Sunshine and the Voice in My Head

The whole world looks better when the sun shines. Except for my living room windows, which are in dire need of Windex. And my face, which is in dire need of cosmetics. But other than that, sun cheers me up.

And tonight, as the sun went down, I clenched my jaw at the dirty carpet and the scattered Legos and the dirty dishes and then, instead of beginning a lecture to my boys which starts, “How can you stand this disgusting mess?” I heard a smart, little voice in my head say, Hey, everyone is happy! Look! Babygirl is painting! YoungestBoy has a table full of Lego rockets he created. The twins are all cudddled on the couch. The only person bothered by this mess is you. So I said to myself, Self, relax! You’re doing fine. Your kids had a great day–see those Valentine’s made with glitter glue covering the kitchen table? The kids are fine. Your children are having a happy childhood. The floors will wash and later, you are going to a movie, so take a deep breathe.

I love it when the voice in my head is so wise.

Excuse Me While I Turn Invisible

I’m transcribing again, job due Sunday morning.

And tomorrow, 3-month old CuteBaby arrives for his first official half-day of childcare. He arrives at nap-time for the toddlers, so I haven’t quite worked that out since I normally lay down with Babygirl and outlast her kicking me in the back until she falls asleep, which can take up to an hour.

But, hey, it’s Friday and I can most certainly manage.

Because I am not Martha Stewart and I do not have a housekeeper (drat!), I will have to spend my morning cleaning my kitchen floor and putting away the stacks of folded laundry that sit on the back of the couch. I need to vacuum and pick up the ten thousand pencils the boys never notice that they’ve dropped on the floor. Oh wait, I can make them pick up the pencils, even though they are to be concentrating on science and history tomorrow. We’re supposed to make a brain out of instant mashed potatoes, clean sand and water–I’m told this will approximate a brain when we’re finished, which seems about right. My brain is pretty much equal parts sand and instant mashed potatoes.

That explains what happened during the Gallup phone poll today. At about 5:00 p.m., as I waited for DaycareKid’s mom (oh, boy, she was SO late today), the phone rang and it was the Gallup poll people. A woman phoning from Nebraska gave me what amounted to a pop quiz on political matters. At one point, she asked me which country I believed was the greatest threat to the United States and I paused. I wanted to Phone a Friend, but instead, I blurted out, “Iraq?” And then paused again. “No! Wait!” I wanted to poll the audience, but Babygirl was trying to open the sliding glass door and DaycareKid was whining about his runny nose and the neighbor boys were tromping through the house and I said, “China!”

China?

China?

She said, “You want me to change your answer from Iraq to China?” I could tell she was incredulous, even though she’s trained to be impartial. I was incredulous myself.

But I said, “Yes, China.” Only I said it with great doubt and the sudden sinking feelings of losing $32,000. China?

What I meant was North Korea! I just read in the newspaper this morning that North Korea has admitted they possess nuclear weapons. That’s a threat, right?

I continued to feel like a third-grader posing as a college-eduated mother as I answered endless questions. I’m pretty sure I did not get an A+ on that quiz poll.

China. I know! I’m an idiot! Eggrolls, fried rice, cashew chicken . . . what’s not to love about China? They love us, too, right? What’s not to love about the United States, where mothers have make mashed potato and sand brains?

Underwear Hat Update

This afternoon, I was cleaning up and I heard a little thump, bump, tumble as Babygirl came down the stairs. I said, “Hey, are you all right?” and she said, “Yes,” but then I heard a little gaspy cry. I went over to check on her and found her face completely obscured by underpants. She looked as if she was prepared to hold up the local 7-11, only she miscalculated and didn’t rotate the underpants so the leg-holes corresponded with her eyeballs.

I picked her up and laughed under my breath, while I patted her back and mentioned, oh-so-casually, that if you are going to go down the stairs, you shouldn’t pull underpants completely over your head.

