Painting the Town Red

Glory be! The baby still takes naps! She goes to bed awake with no fuss! I feel like I’m on perpetual vacation, all because the baby has embraced naptime again. I hardly know what to do with myself, so today I painted the wall behind the recliner. I layered on a second coat of tan and tonight, I will paint it red.

My family room has red walls next to the fireplace, then red stripes on the long wall. The more tactful visitors tell me it reminds them of “Farrell’s”, an ice cream place we used to have in this area a long time ago. The less tactful visitors say with awe, “Did you paint all those stripes?” I don’t care. I painted red stripes to give the room a little zip, a little pizzaz, a little whimsy. At least it’s not boring. When you can’t afford a room makeover and Trading Spaces is not coming to your rescue, you improvise with a can of red paint.

So, tonight I shall paint the wall red. This will be not quite as fun as painting the town red, but not as bad as falling into a giant vat of red paint.

Which reminds me of my dad’s song. He used to sing: “I fell into a vat of chocolate. I just fell into a vat of chocolate. What’d you do when you fell into the chocolate? I yelled, FIRE, because no one would save me if I yelled, CHOCOLATE!” At this point, he would shout with laughter. We’d all laugh along, too, because we could not resist him when he laughed.

I know. He was a wacky guy.

I don’t watch The Seventies Show. I lived it. This is me in the middle and my dad:

My grandma (still alive at almost 98 years old) sewed the hideous green dresses, complete with scratchy lace at the necks. I hated that dress. (Notice my clenched fists.) A lady named “Freida” (who had hair down to her backside) fixed my mother’s hair at the dining room table. Then, my mother would sleep very carefully with a satin wrap around her head so she wouldn’t muss the style. My brother is on the right. He’s sixteen months older than me, and my ex-sister is on the left. She’s sixteen months younger than me. I was so jealous of her young beauty–she had blue eyes and blond hair which was longer than my straggly mop. Being the vindictive type, I talked her into cutting it all off when she was a little older. I told her she’d look really cute with a shag. That was a lie, but at least my hair was longer then!

Early Release

I feel like I’ve been paroled. Suddenly, out of the blue, the key turned in the lock and the door clanged open and I’m blinking in the light of freedom. Yes. Freedom. For now, my baby sleeps. She points to her crib and wants to nap. She sleeps for two hours! At night, defying all laws of logic and fatigue, she wants to go to bed even though it’s not yet 7 p.m.–and even though she actually napped–so I put her gingerly into her crib and cover her and close the door behind her and blink in the light of Freedom at 6:40 p.m.

I kind of waste my free time, though. I’m like a parolee who sits in his jammies watching cartoons instead of reading the classified ads. Today I read the newspaper and a chapter of a book and then looked at websites about Vacation Bible School and marveled that some fanatics not only have already constructed 10 foot replicas of volcanoes–they have also created websites on which to display their handiwork, complete with complicated directions. I’m more of a “read the directions and slap it together, how hard can it be?” kind of VBS director.

At any rate, tonight while my husband was gone at meetings, I read YoungestBoy two books and then came downstairs to watch the Grammys and paint the wall. The wall behind the recliner (also known as Command Central) had two gigantic holes punched into by the force of our ex-dog, Greta, a Newfoundland of great glee and even greater strength who used to run laps in the living room and into the kitchen. Then she’d come flying back to the living room where she’d land in the recliner with force great enough to break the wall. After an obscene amount of time passed, my husband finally finagled a repair by asking a handy friend we know if he could borrow some tools. (The oldest trick in my husband’s book, but it works every time. His alternate trick is so ask a friend for “help.” Then he stands around and watches the friend work and possibly holds a tool and chats.)

So, the friend came and fixed the wall and for weeks now, maybe a month, the wall has been staring whitely at me, begging for paint. While I was painting, YoungestBoy popped into the room, surprising me, and said, “Excuse me, Mom,” which caused me to scream a tiny scream. “Yes?” I said. “Mom, can I read the B Book, just for one or two minutes?”

Of course I said yes.

Then, more painting and another appearance by YoungestBoy. “Excuse me, Mom?”

“Yes.”

“I just counted to 500!” He’s an enthusiastic numbers guy.

“Good for you. Now go to bed. I love you!”

