Don't Sit There!

The boys in my house are especially hard on furniture.  In particular, living room furniture.  When you only have three rooms on the first floor, you tend to really live in the living room. 

In the 14 years we’ve been here, we’ve gone through at least five sets--some new and some new to us.  I’m sure they’d last a lot longer if the younger ones could remember that couches are couches and not trampolines.  Admittedly, they’d probably last longer too if I could quit rearranging them, but furniture rearrangement is the white trash version of a room makeover. 

I’m also thinking it’s a sign of mental illness.

The most notorious of all our furniture was the infamous blue chair.  My mom gave it to us when Mayle made her First Communion a good ten years ago.  It was a mainstay in our house up until this past fall.  I knew it was a bit ratty.  The kids would often use it as a napkin and once, when Madison was little, he pulled off the cushion and exclaimed to a guest, “And this is where we keep our crumbs!”

I didn’t realize just how ratty it was until we hauled it out on our front lawn last fall for the citywide garage sale.  As we pushed it down the front porch steps, I could hear all kinds of things rambling around inside it (coins? forks? toys?).  It was like a piñata!  But what became immediately apparent was its smell—something like rancid Mexican food.

I suddenly understood why whenever Kenny planted his face deep into the seat cushion he would emerge looking green. 

“Yuck!”  he would gasp.  But that was often after John had been sitting there.

A few sprays of fabric refresher and some time in the sunshine I was sure would remedy the problem.  But that chair sat there all day.  Even passing college students would get a bemused look on their face after “testing” it out.  The price dropped from $10 to free, but that chair didn’t budge, thus disproving that old saying, “One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.” 

Today, we have a perfectly nice "new to us" living room set.  In the few months we’ve had it, it’s quickly morphed into shabby chic.  But the loveseat—don’t sit there.  Madison popped a spring during a particularly active game of Halo. 

And, there are crumbs under the cushions.  If you drop by, I’m sure Madison will show you.

He's a Travelin' Man

That husband of mine. 

He’s gone again. 

Not for good, just for another unspecified amount of time.  Five days, a week, maybe ten days . . .

Those of you who know me know that this is just another part of my life.  And though the amount of travel has varied from job to job, it’s always been a constant in our life.  Mostly, it works out all right for us.  John likes the adventure and I don’t.  The gypsy in him is appeased and I stay home to “man” the house and wait for his nightly phone calls, which often sound a lot like,

“You had what for dinner?  Hmpfff.  We had hotdogs wrapped in dough.”

This current trip?  It’s not going so well at home.  I’ve been wearing my shoulders as earrings for a few days now.

It began with a tense departure. 

Remember that tree?  It’s only halfway dismantled in the back yard.  And our front walk?  It looks like Pompeian ruins, thanks to that load of dirt the garden center delivered.  Ice that with the biblical amount of rain we’ve had this spring.  Mowing grass has become somewhat of a pipe dream.  Not that I could mow it anyway.  Max is much too mobile and Moxie—John’s dog—has hidden way too many rotten Easter eggs in the yard for me to attempt it.  (And I’m talking dog mines, mind you.)

By the time John left early in the week, we were communicating in monosyllables.  He was frustrated at the usual thought of going away (though, I still think he secretly loves it.) And I was just mad because we bought a fence and shrubs to de-uglify our yard, but between the rain and John traveling, it wasn’t going to happen.  If you think I’m over reacting, just drop by and look at my bathroom remodel that began 12 years ago.  I’m quite certain our new fence is going to be rusted out before it ever gets assembled.

Usually, as the week goes on, things get better.  Last night was even looking up.  We were at my parent’s house for dinner when Stancey called.  Frantically, she said,

“Mom, there’s something really wrong with Blue Cheese!  He’s not moving!”

Blue Cheese is our biting parakeet.  To John, he chirps and kisses.  To the rest of us, he’s less affectionate.  Blue Cheese was perfectly normal when we first got him, as most of our animals are when we first get them.  In fact, he seemed to be the smartest animal we’d ever had.  Although originally only on loan from our vacationing neighbors, he wound up staying with us when Kenny kept insisting, “Blue Cheese says he loves me!” 

It wasn’t long before Kenny quit saying that.  It was shortly after that Blue Cheese became our neurotic parakeet.