Remember that. If you are going down the stairs, make sure the underpants on your head don’t block your vision completely. Free advice.

My Very Low Standards

Many years ago, when I still cried over my infertility, I had a friend named Julie who had a three year old son. And a husband, too, for that matter. While I was taking my morning temperature and scheduling my intimate encounters around my fertile days, Julie was busy accidentally getting pregnant. Twice in a year. She’d call me, crying, overwhelmed, despairing over her messy house and her sink full of dishes and I’d say, “I’ll be right over. I’ll help you.”

And I would. I’d drive to her house and find her disheveled and sniffly. Her couch would be covered with mostly unfolded laundry and her bed would be a tangle of sheets and her floor would be strewn with toys and clothes and shoes and stuff. Her sink would be piled so high I’d have to empty it before I could start rinsing and washing. I’d reassure her and tidy up and put all the clothes back into her closet and run a few loads of wash and fold the jumble of clothes on the couch. I created order out of that disorder.

Secretly, I thought she was sweet, but incompetent. What did she do all day? How long did it take for a house to fall into such disrepair? How could she let this happen? I did my good works with a great deal of smugness.

And then I had twin boys. That event alone set the stage for my current low standards. TwinBoyB used to spit up a lot. If I didn’t reach him quickly enough, I’d hear a slurping sound and catch him sucking the half-curdled formula out of the Berber carpet. So is it any wonder that I didn’t care if the pacifier was rinsed if it happened to drop to the ground? My kids licked the floor. How could a grimy pacifier matter?

When the twins were toddlers, I couldn’t keep them from throwing sand at each other. They loved sand–I didn’t have a box, though. I just had some guy with a pick-up dump a big mound of sand by the side of our driveway. We lived on ten acres then and this pile of sand blended right into the landscape. So, they’d sit in the center of this mountain of sand and throw it. At each other. Despite me.

One long Michigan winter left me desperate to entertain them. My friend, MaryKay, said she had a rice pool for her kids. I said, “How do you keep rice from getting all over the house?” She said she just vacuumed around the pool and didn’t let her kids carry it around.

That sounded easy. So I tried it. I bought a big, rectanglar Rubbermaid container. I filled it with twenty-five pounds of rice. I supplied shovels and cups and implements for play. My boys flung that rice into the far corners of the rooms. Repeatedly. Some of you (mothers of girls, probably) canNOT imagine such a thing. I never thought I’d turn a blind eye, either, but I did. I figured, hey, it will keep them entertained and it will vacuum up. Maybe I can actually have a moment.

I think they are probably still finding errant grains of rice in odd spots in that house. They probably blame mice.

I used to let the boys sit on the kitchen floor with giant bowls of soapy water. They’d play with it and inevitably spill it all. I’d use a billion bathtowels to clean it up. That made up for my infrequent mopping.

Wouldn’t it be reasonable to expect improvement? Learning, even gradual? Yeah, I thought so, too, but as it turns out, the mud-flinging and spillage persists. Instead of fighting them, I surrendered. I don’t bother picking up all the stuff scattered on the floor. At least not right away. I have a laundry folding system on my couch, but sometimes it just looks like piles of unfolded clothes. I will leave dishes in the kitchen sink so I can stretch out and read a novel.

I learned in these past 11 years that the messes will always be here. Even if I clean up today, it will be a mess tomorrow. Why sweat it? At this moment, the following items sit on my desk, here in the family room: a naked Ragged Ann (circa 1960 or 1970), a bucket of chalk, pipe-cleaners from last weeks Pipe-Cleaner Extravaganza, Babygirl’s sunglasses, my transcribing machine, my camera, assorted pens, CDs for school music, Land Before Time coloring book, car, bar of soap, old carrot, used tissue. And I could either spend time cleaning it up, or I could write. I choose to write. I need a break from the manual labor that is my life. I no longer have standards, I have substandards. As I told my husband the other night, I am a half-assed housewife. (Wait. Can a Pastor’s Wife say that? Let me check my manual and get back to you.)

