Paralysis

I’m marinating in a delightful broth of guilt and stress today. You should see the carpet right next to the fireplace–it’s lined with smashed Cheez-Its cracker crumbs. I need to vacuum. In fact, the whole family room carpet looks like a remnant you might see at a garage sale . . . after a hundred people have walked over it with filthy shoes. I need to get the carpet cleaner guy out here or rent a Rug Doctor, but neither will happen before I go.

The more I think about going, the more things I realize I ought to do. I suddenly decided that perhaps I should clean the oven. And the refrigerator. And I absolutely must get some new kitty litter and clean out the litter box.

The sun is shining today which means I have no excuse not to be out in the backyard sweeping up the litter of dead leaves that have gathered in every nook and cranny. I should pick up the scattered toys and rake the playground mulch evenly and dig up the giant dandelion that has rooted next to my three-foot square garden.

I feel preemptive guilt for leaving my family for five nights and six days. I watch my unsuspecting daughter and know how much she’ll miss me and how much I’ll miss (her musical rendition of “Jesus Loves the Little Children” in the shower, for instance). I worry that my husband will be overwhelmed by the noise, the mess, the constant demands for food. He won’t have anyone to watch “Deal or No Deal” with . . . no one who will mock him or call him Mr. Safety. I feel guilty that I won’t be cooking meals, folding laundry . . . and I feel guilty that I haven’t taught my kids to be self-sufficient.

I feel guilty about spending money on this venture. I feel guilty about devoting time to me and me alone. I feel guilty that my housekeeping is not up to par.

And then, as a distraction from the guilt, I add two more things to my list of stuff that should be done right away. The bathtub still needs to be caulked and the entryway to our house needs to be redone. Now. The outdoor carpeting must be ripped up and replaced . . . or maybe the stairs should be painted (Martha Stewart would know what to do) and flowers should be planted.

But the more I have to do and the more guilty I feel, the more I am paralyzed.

Help.

Commentary on the News

Everywhere I turned yesterday, I heard this: “The planet has a fever,” Gore said. “If your baby has a fever, you go to the doctor. If the doctor says you need to intervene here, you don’t say, ‘Well, I read a science fiction novel that told me it’s not a problem.’ If the crib’s on fire, you don’t speculate that the baby is flame retardant. You take action.”

Each time, I rolled my eyes and said (sometimes out loud), “No, you don’t. If your baby has a fever, you know that his or her little body is fighting off infection on its own. All you have to do is watch and wait.”

I’m guessing Al Gore never actually tended a baby with a fever.

The problem with using metaphors is that all too soon, the metaphor breaks down. In this case, the metaphor crumbled from the very start.

Then I heard that Al Gore consumes more energy than most of us (“last August alone, Gore burned through 22,619 kWh—guzzling more than twice the electricity in one month than an average American family uses in an entire year. As a result of his energy consumption, Gore’s average monthly electric bill topped $1,359“) in addition to his frequent flying on private jets (I had to laugh when I heard on the news that he’s “jetting” around, spreading his message). I wonder if he actually believes his message of imminent catastrophe . . . and does he hang his own laundry on clotheslines to dry?

(I haven’t seen “An Inconvenient Truth.” The last time I saw a movie with an obvious political bias I was not persuaded by the movie’s bias . . . I was just annoyed and wondered how it could be that so many people believed the propaganda.)

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Speaking of topics in the news, did you all hear about the new study done that expunges the guilt of millions of American mothers by telling us that modern mothers actually spend more time with their kids than mothers in the past did?

In 1965, mothers spent 10.2 hours a week tending primarily to their children — feeding them, reading with them or playing games, for example — according to the study’s analysis of detailed time diaries kept by thousands of Americans. That number dipped in the 1970s and 1980s, rose in the 1990s and now is higher than ever, at nearly 14.1 hours a week.

