On Memorial Day I got up and took my boys to the Air Zoo; a pretty cool air and space science museum nearby. As we were getting ready to leave, I began to panic a little at the pile of dishes and general state of disarray of my house.
I knew a woman once who said she vacuums every day because she likes the lines. Okay. Somebody shoot me if I ever have enough time on my hands to vacuum every day--just for the lines. I admit it, there are things that I frankly find to be more pressing and more important than immaculate housekeeping--though I do find value and import in a clean home. Or clean enough.
I'm coming to terms with my attitude toward housekeeping. There is this little voice inside me that yells: How will your boys ever learn the value of a clean dwelling place if the home they grow up in is a disaster?
Likewise there is another voice in my head that screams: These children will not be children for long, enjoy the here and now, enjoy them, enrich their lives, housekeeping can wait. And I imagine long years of having plenty of time to clean my house.
Then, lest you think I just might not be schizophrenic, there is yet another often louder voice that yells: Hey you! Slob! How dare you go to bed with dirty dishes in your sink! And check out that toilet! Wow, wish someone would vacuum around here! Because you and I have both been in one of those houses--you know what I mean right? Where you can't get out soon enough, where you don't dare let your child off your lap, where the countertop has not been visible in some months. And it's not so much that I want to judge the cleanliness of someone else's home, it's just that I fear that I have reached that point unawares.
But then, there is another voice that quietly soothes: A day or two of clutter is easily rectified and is not so important as the time you spend with your children. A wise man said: If you are still in the process of raising children, be aware that the tiny fingerprints that show up on almost every newly cleaned surface, the toys scattered about the house, the piles and piles of laundry to be tackled will disappear all too soon and that you will—to your surprise—miss them profoundly.
So, my new philisophy on motherhood and a clean house--Cleaning will wait, childhood won't. I do my best to keep up with it all, but frankly, some things are more important and although those voices still scream at me, I'm learning to ignore them--or at least drown them out.
A wise woman I knew once said that housekeeping partially done, still blesses my family. I like to chant this to myself (and to the voices in my head) every time I quickly, but partially clean the bathroom, or do enough dishes to fill the dishwasher and (heaven forbid) leave the rest to another load in the morning rather than staying up to spotlessly hand wash every last dish. I've learned from too much experience that staying up too late to complete some domestic duty on the pretense of blessing my family actually results in marked detriment to my family in the form of my exhaustion and complete lack of patience the following day. So nowadays, I go to bed, regardless of the dishes sitting in the sink. Oh, and sometimes, I neglect my blog too. Sorry. Oops, look at the time. I must to bed.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
There was an old lady
So when does one become officially old?
When your eyes fail? Your ears? Your knees? Or perhaps when your doctor prescribes high blood pressure medicine?
I never had high blood pressure until I was eight months pregnant. Since then I've been in denial. Until today. Damn babies.
Perhaps she'll die . . . unless of course she takes her high blood pressure medication as directed by her doctor.
When your eyes fail? Your ears? Your knees? Or perhaps when your doctor prescribes high blood pressure medicine?
I never had high blood pressure until I was eight months pregnant. Since then I've been in denial. Until today. Damn babies.
Perhaps she'll die . . . unless of course she takes her high blood pressure medication as directed by her doctor.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Unconsoled
When I resigned myself to not being in Spain this week, I considered sitting around, homebound with two small children. There was some appeal to this in that I still have many household projects to accomplish--including my garden. I am a terrible, yet hopeful gardener. I'm hopeful that someday (maybe this year since I'm not pregnant, nursing and both my children can walk and I'm not planning to move anytime soon) I'll be a better gardener. So, when I saw that the library was offering a gardening workshop--for free--I signed up, despite the fact that it would be today, whilst my husband is in Spain.
No problem. I need to find a babysitter in my new territory anyway and this is as good of an excuse as any. So, I did it. I found a sitter to take my kids not only Saturday morning, but for a good portion of the afternoon as well so I could attend a church conference. I've been sooooo excited for my Spanish Consolation Prize!
Then last evening, my stubborn, grumpy child got even more stubborn and grumpy and fell asleep in the late afternoon--unheard of. Unless he's getting sick.
