Pretty And Organized -- For The Moment

Mother went on a cleaning frenzy this weekend. Maybe it was because spring finally sprang here in New England. Perhaps it was the fact that the sun actually came out and illuminated with startling clarity the appalling clutter filling every corner of my house. I don’t know, it could have been the fact that it was a three day weekend and I had nothing else to do. Anyway, the cleaning/reorganizing urge hit, and I took it out on my unsuspecting family.

Actually, it started with the dishes. I bought a set of everyday dinner dishes a few years ago (two sets, really, one in mustard yellow and one in dusky green, because it’s nice when our family of five can all eat at the same time) from Wally’s. The plates had ridges in concentric circles that seemed innocuous, even playful, at first, but eventually became a source of frustration to Scooby’s efforts to eat rice with a fork. And after a while, bowls chipped, coffee mugs went missing, and a dinner plate exploded in the (malfunctioning) microwave.

It got to the point where every time I opened the dish cabinet or set the table, I got angry. Anger has usually been the starting point for my home-improvement projects. (Why do I hate coming home in the evening after a long day at work? Oh, it’s the medium-blue front door that clashes with my red-sided house (what the heck were those people thinking?). Paint it black. The dingy linoleum on the kitchen floor is making me feel all stabby inside? Wait til Rev goes out of town and lay down some faux slate tiles. That kind of thing.)

So I went online and ordered new dishes, and they arrived on Friday. No, I didn’t consult Rev – it may hurt some feminist ears to hear this (it does mine), but the kitchen belongs to me. Anyway, aren’t these pretty?

Happy and colorful (from Pfalzgraff), and no creases to hide food in!

Which meant that on Saturday, I had to take a field trip with my mom to Bed, Broomsticks, and Bonkers to get one of those plate stacker-holders you put in the cupboard. And, hey, I needed mixing bowls. And canisters for flour and sugar! (The trick to defeating your guilt over impulse-buying is to have your kid write the items on your list of things to buy as you put them in your cart, before you get to the cash register, so you can cross them off with impunity.) And then, of course, I had to purge the cabinets of all of those items that I didn’t use/didn’t want anymore. I filled a box with vases and the old heavy bowls I had just replaced, and of course the discarded dishes. Marked them “Fragile” and put them aside for charity.

Well, of course, you can’t call the charity truck for only two boxes, so on Monday (Sunday being a day of rest, after all), I took on the little kid’s room.

Imagine yourself staring at Lake Superior, which you must empty. Now imagine that you have a teaspoon in your hand. Kind of daunting, huh?

First we (Scooby, Doodle and I) went through the books, keeping only those that they decided they would read again. And the ones that Rev had kept from childhood. Oh, and then there were the special books we had read to Boy about adoption from the time he was a baby. And this gem, You Are My I Love You, which, if you have any children or know any children, you need to buy. Right now.

This task exhausted the little kids, so I sent them off to the playground and tackled the closet on my own. Which, if you think about, is the only way to do it. No, Oh, I love that game – even though most of the pieces are missing. Or, You can’t throw out this teddy that I haven’t touched in two years and three months – the magic marker might still come out of his fur!

My working rule was, if I can’t immediately locate all parts of a set, it’s gone. Broken? Gone. Looks like it might be on its way to being broken? Bye. Annoying? Pushed down to the bottom of the garbage bag. Anything in good shape that wasn't (a) currently being played with or (b) sentimentally valuable went into the charity box.

I filled three large garbage bags. And a cardboard box. The children haven’t missed anything yet.

Finally, I did laundry. And I refused to return to their drawers anything that didn’t currently fit (charity), was fall/winter and wouldn’t fit next time that season rolled around (charity), was ripped (trash), or was objectively ugly (charity – it might be someone else’s taste).

At the end of the day, this is what I heard (as I lay chilling on my bed, wiped out).

Scooby: Doodle, come look at our room!
[pause]
Doodle: Whooooaaa.
Scooby: I know! I don’t even recognize it!
Both: Thanks, Mom!

I love when children show a little gratitude for the hard work of their mother.