After I’d finished painting, he came downstairs one final time to tell me that he’d counted to 1,000. I told him it was 9:30 p.m., time to stay in bed. He wanted to know if he could count to 3,000 and I said, “I don’t care how much you count. Just don’t come downstairs again.”

My husband likes to think that all of YoungestBoy’s good characteristics are genetic, that they, in fact, directly passed from father to son. I’d like to think that he is a shining example of my exceptional parenting skills, but then I remember I have two other kids who are not shining examples of my parenting skills. So, it probably is genetic, but I’d like to think that my genes have made YoungestBoy who he is today. Okay. Well, at the very least, I did carry him in my womb. That’s got to count for something.

Here’s my boy, last year:

As Good As It Gets

I woke up at 8 a.m. from the strangest dream. We’d moved to Michigan and were living in a large, rectangular, two-story farmhouse. In the dream, I was adamant about moving furniture downstairs from usptairs and at one point, I was insistent that the bedroom furniture be placed on the front lawn, in the lacy shadows of a large tree.

Then, I saw the view from the upstairs bedroom window–Mt. Hood! (Which, of course, is located in Oregon, not Michigan. But no matter. It was a dream.) However, things took a strange turn when I was suddenly having an ultrasound done to see if I was, indeed, pregnant. And not just any ultrasound. No sir-eee-bob. I had to walk from the waiting room to the ultrasound area naked.

Thank God my husband said, “Hey, do you hear the baby? She’s awake.”

My husband worked again today until 4 p.m. I cannot actually remember the last day he took off from work. I think it was at Christmas. While he was gone, the most remarkable thing happened. Babygirl took another nap in her crib. She nursed, sat up and pointed to her crib. I said, “You want to lay down in your bed?” She nodded. She actually slept about two hours. I read a chapter in a book, listening for her to cry out. When she didn’t, I went downstairs and cleaned up the kitchen. My basic cleaning turned into Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder cleaning in which I picked out color crayons from the baskets and discarded them based on how dull their point was. I banished all the “RoseArt” crayons, too. I threw away an old lipstick I found in the kitchen counter basket which collects all manner of flotsam. I tossed an errant lego, a choke-chain for the dog we no longer have, two dried up glue-sticks and more.

Then I decluttered the “junk” cupboard which overflowed with tape dispensers (Costco sold tape in packs of 8), combs, paint brushes, post-it notes, nail clippers, pens and yes, more. Stuff, junk, do-dads. I have no shortage of clutter around here. Part of it is my fault–I save it if I think it has value, even if that value won’t occur for ten more years. And then there are the kids who have vast stores of treasures, which cannot seem to stay put. I find Pokemon cards and plain-old playing cards and legos and balloons and tinkertoys and papers and books and dirty socks everywhere. My husband would like nothing more than to live in a home decorated in Early Dorm Room, so the baggage that comes with a family of boys and a baby assaults his senses.

When I finished throwing things away, I turned my attention to my sooty kitchen window. The candles purchased at Christmas-time smell great and leave a filmy coat of gray on the window frame and window. I washed the white paint, scrubbed the window and shook out the valance.

Puttering takes so much time and before I knew it, the baby was awake again. How satisfying, though to see my streamlined cupboards and baskets and unsooty window.

I told the boys we were going for a walk to 7-11 to buy Slurpees. They cooperated quickly and we were off, Babygirl in her stroller, Youngestboy by my side, chatting the whole way, TwinBoyA on a scooter and TwinBoyB on his bike. When I told my husband later, he exclaimed that such an outing was too dangerous! He’s Mr. Caution. I told Mr. Caution that the road is wide and there is a bike path and we were perfectly safe walking half a mile each way. The skies were mostly sunny and the temperatures were in the mid-forties and it almost felt like spring.

Tonight, Babygirl went to sleep at 7:15 p.m. For the fourth night in a row, she pointed to her bed and when I asked if she wanted to lay down, she nodded. I love having a nodding baby. Even if she doesn’t mean to say yes, but nods, it makes me feel like she is so agreeable.

I left the house at 8 p.m. and spent two satisfying hours at Barnes and Noble. I had a gift card to spend, but I wanted to spend it wisely. I bought four books: Sue Monk Kidd’s “The Secret Life of Bees”, a book about keeping a journal called “Leaving a Trace”, a funny book to send my friend, Diane, for her birthday, and Elizabeth Berg’s “Never Change.” My stack of books to read gets higher and higher and probably one day it will collapse and render me senseless. Maybe even paralyze me, which will be okay if I’m not blinded. Then I will be helpless, but still able to read.