Being stubborn myself, I nonetheless got up early, packed our picnic lunch, showered and went to wake my children. Ethan was not feeling well. Sure enough he was running a fever ranging from 101 to 102 degrees.
NO!!!! I had my consolation prize day all lined up. Alas, I called the library, called the sitter and cancelled. So here I am, homebound, with sick, grumpy children. What were those projects I was going to do?
No problem. I need to find a babysitter in my new territory anyway and this is as good of an excuse as any. So, I did it. I found a sitter to take my kids not only Saturday morning, but for a good portion of the afternoon as well so I could attend a church conference. I've been sooooo excited for my Spanish Consolation Prize!
Then last evening, my stubborn, grumpy child got even more stubborn and grumpy and fell asleep in the late afternoon--unheard of. Unless he's getting sick.
Being stubborn myself, I nonetheless got up early, packed our picnic lunch, showered and went to wake my children. Ethan was not feeling well. Sure enough he was running a fever ranging from 101 to 102 degrees.
NO!!!! I had my consolation prize day all lined up. Alas, I called the library, called the sitter and cancelled. So here I am, homebound, with sick, grumpy children. What were those projects I was going to do?
Friday, May 1, 2009
Don't Tell Dad
I have a secret. But don't tell my dad. Dad's lawn is always immaculate. If there was an award for the thickest, lushest, greenest, most manicured lawn on the block, Dad would have always won. And it was great to play and lay on.
But my lawn, that's another matter. Here's my secret: I like dandelions. SHHHH! I like to think of them as a little bit rebellious as they burst out of the sea of sameness. And I like the grass to get a little longish--and not purely out of laziness. It creates a little sense of wildness and disorder. I live in a place where the property owner is responsible (or so I've been told) for lawn care. I'm kinda hoping he takes his time . . .whilst my lawn is meanwhile being overrun by dandelions and pansies.
The trees out my kitchen window shelter a nice shady patch of grass that is bursting with dots of yellow, purple and white. I almost enjoy doing the dishes. Almost.
And to think 3 weeks ago it looked like this:
But my lawn, that's another matter. Here's my secret: I like dandelions. SHHHH! I like to think of them as a little bit rebellious as they burst out of the sea of sameness. And I like the grass to get a little longish--and not purely out of laziness. It creates a little sense of wildness and disorder. I live in a place where the property owner is responsible (or so I've been told) for lawn care. I'm kinda hoping he takes his time . . .whilst my lawn is meanwhile being overrun by dandelions and pansies.
The trees out my kitchen window shelter a nice shady patch of grass that is bursting with dots of yellow, purple and white. I almost enjoy doing the dishes. Almost.
And to think 3 weeks ago it looked like this:
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Clue Me In
I'm looking for a motivational speaker that specializes in three-year-olds.
Anyone?
In potty training my eldest child, I learned three things:
1) You can lead a child to the potty, but you cannot make him pee.
2) Children potty-train themselves.
3) My child will only be successfully potty-trained when he wants to be.
So, here I am again. My child is 3.3 years old. When asked if he would like to sit on the potty his typical response is: NO! (and no, this answer does not change when there is a candy bribe involved). When asked when he's going to start using the potty, his typical response is: In five years.
May God grant me patience.
I wish I kept a better journal. I know that Ethan was somewhere between age 3 and 3.75 when he up and decided he was ready. Then, potty-trained himself--day and night, numbers one and two, in the space of about 5 days. So, my husband keeps reminding me that though I likewise feared sending Ethan to kindergarten with a diaper bag, or worse, handing his diaper bag to his bride, he did, in the end, pull through and this too shall pass.
I remember the day distinctly. At the urging of my dear friend, mother of five, (and shortly after Ethan threw the potty seat at me) I gave up the battle. I put the pull-ups and the big-boy underwear away in his closet and said nary a peep about the subject for some weeks, even months. Then, one morning as he's dressing he says: Mom, I want to wear big-boy underwear today. Alrighty then, you are in luck. There was that subsequent moment of panic when he pulls up the briefs and says They're Cold!! Knowing my child's clothing sensitivities and his propensity to never try anything again if his first experience is less than thrilling, I improvised. I grabbed the undies, tossed them in the microwave and zapped 'em for 30 seconds. Voila! Warm underwear! He never complained again.
