’t.

The End.