I can always hope.

Beauty Sleeping!

Well, miracles never cease.

I have moaned and belly-ached and griped and complained and whined about my baby’s lack of naps. She quit napping sometime last October, when she was just a little more than a year old. This was not at all okay with me, but what could I do? I could not bear to plop her into her crib and let her scream for an hour, so I went with the flow. I adjusted my expectations and decided to just enjoy nursing her and holding her while she napped for thirty minutes each day.

Today, I nursed her, as usual, in the gliding rocker in her room. After a few minutes, she sat up and pointed to her crib. I said, “You want to lay in your bed?” She nodded. I said, “Okay,” and put her in her bed. She laid down and I covered her up with her afghans. Without a pause, I walked out and closed the door, fully expecting to hear her protests.

But no. She napped! She napped for a full hour in her crib. I read a chapter in a book, read a message board, wasted time. I really did not know what to do with myself, but I didn’t want to make a noise or do something to jinx this miracle (like starting a project that required a measure of time to complete).

Tonight was the third night in a row that I’ve put her to bed fully awake. Each night she has gone to sleep without another sound.

A baby finally figuring out how to sleep well on her own is a miracle in its own way. After all those weeks and months of staggering through the day in a sleep-deprived haze, I sleep again.

Now, if I could just get my husband to stop snoring, I’d be all set.

The Tedium

What really gets to me is the tedium, the monotony, the grinding routine of doing the same stuff over and over again, every day. Each day, I’m crestfallen when I remember I have to think up dinner again. I just made dinner last night. I pick up the same toys. I wash the same clothes. I flush the same toilets, which surprisingly enough, the boys always forget to flush. I wear the same clothes. The only thing different each day is my stupid hair, which has a mind of its own which is in cahoots with the weather.

I hate the alarm ringing in the morning. I hate waking up in the dark. I hate mornings.

The sad thing is that this is what life is made of–the small stuff, the boring stuff, the routine stuff. Sticky floors and unfolded laundry and a stack of papers on the counter are my life. I am the Queen of the trivial detail, the Servant of the household demand, the Slave to the kitchen.

I need a make-over!
I need a chef!
I need a vacation in Tahiti!

But I’d settle for two hours at Target on Saturday. Without a baby in my cart!

A Walk Down Memory Lane

Lately, I have been thinking about my dad. He died when I was 24, which is now 15 years ago, though he died in September and my birthday was just a few days ago. So, I was 24 and a half. He was 47, just barely.

I miss him so much. He never got to experience Seinfeld or the internet or being a grandpa. And that’s just the beginning of all he missed.

But this is not about missing him. This is about the time he took me out to have pie.

When I was about 10 years old, he invited me to go with him to have a piece of pie. This invitation struck fear into my cautious little heart. My dad had never taken me anywhere alone. He worked the graveyard shift and slept all day and hardly ever sat at the dinner table with us. I was a little scared of him because he was a tall man who was never home. He was stoic and unaffectionate.

And then he wanted to take me out to eat pie. I was suspicious because I’d already found a spiral bound steno pad under the couch with my mother’s handwriting in it. There were two columns: “His” and “Hers.” She had divided up their meager possessions into these two lists. I realized with horror what this list must mean, but I shoved it back under the couch without a word and figured if I pretended I hadn’t seen it that my world would not spontaneously combust. But, of course, I was wrong.

On the way to the restaurant, my dad asked if I’d prefer to eat or talk first. I said eat. So, I choked down pie. I can’t remember any small talk. I can’t even remember the pie. What I cannot forget, though, is my dad telling me that he and my mother would be getting a divorce. “We still love you,” he said. As if that made the catastrophe somehow better. Yes, your world will collapse, but we still love you. Okay, then. I will just stay here buried under the rubble while you love me. Thanks so much.

I used his hankerchief to wipe my tears and snot. You’d think that a father informing his daughter about his divorce from her mother would remember to bring a box of tissues, but no. He was not the kind of dad who would think of that.