Here I am now with Elliot. When? When?! WHEN?! WHEN will this child decide he is ready? We've tried bribery in all it's variations but wild horses cannot motivate my child to use the toilet (I tried--we played outside on a lovely spring day last week, watching the horses in the pasture. Elliot was coaxed into briefs and allowed to run around. Not 10 minutes later he was soaked to the skin). I keep thinking that tomorrow, I will set a timer and lead the child to the toilet every 20 minutes as my sister-in-law does in her potty-training-in-one-day madness. But let's face it, I am not that consistent nor committed. I tried to do this. I forgot to set the timer the first time and before I know it, it's afternoon. Besides, who's really being potty-trained here? Sure, a child may use the potty if he spends half his waking hours on the toilet. And mom is now trained to take him there every half-hour. And what happens when he refuses to respond to the timer or any coaxing? Did I mention I have stubborn children?
Alas, I am ready, the big-boy undies are ready. Dad and big brother are ready. We're just missing one piece: yagottawanna.
I guess it was Elliot, in the bathroom, with the potty-seat . . . Yes, but, what is the motive?
Anyone?
In potty training my eldest child, I learned three things:
1) You can lead a child to the potty, but you cannot make him pee.
2) Children potty-train themselves.
3) My child will only be successfully potty-trained when he wants to be.
So, here I am again. My child is 3.3 years old. When asked if he would like to sit on the potty his typical response is: NO! (and no, this answer does not change when there is a candy bribe involved). When asked when he's going to start using the potty, his typical response is: In five years.
May God grant me patience.
I wish I kept a better journal. I know that Ethan was somewhere between age 3 and 3.75 when he up and decided he was ready. Then, potty-trained himself--day and night, numbers one and two, in the space of about 5 days. So, my husband keeps reminding me that though I likewise feared sending Ethan to kindergarten with a diaper bag, or worse, handing his diaper bag to his bride, he did, in the end, pull through and this too shall pass.
I remember the day distinctly. At the urging of my dear friend, mother of five, (and shortly after Ethan threw the potty seat at me) I gave up the battle. I put the pull-ups and the big-boy underwear away in his closet and said nary a peep about the subject for some weeks, even months. Then, one morning as he's dressing he says: Mom, I want to wear big-boy underwear today. Alrighty then, you are in luck. There was that subsequent moment of panic when he pulls up the briefs and says They're Cold!! Knowing my child's clothing sensitivities and his propensity to never try anything again if his first experience is less than thrilling, I improvised. I grabbed the undies, tossed them in the microwave and zapped 'em for 30 seconds. Voila! Warm underwear! He never complained again.
Here I am now with Elliot. When? When?! WHEN?! WHEN will this child decide he is ready? We've tried bribery in all it's variations but wild horses cannot motivate my child to use the toilet (I tried--we played outside on a lovely spring day last week, watching the horses in the pasture. Elliot was coaxed into briefs and allowed to run around. Not 10 minutes later he was soaked to the skin). I keep thinking that tomorrow, I will set a timer and lead the child to the toilet every 20 minutes as my sister-in-law does in her potty-training-in-one-day madness. But let's face it, I am not that consistent nor committed. I tried to do this. I forgot to set the timer the first time and before I know it, it's afternoon. Besides, who's really being potty-trained here? Sure, a child may use the potty if he spends half his waking hours on the toilet. And mom is now trained to take him there every half-hour. And what happens when he refuses to respond to the timer or any coaxing? Did I mention I have stubborn children?
Alas, I am ready, the big-boy undies are ready. Dad and big brother are ready. We're just missing one piece: yagottawanna.
I guess it was Elliot, in the bathroom, with the potty-seat . . . Yes, but, what is the motive?
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Spain . . . and why I won't be there.
I caught the travel bug some years back. I must have recovered, or caught something else. I have a perfect, relatively cheap opportunity to accompany my husband on a business trip to Spain. And I declined. I like to tell people that we were unable to find a babysitter. And that is true. What is also true is that I had decided not to go prior to hearing from our last hold-out sitter that he was unavailable. Granted, a friend in Ohio said I could bring my kids there and she'd keep them. But, she has her hands full with her own four and my kids have never been there before, and well, there's that whole kindergarten thing and on and on.