But even better than that, this morning when I went into Boy’s room to wake him up for school, I got the shock of my life. Turning on the light, I noticed that . . . he had picked up most of the dirty clothes from the floor and had shoved all of the pairs of sneakers (all ninety-two of them) out of the way into the closet. You could see whole patches of floor.

Maybe, just maybe, he was a little inspired by me after all. I . . . I think I just got a tear in my eye.

All Because My Office Was Cold

It’s all because my office is cold.

We’re heading into the final third of May -- Memorial Day is this coming Monday -- and Spring has not yet arrived. Of the past ten days, only ONE has been sunny, and the temperature hasn’t risen above 72 degrees. It feels like the middle of March, with the occasional foray into the sixties being a reason to celebrate.

People are surly.

Today, I am wearing my son’s hand-me-down fleece hoodie (the outerwear kind) while sitting at my desk. I am hunched into it, holding it closed at my neck because I am just that freaking freezing. No, my window isn’t open. I’ve been fighting a head and chest cold (and losing, for the most part) for the past week.

I am surly.

At a quarter to three, I decide that I need a cup of coffee, both as an excuse to get out of the office for some exercise before it starts raining again, and to warm up. I pull my green wool winter coat over the hoodie. Yeah, it's that cold. As I come out of Dunks, dodging other surly, hunched, chilly pedestrians, I decide to walk further downtown to find a new handbag. The one I have is comfy, roomy, and slouchy, perfect for carrying a universe of odds and ends (my morning yogurt, my Kindle, my to-do book, the empty travel coffee mug at the end of the day), but impossible to locate my house keys or train pass or ringing cell phone in quickly. I need a sectioned, structured bag with designated pockets, but in a size sufficient to slip my laptop into if I decide at the last minute to do work at home.

I wander the accessory aisles at TJM. I’m shocked at the prices. Do people really spend $119 for a handbag? Really? Isn’t this supposed to be the off-price store, you know, 60% off department store prices? I mean, if the price tag starts with a 1 or a 2, it had better only have four digits and a decimal point. Anyway, I find a nice large bag -- not big enough to be mistaken for a beach bag or anything -- in a bold, bright print, a perfect antidote for my Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Hmmm. Maybe I should get a belt to go with it. A brown belt to match the brown straps of the handbag. (No, really, that’s how I shop. I’m not a fashionista, in case you haven’t noticed.) I do have a couple of nice belts at home, but I’ve lost about thirty pounds over the past year or so (the Post-Surgery Complication Diet -- wouldn’t recommend it as a first choice, although it left me with a bangin’ size 4 bod) so one hangs around my hips like a big bangle, and the other unhooks itself whenever I stand up. So I pick up a nice white and silver belt, all the rage in fashion these days, it seems.

I think about what I might have in my closet to go with the belt (nothing comes to mind), and head over to browse the shirts and blouses. I find two great tops that beg to be cinched at my newly discovered waist by the belt in my hand, so I grab those. One is dusty rose, a kind of lace-ish fabric layered over knit, and the other is a steel-grey jersey with a row of large rosettes along a wide collar. (My imaginary Stacy and Clinton WNTW intervention voice tells me to stay away from blacks and browns, and to try for something reasonably form-fitting.) Should I complete the outfit and snag some pants, or maybe a nice spring skirt? Fortunately for everyone involved, I am not delusional enough to think I’d look good in capris (nobody does), so I head up to the cashier.

Sixty-three dollars. And two cents. I’ve spent $63.02 -- $65.04, if you count the medium coffee from Dunks that started this excursion -- on a whim. Some people should never be let out on their own, especially disorganized people who can’t find their house keys or cell phones in their junk-filled pocketbooks. Is this what they call retail therapy? Whatever it is, it worked. I feel fabulous. I will be bringing my lunch for the rest of this week and next, but I will look great.

And you know what? It’s all because my office was freaking cold.

When I Am Queen Of America

When I am Queen of America, I shall use “shall” instead of “will” in sentences. You’ll have to deal with it, because I shall be Queen.

