A Mind Is A Terrible Thing to Lose

A stack of magazines, school work, file folders, VBS manuals, mail, and random papers sits about eight inches high on my desk.  The folded laundry is stacked on the Lane recliner, the one I paid $10.00 for at a garage sale last summer.  My computer is decorated with thirteen post-it notes, all containing vital information. 

Dirty dishes remain in the kitchen sink.  Baskets of dirty laundry sit upstairs.  The bananas are rapidly turning from ripe to black.  The newspaper from Sunday waits for me on the kitchen table.  I must read the Sunday paper.  It’s one of my rules.

One week of school to go and we have to finish up two units of science, two units of math, some composition and a bunch of spelling.  Four weeks until Vacation Bible School (Fiesta!) and I have many positions left to fill. 

And I have a cold.

We bought a used van.  We agreed to pay $1300 to fix our old car.  My son left his glasses at his friend’s house and the friend’s dog gnawed a lens right out of the glasses.  I’m going to take a picture because if you can’t laugh about the destruction of prescription glasses, you are missing a component necessary to surviving motherhood.  So, I will joke about it.

My email box is jammed so full that I fear my long-time friends are plotting against me.  I owe everyone in the world an email.  I have a real letter with an actual stamp from a prisoner sitting somewhere in the pile on my desk (or maybe in the pile on the kitchen counter).  (The letter is sitting somewhere–not the prisoner.  The prisoner is in Virginia.)  I started writing her months ago, committed myself to writing her cheerful, newsy, breezy letters . . . and now, I’m lagging behind.  The poor woman is in prison and I can’t seem to get a letter written to her.  

So, all this swirls around me and in the midst of this madness, I have concluded that I need to make a life change.  A serious life-change, one I have dreaded and avoided for years–for 30 years, as a matter of fact.  Terror fills me, yet I see no other choice.  

That’s right.  I decided to grow out my bangs.  I hope the universe doesn’t grind to a halt in the wake of this momentous decision.  

A Tale of VBS Woe

For the past five years, I’ve been in charge of our small church’s Vacation Bible School program.  We generally have one hundred children registered and about thirty volunteers.  It’s my job to recruit, to organize and to make the magic happen.

The crucial volunteers are those who lead the seven stations: snacks, games, songs, drama, theater, crafts, and closing program.  We also have indispensable volunteers who run a parallel preschool program which runs at the same time.

Most of my volunteers have returned from year to year, but this year?  This year is killing me.  First, my drama people said they had conflicts.  (One is teaching summer school.  One is working on a project.)  I replaced them with a talented high-school student who just tonight called and said a huge, exciting opportunity came up for her to fly to Houston–it’s school-related, though I confess to missing some of the details because I was doing my grocery-shopping on-line when she called and I was distracted by the fact that she’s abandoning me.

The youth pastor (who occasionally reads this blog and let me say what a fine young man he is!) originally said he’d be gone the whole week.  He later amended that and will only be missing two out of the five days due to his commitment to be at camp that week.

Oh, the high school student I mentioned who was going to be my drama person?  She was also my song person.  Now I have to find two people, or three, to take her place.

My theater person couldn’t help this year.  (Her teens will have jobs and she has to shuttle them around.)  So, I recruited a new person . . . but now I’m going to ask her if she’d prefer to do the kitchen and then replace her with someone else who volunteered for the theater.  Confused yet?  

The kitchen person from last year hasn’t returned my calls.  (She’s left the church since last year and I heard she got married.)  A volunteer stepped up on Sunday, but she called today to say she has a scheduling conflict, too.  (Her daughter’s going to graduate school, moving that particular week.)  So I need to shuffle again and see if I come up with a replacement . . . which I think I can do.

This afternoon, my preschool director called to say she won’t be there the last two weeks.  Her great-aunt is turning 90 years old and the birthday party can’t be any other time.

So, let’s count.  I’ve had one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight people tell me no this year.

And that’s just the core station leaders.  I still have to recruit sixteen crew leaders for the easier job of guiding small groups of children from station to station.

Ack!  Only four weeks to go . . . my materials haven’t yet arrived, my volunteers are dropping right and left and I can only be so many places at one time.  I am capable of doing all the jobs necessary, but until I perfect cloning, I simply have to find more people to help.  The first year I ran the program, I sang the songs, did the drama, and taught the closing program, all while seven months pregnant.  But even I can’t be in two or three places at once.  

Meanwhile, the church ladies have gone crazy making Mexican flowers out of tissue paper in response to my request on Sunday morning.  I’ve been getting phone calls asking where to put the finished flowers . . . I might not have a functional program come July 10, but I will have eight thousand tissue paper Mexican flowers in which to drown myself.