That explains why today, when Babygirl walked up to me with her underpants on her head, I wasn’t alarmed–until I saw the skidmarks. Then, I said, “Hey, go get her some clean underpants, please! She needs clean underpants to wear on her head! Hurry!”

I have to draw the line somewhere. And wearing stinky flowered underpants upon one’s blond curls is that line. I just didn’t expect the line to be one of . . . well. You get the idea.

(And to Julie? I apologize. Now I realize that the household can fall apart in a matter of hours. I really had no idea.)

Want to Give Me a Star?

Here’s what I don’t want, never will want and think is completely stupid. Please do not name a star in my honor. If you want to give me something with “star” in its name, please give me the current issue of the National Enquirer, which features a story (and pictures!) called “Cellulite of the Stars.” I feel compelled to rifle through this issue every time I see it while I wait to buy my fat-free milk, bananas, salad and chocolate.

But I have resisted.

Doesn’t the idea that Britney Spears and Paris Hilton and even the stick figure known as Lara Flynn Boyle have cellulite give you a little thrill?

Well, maybe it’s just me.

My Apologies for Being Dull

Thank you, everyone, for the comments about my previous post. Some of you shared pictures of snowflakes and additional insight. Some of you emailed. I am thrilled that my words resonate with some of you.

Tonight, however, is just going to be boring, personal journal stuff. So feel free to click away.

My son just came out of his room (it’s almost 11 p.m.) and said, “First of all, mom,” as if we were about to have a full-fledged conversation. He and his brother are outraged–OUTRAGED–that I have instituted a charge for picking up clothes off their floor. Twenty-five cents an item. So, far, in two days, I’ve picked up twenty-five items. They are also alarmed that I have yet to pay them their $10 allowance for this two-week period. I am so cruel.

I told him, “Go to bed. I’m not discussing anything with you tonight. Go to bed.”

Do they not realize I am Off-Duty at 9 p.m.? No exceptions?

We watched the Superbowl today as a family. Well, I baked cookies, then folded laundry, then helped Babygirl get on her boots so she could go and stand in the muddy backyard and look at worms gasping for oxygen while rain fell on her head. She danced on the couch during half-time, making us all laugh. She swings her arms around and bops to the beat. Funny kid.

Early today, during church, Babygirl and I wandered into my husband’s office while he was preaching. She ate chocolate kisses out of his candy bowl on his desk, then asked me to push the button on his Billy Bass. She likes to dance to it, but when she pushes the button herself and the fish begins to flop and sing, it scares her. So I handled the button and she danced. Trust me, it was amusing.

I whirled through my house yesterday cleaning, vacuuming, changing sheets, decluttering, picking up . . . and then went shopping all afternoon alone. I have never seen so many pregnant women in one place as I did at Wal-Mart yesterday. I never shop at Wal-Mart because the nearest one is not very near, but I had gift cards to use. Besides pregnant women, the store seemed to be teeming with mother/daughter teams on weekly outings–and when I say “mother” I mean old, slow-moving women and when I say “daughter”, I mean slightly less old, slow-moving women. I was in a hurry, what can I say? So much shopping to do, so little time.

Later, at Marshall’s (I love that store) I bought three coats for my boys for next year for a grand total of $30.00. Now that is a bargain!

The sad thing is, when I returned home last night, my house showed no signs of my cleaning spree, other than my clean, flannel sheets on my neatly made bed and the de-mildewed shower. My husband said, “What do you expect? You have a family of six!”

What I really want to know is: Where is my Alice? (Of Brady Bunch fame.)

Finally, I must say that although I am enjoying reading The Shipping News by Annie Proulx, I cannot get over her constant use of sentence fragments. For instance, she’ll write, “”Fingers ochre from chain-smoking.” Or “The candle on its side.” Or “Warren gliding away.” Each fragment stops me cold. Maybe that’s her point? Anyway, I tried to read this book about fifteen years ago, but got bogged down. I saw the movie a few years back, so ventured another time into the pages. It won a Pulitzer Prize and a National Book Award and it makes me want to travel to Newfoundland.