Actually, no, I won’t be too pretentious, even though I will have unlimited power. I will be eminently practical and will strive to make the world a better place . . . or at least free of some of my personal pet peeves.

When I am Queen of America, I will designate a Minister of Punctuation, whose function will be to eliminate unneeded apostrophes from all public signage. Abominations like “Pizza’s - two for ten dollar’s” will cease to exist.

When I am Queen of America, I will give amnesty to any bystander who, having seen trash being thrown out of a passing car, picks up said trash and tosses it back into the vehicle from which it came. This includes lit cigarettes. I will also pardon anyone convicted of grabbing a cell phone from a distracted driver and disconnecting the call.

I will decree that healthy food will always cost less than unhealthy food. Thus, a box of low-sugar cereal with fiber and fruit will be half the price of sugar-coated sugar cereal flavored with high fructose corn syrup. Junk food that cannot reasonably be placed anywhere on the Food Pyramid will be subject to a surcharge and a double tax.

When I am Queen of America, everyone will learn to apologize properly. No more, “We are experiencing delays on the Red Line. We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.” Instead, you will hear the following: The train you are waiting for is ridiculously late, due either to our incompetence or our crappy, elderly equipment, and therefore, you will not get to work on time. We understand that it is entirely our fault that you are, in fact, being inconvenienced, and we are very, very sorry that we have screwed up your day. We will try to do better tomorrow.

It will become acceptable for public officials to point out to reporters, commentators, and interviewers that their questions are, actually, stupid. Such responses will be explicitly protected by the First Amendment and will carry no political backlash whatsoever. Radio and television talk show hosts will be prohibited from presenting their whacked out opinions as fact. Also? All natural-born citizens will be required to take -- and pass -- a civics course before being permitted to make public statements about how the government should be run.

Okay, fine, so I’ll never be Queen of America. Too bad. I’ve got lots of ideas.

How about just . . . Queen for a Day?

Well, Maybe Not The Worst . . .

So I celebrated Mothers Day by nominating myself for the Worst Mom Award. Here’s what happened.

Yesterday, as usual, we were running late for church. It’s my job to get the three kids out of the house in time for the 10:45 service, which is the SECOND service on any given Sunday. Rev leaves the house at 7:00 in order to get to the first service, which starts at 8:00. That’s 8:00 AM, which should be all the explanation I need to give as to why the second service is the only possible option for me. Anyway, the day started out with good intentions (as they always do), with my children completely forgetting about Mothers Day until they were on their second helping of pancakes (which I made).

Church started ten minutes late, so we were on time. My mind was occupied with the half-prepared Children’s Church lesson, and my spirit was not helped at all by the dry “period of praise” segment of the service. (Really, y’all, if we can’t find any songs written this century, can we at least sing ones that were composed during my lifetime? Please?) I skipped the Meet’n’Greet and dashed downstairs (well, clomped, since I was wearing my four-inch platform stilettos) to write the memory verse on the white board and set up for the arts and crafts project.

Let’s just say that I was a little frazzled.

After church, as I cleaned up the classroom, Doodle, who is nine and a half, moseyed in and said, “Can I go home with Dad?” I said, “Sure.” I watched him take off up the stairs, where the Pastor’s office is. A few minutes later, I crossed paths with Rev, who was coming downstairs, dressed in his civvies, pausing only long enough for us to snap at each other over whether I should have seasoned the chicken before I'd left for church and the fact that there wasn’t enough whole milk to make his dessert recipe for the dinner he was cooking for my mom and me. (This thirty-second conversation was the only time we’d really spoken all day -- at least while both of us were awake.)

By now, my feet hurt, I was a little irritated, and I had less than two hours to get my grocery shopping for the week done before my parents were due to arrive for dinner. I grabbed Scooby and headed out to my car.

By the time I got home, Rev was well into his dinner prep, and the kitchen looked demolished. Scooby dashed off to change out of her Sunday dress, while I made three trips to bring the grocery bags in from the car. Scooby reappeared, wearing shorts, and asked, “Can me and Doodle go outside?” I said yes, despite the fact that it was only about fifty degrees. She scampered downstairs, then came back up seconds later, looking confused. “Where’s Doodle?” she asked me. “I don’t know,” I snapped, “ask your dad.”