A quote I found interesting was this:

There is primary time, when a child is the focus of a parent’s attention. There is secondary time — helping with homework, for example, while cooking dinner. Then there is a third category: just being with children.

Perhaps because I accessible to my children all day, most every day, I do not feel guilty over not spending enough time giving my children my sole focus. I wonder if our society is not too child-focused while at the same time, not taking into account a child’s true needs for security and protection. I, personally, would describe my parenting philosophy as “benign neglect.” I think I once saw Madeleine L’Engle use that phrase, but I have never been able to find it again. I like to believe that we share the same mothering philosophy.

* * *

Well, this post started last night . . . and in the interval, I have been through five lessons of history with my children (I wonder if I would have supported Franklin Delano Roosevelt when he was in office?), slept, washed, dried and folded a bunch of laundry, exercised twice, watched “Oprah” while taking care of a 6-month old baby, read the newspaper, and gone to a sort of company dinner with my husband. I think I had a point when I started, but now, it’s just a jumble of observations, which has its own particular point, I suppose.

Glitches

You know what I hate?  I hate writing a post–with links–and then watching it disappear when I hit “publish.”  That’s what happened last night and that’s why there isn’t a bright, shiny post waiting for you this morning.

I’ll be back later, recreating that post, but in the meantime, we are sluggishly getting started with our school day.  Pre-algebra, anyone?

Everything looks blurry.

I’m trying to catch up to my life, running like mad, fingertips almost grasping the bumper.  But it won’t slow down and I can’t hop into the back seat, no matter how I try.

In a little more than a week, I’m boarding an airplane, heading for Californian writer’s conference that I nearly talked myself out of attending.  The days leading up to those five nights and six days away are a jumble of demands:  I need to get my boys through as much schooling as possible and send in our quarterly work samples–we are slightly behind–I need to get laundry caught up, cleaning done, food purchased.  I need to plant the dahlia bulbs I bought last week.  I must send the tax information off to the accountant immediately.  

And all the while . . . there is dinner to cook, children to tend, toilets to scrub.  And other stuff.

Oh yeah.  And writing.  I have to pull together some compositions, essays, articles.  I need to solidify ideas and gather up the edges of my brain so that nothing spills out while I’m sloshing around my house, picking up tiny plastic toy cats. 

At times like these, I wonder what to do with my hair.  Grow it longer or cut it off again? 

Focus.  Focus.  Come on, Mel, focus. 

The Worst Day Ever

I have a molar that cannot be salvaged. I figured as much which is why I avoided having the twenty-year old crown removed and a new one put on. I suspected that once the dentist removed the old crown that the entire tooth would disintegrate into a mushy slush, which is pretty much what happened. The disloyal tooth had no nerve . . . years ago, the original dentist did a root canal, leaving the tooth without feeling.

I kind of wish my brain had had a similar procedure because I’d rather not have felt the dismay over my impending toothlessness.

Two dental assistants in the office all but sang and danced trying to distract me from my woe while we waited for the x-ray to develop. They extolled the virtues of the titanium implant that is in my poverty-stricken future. I’ll have to sell a kidney to gain a tooth. Or drain my body of all its plasma, sell it and then mortgage all my future plasma as well. I’ll have to grow my hair long, then cut it off and offer it for sale on eBay.

Gloom, despair and agony on me. Do you know how much a dental implant costs? Thirty-five hundred dollars. Do you know how much “cheaper” bridgework costs? Three thousand dollars. How about a crown on the rickety remains of my tooth? Twelve hundred bucks, no guarantee. Do you know what happens when you leave a gaping hole in your jaw instead? Uh, me neither, but I heard something about shifting teeth and, oh, probably a whole-head collapse for all I know.

We have no dental insurance, by the way.

My kind dentist filled in the decrepit tooth with a sturdy temporary filling which brings the tooth to about half its normal height. I have an appointment with an oral surgeon for June 21. You can bet I’m looking forward to that day–about as much as I look forward to having my hand gnawed off by a rabid raccoon. (I have no appointment set for that, yet.)