They were divorced when I was 11. And I’m still not a big fan of pie

Yawn

It’s nearly 11 p.m. and the weekend has come to an end. My family room floor is littered with junk food crumbs from our very loud Superbowl party. If you can call it that. Friends needed childcare for a couple of hours this afternoon, so we had our kids, plus their three kids. Yes, that means twin 10 year olds, a 9 year old, twin 8 year olds, a nearly 6 year old and Babygirl. You would not even believe the level of noise. None of the boys has an “indoor” voice. They had a great time, though, and happily, they were outside during the half-time show which featured Sean Puff P. Diddy Daddy Combs (whom I despise) and his crotch-grabbing friend, Nelly, (my great-aunt is named, Nelly) and Janet Jackson’s bare right breast.

My husband worked on Friday (his day off) and Saturday (his sort of day off) and then, of course, today. He hasn’t had a whole day off in weeks. Every one of my days looks exactly the same. Entertain the baby, sit outside while she plays in the cold chill, figure out how to keep everyone fed, wash and dry and fold laundry, pick up toys so no one trips . . . the monotony drains me.

But here’s the good news: everyone is healthy this week! Last week was a horror of sore throats and fevers.

Why Am I Still Awake?!

Every once in a blue moon, I get a typing job. Two dollars a page, easy work to do. Except, of course, that it cannot be done while a nosy baby who hates the computer and wants to stand on the keyboard is awake. So, I had to type after she went to bed tonight. And last night, too.

I just finished the job. Fifty-nine pages in two nights. That represents about six hours of work since I can type ten pages in an hour. I was ready to toss my keyboard out the window tonight, though. I hurriedly typed, trying to get enough done so I could justify taking a break. I wanted to ride my exercise bike and watch “The Apprentice” at 9 p.m. Twelve pages of work done and WHAT? A strange error message with the insincere apology accompanying the warning that I may lose unsaved work.

Kiss those twelve pages good-bye. My old word processor on the old computer used to save automatically every ten minutes or so. Not this new word processor. No. And it hadn’t even occurred to me to save it since I was sitting right here diligently typing.

Well.

Last night, I went to bed at midnight. Grace woke up at 3:20 a.m. I nursed her, went back to bed at 4 a.m. Zach woke up at 4:18 a.m. His throat is still sore and he’s outraged! I gave him medicine and snuggled next to him in his bed until he went to sleep. At 5 a.m. Yawn.

So, today was long. Tomorrow is my husband’s day off, but he’s working. Saturday he has a day-long retreat to coordinate. He’ll obviously be gone then, too. I’ve been so whiny here in the past days, so I won’t even get started.

(But boy, I need a vacation from my life!)

In the meantime, I’m heading to bed. It’s 12:42 a.m.!

Is There A Doctor in the House?

Babygirl is better. She even took a rare nap in her actual crib today! She has not done that since October. (The naps on Sunday were all in my arms, which hardly counts as a real nap in my book.) And the reason I even attempted to put her in her crib? Well, I was upstairs, half-dozing, half-watching television at 1:30 p.m. while Babygirl slept in my arms. She looked so sweet, mussed hair and one arm flung over her head. Then I hear, “MOM!” I think, what? was that the television?. Then again, but louder, “MEL! MEL!! MOM!!”

The sound of my five year old, calling from downstairs. I couldn’t figure out what would cause him to just holler from downstairs when he normally just opens the door and speaks to me in an unintelligible, hushed whisper. He didn’t sound panicked, just persistent. After five minutes, I figured I’d take my chances and put the baby in the crib. To my utter amazement, she snuggled down and kept sleeping.

And what was Youngestboy’s emergency? Well, there was a spider in the living room and he was afraid to walk past it because he thought it might “get” him. This is my kid who used to smack spiders with shoes to kill them when he was two. (We have spiders approximately the size of a small mouse here in Washington State.)

Why is YoungestBoy even home today? Well, he has the sore throat that Babygirl had yesterday. Poor baby only nursed twice–once in the morning, once at night. Today she’s much better, but poor Youngestboy has the virus. Yesterday morning he complained about being cold. I sent him to school, but told him to call if he felt bad. When he came home after school, he burst into tears saying his head hurt. I gave him ibuprofen and he napped for an hour or so. Last night, he threw up once and then this morning he woke up with a very sore throat.

This is exactly what DaycareKid had. Sigh.

Babygirl just brought her sneakers to me. You know what that means, right? Time to go outside for more chilly fun!