Walking Away From Me

My daughter was three months old when she asserted herself.  In no uncertain terms, she advised me that she would no longer permit herself to be held by any other human beings, with the possible, infrequent exception of her father.

Grandma?  No.

Sweet church ladies?  No.

Random stranger on a street corner?  No.

She’s a cautious one, this little girl of mine.  When I carried her into church as an infant, she’s scream right into the faces of the kindly church folk who dared invade her personal space, which happened to be a ten foot radius around her tiny body. 

I had to take her everywhere with me–and I’m not just talking about when I left the house.  If I went into another room, so did she.  If I cooked dinner, she clung to my left hip like an agile monkey.  She stood on my bathroom counter while I put on makeup and banged on the shower door until I opened it during my showers.

She’s never stayed alone in the church nursery.  We’ve never hired anyone besides Grandma to babysit her.  She hasn’t gone to preschool, to a class or to a friend’s house.

But yesterday at the pool, she and her best buddy went over to the grill area to beg for food.  His parents were grilling hot-dogs and steaks and to my great shock, my little girl climbed right up on a picnic table bench and made herself at home.  I sat at the edge of the pool, watching from afar.

I saw someone on the far edge of the pool that I needed to talk to, so I strolled over to tell my daughter where I’d be.  She said, “Mommy, can you go away?”  She was chatting up a storm, eating s’mores and watermelon and completely, utterly free of concern about my location.

Tonight, at the pool, her best buddy’s mom was in the big pool, so my formerly shy daughter insisted on walking over to say hello to her.  Before I knew it, my girl was climbing down the stairs into the pool and walking along the wall, clinging to the edge.  (The water comes up to her shoulders.)

Last year, she wouldn’t leave the stairs of the pool.  Last year, she wouldn’t let me out of spitting distance.  Last year, she was only two, going on three.  Now, she’s three, going on four and what a difference a year has made.

My girl walked away from me without even looking back until she was at the distant side of the pool.  I tried to be sad, to conjure up some tearful regret that my baby is growing up, but all I felt was relief that the tether between us has lengthened and that finally, my little shy girl trusts some other adults to keep her safe and to look out for her when she’s up to her neck in water.

And I was grateful for the little world I live in where other parents tenderly look out for my children and where I feel free to say, “Slow down, buddy!  No running!” to the little guy in a swim-diaper and saggy suit.  We were so lucky to be in a warm place with a cool breeze, watching the children frolic as the sun sunk lower in the sky.

And so begins another summer, even as the era of clinging monkey-girl comes to an end. 

(Then, when she got out of the pool, the other mother came over to tell her what a great job she did walking around the edges and she raised her hand–this other mother–and said, “High-five!”  And my daughter pointedly ignored her, so she repeated herself, “High-five!” and my daughter looked at her rather severely and said, “No.”

I was so proud.)

Huh? What? Again?

I am utterly mystified by the weird physics within the walls of my humble abode.  I wash dishes, I launder clothing, I pick up toys, I vacuum, I spend an inordinate amount of time clearing the debris and cleaning up. 

And yet, every night the house reverts to the same disheveled condition.

I give up. They’ll find me, suffocated under a pile of newspapers in twenty years.  At least by then the kids will be gone.  Right?

Letters

Dear Children in my house,

While I appreciate your enthusiasm for staying hydrated, is it necessary to use  an average of five glasses per person in one day?  Also, trash does not belong on the floor. 

Love,
Mom

*  *  *

Dear Girls at the Movie Theater,

I gave you that free ticket to see “The Break-up”  because Fandango had a buy-one-get-one-free offer.  I know you wondered about the weird frizzy-haired woman who was passing out free tickets, but it was just me, doing a random act of kindness.  I hope you enjoyed the movie.

Kindly,

The Crazy Old Lady

*  *  *

Dear Jennifer Aniston,

While you have enviable arms and a well-toned body, the ending of your movie left me wondering if perhaps the studio ran out of money or ideas.  We did laugh, the audience and I, at several moments during the movie, but the ending?  We did not like it.  Next time, do better.

One of Millions Who Made Your Movie a Box-Office Success,

Just Jealous of Your Body

*  *  * 

Dear Lady in the Front Row of the Movie Theater,

Babies do not belong in movie theaters.  Get a babysitter, you cheapskate.  If I wanted to hear a baby babble and cry, I would have gone to the grocery store.  People like you should not have children.

Judgmentally yours,

The Annoyed Lady in the Back Row

*  *  * 

Dear Sneaky Value-Village Shopper,

I found the Alfani pump you hid on the wrong shelf six feet away from its partner.  While trying it on, I noticed a hidden pair of Nine West pumps (kind of like these) which also fit.  Sorry I outsmarted you.  Both pairs of black pumps are just what I had in mind when I said to myself this morning, “I really need a new pair of black pumps.” 