After finishing dinner, we came home to a listless parakeet.  An hour later, Blue Cheese died.

Stancey was distraught.  Madison became quiet.  Sam was brave and put Blue Cheese inside a Zumba workout video box before burying him in the back yard.  And Kenny asked for a new green parrot.

When John called that night, we didn’t talk about what he had for dinner.  We talked about Blue Cheese. 

“But that bird loved me!” was his response. 

“Please!”  I retorted.  “Besides, your dog loves you too.”

But I understood.  When John leaves town, it’s often mingled with misunderstandings.  Hostility is really just fear when I imagine how overwhelming it can be to “man” the Thompson household solo.  I love my husband, but I love to gripe about him too.  

Do I doubt that going out of town is hard on him?  No.  I’m sure it’s lonely, but what I wouldn’t give for five minutes of lonely after a week of doing it alone. 

After I hung up the phone, I was just sad.  I lost someone on my watch this week--a bird someone.  Thank goodness the kids are all right, but really, couldn’t it have been Moxie instead?  Blue Cheese smelled better and didn’t hamper my lawn endeavors.

Mom Who?

Max is my last baby and I don’t have the time to enjoy him.   

To Max, I am the person that takes him in and out of his car seat, the high chair, and his crib.  I’m the one who pulls him out of the fireplace, the kitchen cupboards, and the first-floor windowsills.  As far as Max is concerned, I am the ruiner of all things fun.  If he could talk, he would tell you so.  But for now, he only grunts and sticks out his tongue through a mouthful of pacifier.

I don’t know if it’s because he’s number six or if it’s because I’m nearly 40, but I’m having a harder time keeping up with Max than I ever remember having keeping up with any of the other five.  If there’s something dangerous, dirty, or ding-a-ling to do, he’s on it!  From 8 in the morning until 8 at night, he’s just busy, busy, BUSY!  It’s like Kenny says, “That baby just doesn’t know how to be smart!”

Luckily for Max, he has a whole circus of people who are trained to save him from himself.  I work 30 hours a week, so I’m not always the one who has to administer the Heimlich or get his head or other body part unstuck.

And this is where the guilt of not being home all day every day gets to me.

The flip side of being a working mother? 

Max will stay with anyone. 

The other flip side? 

Well, Max will stay with anyone.

Last weekend, a friend of mine dropped by to see me.  (But if you asked my kids, they’d tell you she dropped by to see them.)  She’s the toddler’s version of the Pied Piper.  Kids flock to her like she’s the ice cream truck.  Within moments of arriving, she plopped down on the floor and a few minutes after that, Max and Kenny were all over her.  Max was kissing her (albeit through his pacifier) and Kenny was asking her to sleep over in the tent he had just set up in the middle of the living room.  I admired how, at that moment, she was the human swing set.

And it’s not just monkey bars Katy (aka just plain old Katy--though there’s nothing plain old about her) that Max easily attaches himself to.  Just a few days later, it was a young college student.  Never mind that Max had never met her, he was pulling on her skirt and climbing up her legs. 

These moments are the ones that make me wonder if being a working mother is really working for me.

It hurts that I’m not his whole world. So, I’ve come to the realization that this whole modern woman thing is a bunch of crap.  It’s a lot of work to get out there and make the money to buy that bacon, only to have to come home and fix it too.  And a lot of the time, there isn’t much gratification in doing it.  It seems the only constructive criticism I get is negative. 

“I don’t have any clean pants” or “What are we having for dinner?” are often the greetings I get when I walk in the door.  This trade off might be worth it if I making a difference at work.  But I’m not all that important there either . . . unless you count cleaning mold out of the microwave an important task.

For now, I tell myself that I need both worlds to appease the Sybil in me.  The polished professional that goes out between 9 and 4 and the white trash me that yells, “Don’t sit on your brother’s head without your underwear!” 

As for Max and his ability to stay with anyone, well, maybe that’s more my problem than it is his.

My Mom, the Virgin Mary, and Me

In the nineteen years that I’ve been lucky enough to be someone’s mother, I can think of no other greater influences to my craft than my own mother and the Mother of all mothers--the Virgin Mary.  Before I go any further, I want to preface this post (and exclude myself of any legal or moral liability) by saying this is not a lesson in Mary or motherhood.  I’ve never pretended to be role model for any one.  In fact, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve admitted that people like me shouldn’t have children.  But, I do.  And somehow they are amazing and funny regardless. 