I was ready to buy a ticket. I even renewed my passport (I'm official again--I can flee the country should the need arise.) But then, I started thinking. It's a lot of money, even with a cheap ticket and paid hotel--but now I have to consider cost of a week long sitter and a plane ticket for that sitter.
Then, there were thoughts of small children left parentless whilst their parents are cavorting about another country and though I swore I would never be one of those parents--you know the ones that can't leave their children--ever, in that moment, I think I became one.
Then, I started wondering about the flight. The last transatlantic flight I took I was a good 30 pounds lighter and still terribly uncomfortable in the seat. (They've started charging double for persons of size these days).
What happened to the days when I bought the ticket to Greece and only then began to concern myself with the minor details?
What happened to the glorious days of travelling by my lonesome through Italy? (I LOVE traveling alone! --no offense Matt).
What happened to spontaneously moving to New York City via the overnight Greyhound and arriving at 4am alone with the world in Time Square?
Have I gotten old? Have I gotten fat? (don't answer that one) Have I become predictable? Have I become all that I feared and swore never to be?
You know, it's not too late, I could still buy a ticket and go. Do you know anyone that wants to stay with my kids for a week?
I was ready to buy a ticket. I even renewed my passport (I'm official again--I can flee the country should the need arise.) But then, I started thinking. It's a lot of money, even with a cheap ticket and paid hotel--but now I have to consider cost of a week long sitter and a plane ticket for that sitter.
Then, there were thoughts of small children left parentless whilst their parents are cavorting about another country and though I swore I would never be one of those parents--you know the ones that can't leave their children--ever, in that moment, I think I became one.
Then, I started wondering about the flight. The last transatlantic flight I took I was a good 30 pounds lighter and still terribly uncomfortable in the seat. (They've started charging double for persons of size these days).
What happened to the days when I bought the ticket to Greece and only then began to concern myself with the minor details?
What happened to the glorious days of travelling by my lonesome through Italy? (I LOVE traveling alone! --no offense Matt).
What happened to spontaneously moving to New York City via the overnight Greyhound and arriving at 4am alone with the world in Time Square?
Have I gotten old? Have I gotten fat? (don't answer that one) Have I become predictable? Have I become all that I feared and swore never to be?
You know, it's not too late, I could still buy a ticket and go. Do you know anyone that wants to stay with my kids for a week?
Monday, April 20, 2009
Another Year Older and Deeper in Debt . . .
Well, not in debt, but I just had a Joe vs. the Volcano flashback (tell me you LOVED that movie!).
Ethan had a birthday on Saturday. I'm still startled by the thought that he's already six. When did this happen? Wasn't it just last week I was looking forward to my wheelchair ride that thankfully released me from my hospital bed-rest prison for a blessed 15 minutes every day? No, actually it wasn't. It was six long years ago and though I attempt to repress much about my former life as a parasitical host, every time the memories surface, I am again reminded how satisfied I am with the fact that I do not plan to be pregnant ever, ever, ever again. I'll spare you any more details. I love my children. I despise pregnancy.
Speaking of being miserable, on the drive to the zoo, I had another startling realization. In the two months since we arrived here, I do not believe I have been carsick AT ALL! I didn't realize just how much I do not miss the winding mountain roads of Fairyland until that moment.
Back to the birthday. It was Ethan's day. We went to the zoo, Ethan had crab legs and chocolate cake for dinner. "It was the best, funnest birthday EVER!" Little kid heaven.
Ethan had a birthday on Saturday. I'm still startled by the thought that he's already six. When did this happen? Wasn't it just last week I was looking forward to my wheelchair ride that thankfully released me from my hospital bed-rest prison for a blessed 15 minutes every day? No, actually it wasn't. It was six long years ago and though I attempt to repress much about my former life as a parasitical host, every time the memories surface, I am again reminded how satisfied I am with the fact that I do not plan to be pregnant ever, ever, ever again. I'll spare you any more details. I love my children. I despise pregnancy.
Speaking of being miserable, on the drive to the zoo, I had another startling realization. In the two months since we arrived here, I do not believe I have been carsick AT ALL! I didn't realize just how much I do not miss the winding mountain roads of Fairyland until that moment.
Back to the birthday. It was Ethan's day. We went to the zoo, Ethan had crab legs and chocolate cake for dinner. "It was the best, funnest birthday EVER!" Little kid heaven.
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