Sincerely,

A Superior Shopper

*  *  * 

Dear Hair,

Please stop being so frizzy.  Thanks.

Love,

Your Caretaker

*  *  * 

Dear Laundry,

Stop piling up.

Sincerely,

Overwhelmed Mother Who Spent the Afternoon Buying Shoes for $14.99 a Pair

*  *  * 

Dear Julie,

You inspire me. 

Giving credit where credit is due,

Mel

Update on the Evil Scissor-like Barnacle-Caused Cut

My 3-year old daughter’s wound from falling onto a barnacle is healing nicely.  She’s kept her fingers curled into a fist all week to hold onto the bandaid and protect the injury.  Finally, yesterday, she peeked at the cut.

Today, she offered her dad a look, “Want to see my owie?  It’s hatching!”

Friday! How I Love You, Friday!

Last night, 11:00 p.m.

Me:  Boys, turn off the t.v. and go to sleep!

Boys, age 13:  But mom!

Me:  What?  What’s on?

First boy:  Good Eats!

Second boy:  And it’s new!

First boy: It’s about tenderloin.

So I let them watch it.

(They do have a small television in their room, but the v-chip is set so they can only watch programs rated for Y-7 and younger.  (Food shows are usually rated for a general audience, I guess.)  Then, they broke the remote control, so now I can’t even change the setting, nor override a blocked channel, which serves them right.)

*  *  *

Finally, this week draws to a close.  We are down to the final two weeks of school.  I’m just pretending that I have longer than six weeks until Vacation Bible School starts because if I realized that sad truth, I might run away from home until August.

Now, don’t forget to go check out my latest posts at ClubMom.  And if you haven’t already joined ClubMom, click on that ad over there—> and join right away!  It’s good for me and free for you.

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.

My Failure to Abolish the High-Five

I declared twenty years ago that I do not high-five.

At the time, it was a matter of dignity.  As a woman of substance (that’s a polite way of describing my, uh assets) I was not comfortable waving my arms in the air, causing all sorts of jiggle and other unladylike happenings.  So, I said, rather haughtily, “I do not high-five.”  I may have even punctuated those words with the arch of my left eyebrow.  (I also emphasized that I also did not cartwheel, though I can’t remember exactly why I was so emphatic about that.  It’s not as if I was daily being encouraged to cartwheel.)

Alas, the trend of high-fiving has continued, unabated, despite my distaste for the gesture.  I mean, seriously, how many times does an intended high-five end in a lame, awkward joining of hands?  I know that I, personally, never anticipate a high-five and thus, miss slapping hands at the appointed time.  This is not festive, nor joyous nor celebratory.  This is stupid.  That’s right.  S-T-O-O-P-I-D.

I intended to start a world-wide campaign to Abolish High-Fives.  But then, I stumbled upon this wry website and I lost heart.  I mean, check out “High Five Style” here.  Clever, yes?  Amusing?  And so, I relented.  No World-wide campaign.  (What will I do with all these campaign signs?)

     

But still.  Do not high-five me.  I might, emphasize MIGHT, bump fists with you a la the germ-phobic Howie Mandel.  But I will not return a high-five.

A girl has to draw the line somewhere, and I draw the line at performing gestures best suited to the basketball court.  I am a Lady.  And ladies do not high five.  (I just said so, that’s who.) 

I mean it.  (Instead of abolishing high-fives, maybe I’ll do something easy like curing cancer or solving world hunger.  Or maybe finishing the laundry, but let’s not get overly ambitious.)

     

  

Dear Diary, I Am Boring

Dear Diary,

Today I woke up early.  Then I took care of kids all day.  I thought about stabbing myself with a red pen during school-at-home, but then I realized that would be kinda messy.  So I just gritted my teeth instead and thought how it’s easier to like some people when you don’t spend a lot of time with them.

After school (at 2 p.m.!), it was nap-time and I fell asleep for ten minutes.  I had a dream about football, which I considered a huge waste of dream time.  The kids were awake by 3:30 p.m. and then I started dinner (chicken, baked potatoes, asparagus) and cleaned up the kitchen for the second or third time today.

After the kids went home, we ate dinner.  After dinner, we all went to the pool, even Mr. Safety and one neighbor kid.  The boys had fun diving and playing water basketball and trying to drown each other.  I sat and watched my daughter and Mr. Safety frolic in the wading pool.

At 8:00 p.m., we went home.  By 8:30 p.m., my daughter was in bed and I left to go to the grocery store.  When I’m tired, I shop slowly, so I was a little dismayed to realize it was 10:00 p.m. when I finished.  I hope I bought enough food to actually put together a few meals.

The groceries were put away by 10:17 p.m.  Twenty minutes later, I’m here, typing this.  What a long day.  Tomorrow?  I’m napping for longer than ten minutes.

Good-night, Diary.