When I was 18, I didn’t know anything.  When I gave that final push and exclaimed to the doctor, “I’m glad that’s over!” he knew I didn’t know anything.  “Honey, it’s only just begun,” was his response.  Lucky for Mayle she was coming home to seasoned parents—my parents—who knew what I was in for, but loved me enough not to tell me.  We were co-pilots until John and I married four years later.

Motherhood is not what they show in commercials for Pampers.  Rather, motherhood is more like having hemorrhoids.  Children are really just benign, painful lumps that hurt most when you’re trying to relax. 

My mom’s mantra is, “When they’re little, they’re little problems.  When they’re big, they’re big problems.” Up until the past decade or so, I had no idea what she meant.  Dirty faces, dirty butts, and dirty hands—that’s all I knew.  In my mind, it HAD to get better—Hallmark better.  But I just kept on having little ones and the little ones just kept on getting bigger

And you know what?  My mom’s right.   Their problems are bigger.  They need better bikes, IPods, and phones.  They hide teenage boys behind the sofa when we’re not home.  They break curfew.  And sometimes, they just scare the hell out of you.

And that’s where Mary comes in. 

When things are particularly dark, I think about Simeon’s prediction to Mary when Jesus was presented in the temple.  “And a sword shall pierce your heart.”

If all mothers knew this, would we continue to have children?  I pray each day that I never see the worst.  Broken phones and broken promises—that I can deal with.  But the crazy neurotic in me wishes I could go back to being that 18-year-old mother.  I felt much saner then.   Today I imagine the worst and hope for the best.  Just ask Stancey, it’s the reason she’s grounded until summer vacation.

So this mother’s day, I am most thankful for these mothers.   For my mother, who knows me but loves me anyway and for Mary for keeping it all in perspective.  Yeah, my mom, the Virgin Mary, and me--a Mother's Day trinity.

We Are the Bumpasses!

       I’ve always admired beautiful yards.  I wish I had one, but I don’t. 

      

       The ornamental pond in our side yard belches dead fish every spring.  What isn’t floating is decomposing.   Last summer, we put Kenny’s sandbox next to it.  If old matchbox cars were money, then we would be loaded.  And if we were loaded, well, then we’d probably wouldn’t have that old pond any way.

       Our lawn decorations consist of bicycles, Nerf guns, and plastic recyclables.  I have noticed, however, for the first time in 15 years we have tulips.  I’m not quite sure how that happened; I’m thinking it must be a sign of the apocalypse. 

       During last week’s storms, John and I woke up just before five to hear the loudest crash we’ve ever heard during our time on Morgan Street. And this time, it came from outside the house.

       “What was that?!”  I asked, as I urged John out of bed with my feet.  After a dramatic pause, he said,

       “A tree.”

       Silence.

      A tree? 

      Last I knew, the next-door property owner had cut down all adjacent trees to give us an unobstructed view of the gas station.  But there it was and it took up the entire back yard.  It was the most enormous ash tree that I never before noticed.  And beneath it was the kids’ swingset, a rather tired looking picket fence, and some of those bicycles we use as lawn decoration. 

         “Quick!”  I shouted.  “Wake the kids!  We need to put our most precious stuff under that tree!”

Suddenly Sam was standing in our room with wild eyes and I think sprouting a few more freckles than he had the night before.  Of all the Thompson kids, he was the only one who had heard it.  We quickly headed to Madison’s room—suddenly the room with the view.  It was amazing.  Our backyard was all tree.  And while we conferred, he snored. 

So this past week, between making calls to the insurance company, tree removal services, and at large rental property owners, I just kept pondering. . . How is it that John and I are the only people I know who can have a disaster occur that actually makes our yard look better? 

And Madison, now that he’s fully awake, may have found his future profession--taking photos for insurance claims.  With his ipod touch in hand, he has posed Kenny in a multitude of heart wrenching scenes. When questioned about his loss and and if he’s sad, Kenny replies, “Nope, we’ll just get a new one.” 

Get in line, kid.  The claims adjuster says he can’t physically make it out to look at our damage until mid-to-late May. 

Yep, I’m thinking there’s still plenty of time to shove lots of broken trinkets under that proverbial Christmas tree.