Even though this was not a great day, I realized that it isn’t the Worst Day Ever. I spent some time while washing dishes thinking about the bad days in my life.

And, although there have been some doozies, including the day a college classmate killed himself, the day my father told me that he was divorcing my mother, the afternoon my husband was fired from a job, the time my dad informed us that he had a fatal brain tumor, the day he died, the moment the doctor told me it was “unlikely” I’d ever get pregnant, the day the birthmother who’d chosen us changed her mind . . . oh, the bad days go on and on. The sick days stand out, too . . . the day after one of my sons had surgery and spent the night screaming in pain, the day I spent vomiting when I had my turn with a stomach virus, the night I spent in an emergency room waiting to have my toe sewn closed, the night my feverish daughter sobbed due to an aching ear.

But, I realized that none of these days have been that bad. None has been The Worst Day Ever. This is both good and bad. Good because I’ve been blessed in so many ways . . . bad because that means that looming somewhere ahead of me is The Worst Day Ever. When I look back at the contenders for that title, I have the benefit of perspective. Sicknesses end. The pain of loss really does fade with time. The birthmother that said, “No,” changed her mind again and said, “Yes.” The doctors turned out to be wrong and I had two pregnancies despite their prognostications.

So, although today was a rotten day and I have a dead tooth in my mouth that will require the spending of vast amounts of cash that we don’t have to spare . . . it could have been worse in so many ways.

I’m not sure if the best is yet to come, but I’m fairly sure the worst is yet to come.

And that is the gift of pessimism speaking, mixed in with a healthy dose of perspective with a tiny dash of optimism.

Do you have a Worst Day Ever? Or are you like me, certain that things can always get worse than they are today?

Summed Up

Friday night, I was sitting in the movie theater and my cell phone rang.  There is only one valid excuse for a ringing cell phone during a movie:  the pregnant woman has gone into labor.  And so it was that I missed the last fifteen minutes of “Premonition” and sped down the freeway to my pregnant friend’s house.  I arrived at 9:30 p.m.  Her contractions were four minutes apart.  I said, “You want to take a walk?” and so we strode for an hour around her neighborhood, gazing at stars and chatting.

At 10:37 p.m., I said to her, “Do you want me to go home?”  and so I decided to go home to sleep while she got some rest.  I never did fall asleep, but at 12:08 a.m., I answered the phone on the first ring.  “Her contractions are a minute and forty-five seconds to two minutes apart.”  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said.

I threw on a sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers and my glasses.  When I arrived, the dishwasher was swishing and the husband scurried around gathering stuff while the pregnant woman leaned over the couch, captive to her contractions.  They left and I curled onto their bed with my own pillow, settling down to rest.  In the other bedroom slept their 2-year old.

At 1:30 a.m., the phone rang.  They were admitting her to the hospital.  I told him to call me when the baby was born.

At 6:00 a.m., the phone rang.  The baby girl had been born, 8 pounds, 1 ounce, 21 inches.  Mom and baby were fine.

At 7:30 a.m., the 2-year old woke up.  When he saw me rather than his mom, he cried hysteric tears for about two minutes until he caught a glimpse of his new baseball and mitt on his dresser.  He grabbed them and stopped crying.  We went downstairs for television and breakfast.  (I, still wearing my sweatshirt and jeans, now looking rather disheveled.)

At 8:30 a.m., the phone rang.  We agreed that I’d take the 2-year old to the zoo and bring him back home at 11:30 a.m. to meet his dad. 

I picked up my daughter, put on my contacts and off we went to the zoo.  (I apologize to anyone who might have seen me.  I know I was frightful.)  Fun was had by all, including the elephants.

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At 11:30, dropped off 2-year old at his home. 

At noon, back home to send off my 9-year old to a birthday party.  Bade farewell to my husband who needed to go to church to work.  Then, took other kids to Trader Joe’s and Burger King. 