Said dad looked completely blank. “I thought he was with you.”

Every inappropriate Anglo-Saxon word I had ever learned crowded into my head at that moment, looking for a chance to escape. Each assuming the other had him, we had left the boy at church.

Now, we typically would check with each other before leaving after service. I’d say, Do you have the boys? or he'd tell me, I have the little guys. But yesterday, Rev was preoccupied with his dinner plans, and I was multitasking my grocery lists, my meal plan for the week, and my post mortem on a class that had not gone as well as I’d hoped.

I was thinking about everything except being a mother.

I stomped out of the house, clutching my cell phone, headed back to the church. On a Sunday morning, it takes about twenty American minutes to get there from home; on a Sunday afternoon, it takes forever. Every dawdling, cell-phone chatting, don’t notice the red light has turned green moron decided to pick that very moment to pull out in front of my car. I tried the blame for leaving Doodle behind out on everyone, eventually settling somewhere between “we were all careless,” and “sometimes stuff happens.”

When I got to the church (in nineteen minutes), Doodle was waiting patiently with a church member in the front lobby, munching on animal crackers. I put on my game face and said, “Hey, kiddo. What happened?”

He smiled, not troubled in the least, and replied, “Well, after I told you I wanted to go with Dad, I went up to the Sanctuary to find him, but he wasn’t there. I came back downstairs, but he wasn’t in the Fellowship Hall either. So I went to find you, but you’d left already.”

Oh.

If this were the movies, I would fall on my knees, wrap him in my arms, and tearfully promise never, ever to leave him again. But this is real life, where parents mess up and kids, understanding this, find the nearest adult and wait for you to come back, because, really, Mom and Dad aren’t going to leave you at church all week, and that’s what you’ve been teaching them to do since they were old enough to wander away from you in Walmart. So we thanked the nice lady for staying with him, and raced each other to the car. Once we were buckled in, I said, “I’m sorry I left without checking with Dad first.”

And my empathetic little boy proved that I wasn’t a complete failure as a mom when he responded, “That’s okay. Everyone can make a mistake.” Then he proved that he was savvy as well, when he added, “Sooo, maybe I should get my own cell phone.” His eyes met mine as I glanced over my shoulder, and he shrugged, as if to say, Well, it was worth a try, anyway.

Hmmm, I thought as I drove carefully home, mindful of the precious cargo in the back seat, Worst Mom? Maybe I’ll just settle for first runner up.

Goodbye, Sarah

Over the past year and change, I’ve sought out numerous accounts of other women who are walking this cancer road. All of them have been connected to me virtually; I’ve identified with some for one reason, with others for another. I’ve cheered them on through rough spots, and in return, they’ve educated and encouraged me. Sometimes, I’ve seen myself in what they’ve written; other times, the only thing we’ve shared is a diagnosis.

One of these women was Sarah Feather, a/k/a The Carcinista. She did not live far from me, but we never met, nor spoke in person. She took her treatment at the hospital across the street from mine. But she was married and had kids, two boys the same ages as my younger kids. She, like me, had a snarky sense of humor, and loved to write. I followed her blog, The Carcinista (www.carcinista.com). There was never any self pity, no melodramatic Hallmark sentiments, only a clear-eyed account of what it’s like to go through hard-core cancer treatment and hope for the best.

Sarah died yesterday, after a long (and stylish) struggle with ovarian cancer. Just a couple weeks before, she had decided to stop treatment because she would not trade off quality time with her family for a few more days of sickly life. I listened to a podcast of her explaining her decision, and thought to myself, I hope that, when the time comes, I can handle the situation with this much grace.

I’m sorry for her husband, and for her boys, who are way too young to lose their mom. But I know that some day they’ll be strong enough to read Sarah’s blog and other articles and postings, and realize that how you face death is as important as how you face life. Maybe more important, because you have to do it by yourself.

Bye, Carcinista. Safe journey.