And now, it’s officially so late that I will want to destroy my alarm clock when it rings in the morning.

Sharks, Loss and Snowflakes

Remember that story about the girl from Hawaii who had her arm bitten off by a shark? I realized today that I feel like that girl. I’m missing parts of myself. Every loss, big and small, has taken a piece out of me, until I’m like a paperdoll with tattered arms and legs, missing feet, rips and gouges. I’m no longer whole, no longer unrumpled.

And I’m not the only one. I thought of my friend whose baby died last year, just two weeks before her due date. My husband called at dinner time to let me know he’d be late because just five minutes before he arrived for a scheduled home visit, the fifty-year old woman he was to visit died. I thought of 2-year old child I know whose parents are divorcing. It seems that everywhere I turn, people are facing loss, some small, some heartbreakingly enormous.

We have all lost someone or something irreplaceable. All of us, everyone. We all have holes and gaps and empty gaping wounds. Loss is part of life from the moment we come squalling into this cold world, having lost the safety of the only warm place we’ve ever known.

The vacant spaces define us. I saw myself primarily as a child of divorce for many years. And when the pain of that began to fade, I lost my dad for good when he died just a couple weeks after he turned 47. I was 24. Then I became a girl without a dad.

I became a woman who could not get pregnant. I became the writer who could not get published. I became the lonely outsider in a small town. What I didn’t have framed me, rather than what I had, what I accomplished, what I was. Do we all try to hide the wounds and disguise our empty spots, while we secretly despair over the ripped out parts in our lives? Or is it just me?

This morning, when I contemplated myself as destroyed paperdoll with missing chunks, the unbidden image of a paper snowflake fluttered into my mind. I realized that the missing parts, the losses, the empty spots are part of a greater design. Look at the snowflake. The cut out parts don’t destroy it. The scissored out triangles and circles enhance the beauty of the snowflake. They make it what it is.

When I think now of the empty spaces in myself, I won’t concentrate on just the ragged scars. I’ll see a snowflake, shaped by loss, but not destroyed. The losses feel random and unfair sometimes, but I have faith that God has a plan, an intricate, one-of-a-kind design for my life.

I’m not the holes in my life. I am wholly in the hand of a loving Creator. I am whole, despite the missing pieces.

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Do You Hear What I Hear?

When the toddlers woke from their naps, we went for a walk around the block. We did not wear jackets, except for DaycareKid who cried for his coat. He was bundled up completely, zippered and snapped into his heavy coat. But the sun shone brightly, the sky was the exact shade of the Crayola sky-blue crayon and the air was filled with the humming of lawn mowers. We passed a gray-haired man sitting near a flowerbed, digging in the dirt. He called out “Spring fever!” A few houses down, a woman was hacking at random weeds which had sprouted through her rocks. Her yard used to be filled with gnomes, but suddenly, it’s gnome-free. Babygirl stood at the edge of the yard and said, “Oh no! It’s all gone!” Then she stole a rock.

After two laps, we returned home, had a snack and then went into the back yard. Babygirl and DaycareKid played while I snipped old shasta daisy stalks and cut ivy and dug dandelions out of the cold soil. I filled our four-feet tall yard waste bucket with compostable debris. I tried to stop TwinBoyB from smashing three crocuses, but he strode through the flowerbed without noticing my stuttered “Hey, hey, hey!” The kids really have no horticultural respect.

Then, he said, “Hey, I smell gasoline,” and perhaps that’s the surest sign of spring–fuel for lawn mowers mingled with the odor of decaying leaves and wet dirt. Add the unidentified flying bugs that insisted on hovering over Babygirl’s blond head and the slick, shiny slug-tracks and you have spring in the Pacific Northwest.