I spent the afternoon cleaning my house (so cluttered!  so distressing!) until it was time to go on a date with my husband.  And where did we go?  That’s right:  to see bull-riders!  (That link is accompanied by sound, loud sound.)  I only have pictures taken from a great distance, but trust me, we had fun.  Doesn’t this look fun?

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Afterwards, appetizers and dessert at a waterfront restaurant.  Wow, we’re actual grown-ups, my husband and me!  On a date! 

Today?  Today we had church and I snapped this photo of my kids in front of church.  Spring is in full-bloom at the moment here. 

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This week’s goal is simple.  Talk my way into the last fifteen minutes of “Premonition.”  But for now, I have to think up something to make for dinner before everyone simple dies of starvation.

Life in a Stinky Shoe

This week during school-at-home, we have encountered semester assessments.  Also known as “GET ME OUT OF HERE!”  We spent the whole day today reviewing history from 1865 through about 1920 . . . and then they had to take the assessment.  One student passed easily with a 96%.  The other, my Reluctant Student, received a 76%, which frankly, is a huge success considering everything.  If he doesn’t get 80%, he is supposed to bring his score up to 100%, so we discussed all his wrong answers and that’s that.  Enough.  Enough. 

I had lunch at 2:00 p.m. and since my case of Diet Coke was in the back of the van (I never brought it in from the store the other night), I was unintentionally caffeine-free.  Not a good thing.  At all.

This afternoon, twelve boys played baseball in my front yard, which is not equipped for baseball games.  Home-plate was right in front of my overgrown boxwood hedge which is right in front of my plate-glass window.  I envisioned the baseball flying through my window and into my head, but it did not.  First base was a hedge.  Then, the player had to jump a three foot rock wall to get to second base, the mailbox.  To reach third base (a spindly tree), the player would jump down the three foot rock wall, cross the ivy and grab the twigs of the tree.

TWELVE BOYS.  I had my fingers ready to dial 9-1-1 knowing that one of them would smack another of them in the head with a metal bat at any moment.  But no one did.

You should see what happened to my daisies though.  The new green growth was pulverized by boy sneakers.  I am the kind mother who pops open the front door and shrieks, “HEY, GET OUT OF MY GARDEN!” to no avail.  All the boys just stare at me as if I have a lilac bush growing out of my forehead.

My daughter insists on being a part of the boy bedlam.  I do not enjoy this at all because that means I have to sit where I can see the front yard and exactly who is cooking dinner while I’m supervising?  No one, that’s who.  (The same person who is doing the laundry:  No One.) 

Anyway, the boys are arguing right now about some imaginary game and I just might lose my mind if I have to listen to this discussion one more second.  So, farewell.  I cannot stay in this room because my precarious mental health is at stake.

(Oh, by the way, my 9-year old son and his 9-year old friend say, “Hey, should we play wall-ball old-school?”  As if they are cynical and weary from their long tenure on this earth.  It never fails to crack me up.  “Old-school” indeed!)

On Time

This afternoon, I fell into the past.  My grandmother’s birthday sparked questions in my mind.  Where, exactly, did her parents come from?  I know my grandfather’s came from Sweden, but I didn’t know about her relatives.  I asked my grandmother herself, but she was a little mixed up and so then I asked my mother.  A few years back, she typed up some family history and gave us all copies, but I couldn’t locate mine.

Until today.  My mom emailed me back which prompted me to go get the box labeled “Family Tree.”  When my dad died in 1989, I gathered all his research into a single box.  I’ve hardly looked at it since.  But today, I sorted through and found immigration documents and baptism certificates and deeds to land and military discharge papers in addition to his handwritten notes about our ancestry.  I found the information my mother gave me in the same box.  (Occasionally, there is a method to my organizational madness.)

I found Ancestry.com and loaded the information I already have into a family tree.  I’m still trying to pinpoint when certain ancestors came to this country–one ancestor was a native American, but the rest came from various parts of Europe, but in the early 1800s or maybe even earlier.  I don’t know yet, but I hope to find out.

My husband came home with frozen pizzas tonight and suggested I go out for a walk in the early-evening sunshine and so I did.  The happy daffodils are blooming everywhere.  The trees are suddenly covered with fuzzy, pastel pink blossoms.  I spotted some lilac embryos when I got close to the Puget Sound.  I thought how temporary all this is–from the weather to the buds on the trees to the houses perched with their views of the Puget Sound.  My relatives lived full lives, experienced heartache and triumph, lived through wars and death, weddings and holidays.  My grandfather missed World War I because of a cataract on one eye.  My other grandfather fought in World War II, though he never told us a thing about it.  Their wives had babies, raised toddlers, fussed over schoolchildren, worried over teenagers, cried over their young adults, rejoiced over grandchildren. 

I wonder about those women in those decades so long ago.  Did they fret over their kitchen floors and yell at the children to wipe their muddy feet?  Did they recognize their individual lives were like drops of water?  Or did they see their lives as rolling waves of ocean, stretching as far as the eye can see?  All their worries are gone with them, evaporated.  My worries seem momentary when I realize that spring will transform into summer and summer will fade into fall and then winter will creep into our bones again . . . and time rolls downhill faster and faster like a snowball gaining speed on the mountain.

And yet.  The days have grown longer since Daylight Savings time started.  Now, the children are still outside at 7:00 p.m. playing makeshift games of baseball in the front yard (today with a tennis ball and a stick).  And while I’m thrilled to see my children playing childhood games with neighborhood children, I want the days to end sooner rather than later.  The children have no concept of “dinner-time” and “night-time” and “time-to-go-home-time” while the sun still shines until 7:00 p.m.  (And it will only get worse as summer approaches.)

Time flows, trickles, sometimes seems to go back uphill until suddenly, it rushes so fast it knocks you off your feet.  All you can do is swim with the current and enjoy the view as you float past.

WWJBD?

What would Jack Bauer do?

If an intruder entered under cover of darkness, what would Jack Bauer do?

I am nothing, if not attentive to details.  And so, I grew suspicious.  Yesterday, I took steps to confront the intruder.

This morning?  I heard rustling.

I caught the intruder.

Now, the question is:  what would Jack Bauer do? 

He would most likely kill the intruder with a swift blow to the head.

I am considering the merits of suffocation versus drowning. 

My husband refuses to be a party to this murder.

I wondered if it would be cruel and unusual to discard the intruder in a Trader Joe’s grocery bag.  Let it die slowly in the trash can.

What would Jack Bauer do?

He would have thought through the logistical problem of trapping the intruder in a glue trap.  Then again, a prisoner struggling against a gluey base might be just the way to extort information out of an intruder.  If this sort of intruder could talk, which of course, he cannot.  He can only scurry and flick his whiskers and . . . leave a trail of tiny poop on my kitchen counter.  That poop is the reason he’s imprisoned in glue under my sink.

But, what would Jack Bauer do?

How does one kill a furry little gray mouse? 

I cannot even smash a bug. 

What would you do?  (He’s not dead here, this mouse.  No.  He’s merely resting.) 

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Update:  I wish I had never posted this sad tale of the mouse.  I wish the dumb mouse had never crawled into my house.  I wish I weren’t a grown-up so someone else would have disposed of the mouse.  When I read the comments, I realized that I could no longer ignore the stuck mouse under the sink.  So, with racing heart and shaking hands, I used a dustpan to sweep it into a paper Trader Joe’s bag.  The mouse looked mostly dead . . . he’d not only gotten stuck, but he’d eaten some poison first.  I couldn’t bear to look closely at the poor little creature.  So, he’s in the trash.  I cannot stop shuddering.

We shall never speak of the matter again.