Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Where will this day take me?

Coffee is something I look forward to each morning. There’s something—dare I say, almost erotic-- about the fragrance of brewing coffee as I slowly wake up. I poured a hot cup and lazily considered my options for the day: the Zoo, SeaWorld, the beach. I recalled the time when I woke to the sound of an alarm, only to rush through a shower and then fly off to teach “the future of America” ... was that so bad? On this particular morning, my husband had started the pot prior to leaving for work. After taking my second sip, I decided to get my daily chores started before the girls joined me for the day.  The dishes had been washed, but needed to be put away. Laundry was dry, but there was a wet load that needed to be moved to the dryer; another load was ready to follow.  The cycle never ends!

Opening the door to the garage, which doubles as my laundry room, I planned to change the first load of laundry.  It was still early in the morning and the light of day was just seeping through the windows of the garage door. With two little girls and a hard working husband, it seemed like I never got caught up.  It will only get worse, I thought, as visions of teenagers entered my still hazy mind. 

Pain stabbed the front of my leg and jerked my attention to a stack of debris in my pathway.  “What the ... ?”  I stopped abruptly to first survey the damage to my shin and then to peruse the pile.  Damn! I thought.  More shit left here for me to sort through.  As I rubbed the pain from my leg, I stooped down take a closer look: bar stools, framed prints, a box of pots and pans, and a tool box so crammed that the lid remained open. This will all be going to the Goodwill today! 

I stood, leaned against one of the bar stools and sipped my coffee.  The other part of hauling that was beginning to haunt me was the growing frequency of being called to clean out abandoned or foreclosed homes.  The recession came through our communities like a ravaged storm leaving behind a trail of lost dreams.  I sighed as my foot nudged the lid of the overfilled tool box to an open position.  Sarcastically, I asked myself, “What valuable treasures could be so important to justify ruining my morning?” My eye settled on a faded photograph taped to the inside of the lid.  Two beautiful little girls swinging, faces filled with the joy as a slimly built woman smiled and readied herself for the next push.  I knelt to look closer at the picture and began to finger through the odds and ends.  There, placed perfectly in the corner on the top shelf of the rusted tool chest was a small Raggedy Ann doll. Her head tilted to the side, her smile with cheer and her arms wide, almost asking for me to rescue her from the saddened misfortune of being left behind.  Around the little doll's neck was a necklace with a small shiny locket.  Gently I opened the locket to see the face of a handsome young man smiling back-- eyes wide and filled with love.  I breathed in deeply and stared back at the man.  Who are you? I asked silently.  And, where are you now?

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Practically Perfect in Every Way

The week was crazy.  Standing in the spare bedroom-turned-office the muscles in my neck began to twist as I gazed over the disorder.  Our normal routine was disturbed by the close of the preschool year.  My daughters, under tow every day--all day, pulled for my attention.  The business phone rang excessively.  The office had turned into the hub for activity -- coloring books, puzzles, and paints were strewn across the floor as evidence of the attempt to keep my 5 and 3-year old occupied while the day's work schedule demanded focus and precision.  Calls to return, a driver's schedule to organize, landscape products to order, pictures of a job prospect to sort and submit with an estimate, and then of course, my favorite--making time to prepare for an unemployment claim fraudulently filed against our struggling to stay alive part-time, gee-isn't-this-fun-business!  My throat began to close off necessary oxygen and the walls began to close in around me as I looked about the room. 


I must confess: I'm a Type A.  It all seemed so innocent, Your Honor.  A clean closet, homework turned in on time, and a high school part time job -- I was even awarded graduation with Honors to continue this behavior into my college days!  And, now look!  Who'd a-thought it could shred my innards and give me hives?  Type A personalities relate to Mary Poppins...."a place for everything and everything in its place"! -- "Spit-spot!" -- and the mantra that rolls through my overly crowded head -- "Practically perfect in every way"!  The truth is, Mary Poppins might have been smokin' something!


If I were to write a Type A marriage manual, my number one caution would be:  Beware!  Do not marry another Type A (don't worry, I didn't).  If you do, make certain his first name is preceded with "Prince" and his address is somewhere on Castle Drive. And because I know the heart always wins, make certain before you commit to have one phrase on the tip of your lips at all times--"NO, DEAR" and then practice using it with various combinations, always with a smile:  "No, dear, I can't work a full time job with two preschool children and manage your business".   "No, dear, I am sorry, dinner will not be ready at 6 tonight".  "No, dear, driving the hauling truck for the week is not okay...it stinks." Lastly, stick to your guns--this "A" world is cruel to those who have fluffed the nest of their homes with too many "Yes, dears...." 


As I write, the children remind me of promised watermelon slices in the back yard, my phone has alerted me that the driver is ready to pick up his schedule, the doorbell is dinging (we don't have Westminster chimes!) announcing the arrival of a package or a Craig's List buyer and my Boss (aka hubby) is calling to be assured that the day went "as planned"...."No, dear, it did not."  The words come out as lightly as I can say them and he, understanding, says in his most princely fashion, "Don't worry, I'm on my way home.  Tell the driver I'll get the schedule to him in an hour, ask the buyer at the door to wait two minutes--I'm coming up the street...And babe, don't worry - I've got dinner with me, so why don't you turn on the hot tub.  I'll help with baths tonight and we can relax after they are in bed."  Music to my ears...."practically perfect in every way."

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Me, the Pack Mule?!

As a new wife, it was my pleasure to grocery shop for my new husband.  I regarded the experiences of choosing fine cuts of meats, fresh organic vegetables, exotic fruits, and savory cheeses as just one more gift bestowed on my front porch of life.  My husband, a treasure all by himself, would jump at the sound of our car arriving in the driveway.  Before I could open the car door, he'd have it open and be leaning inside for a quick kiss.  Without hesitation he would turn to the back seat and swiftly gather up all the groceries into one arm (my purse in the other), turn in time to kick my door closed and still have time to step ahead to hold the door to the house open for me.  As I made my way in to the house, my attention never strayed far from my freshly manicured nails; other times, I sifted through the mail as I idly walked through the front door.  If there were more groceries than one trip could afford, I paid no mind.  Hubby would grab them and bring them to the kitchen.  Life was gentle.


Years passed and doggone it, so did chivalry.  I remember the first time I drove into the driveway after my usual grocery spree.  Naively I sat for a minute longer than usual.  I believe I turned to organize the contents of my purse or something.  I wasn't waiting.  But, looking back, -- I was.  When a comfortable amount of time passed, I got out of the car feeling a bit of confusion.  I retrieved the first load of groceries and made my way into the house.  "Hi babe, I'm home."  Silence.  I walked through the kitchen to the living room and found my knight huddled over an X-box remote controller.  "Babe, hi--just got home with the groceries." I said standing behind him.  "Gooood", he responded without looking up, "Did you remember to get tomato juice?--my turn to make Bloody Marys before the game today".  "Yep" I said and turned, still expecting him to join me.  He didn't.  I brought the rest of the groceries into the house.  Never an unkind word was spoken; not necessary, there was no anger.  


Parenthood introduced a whole new element.  My precious, precious cargo!  I wanted to hold my babies!  I cooed into their faces as I buckled them in and out of their car seats.  I didn't want just anyone touching my cherubs' toys or personal belongings.  I was in Heaven as I proudly walked the promenade of motherhood.  I didn't notice the changes taking subtle shape.


Fast Forward....Eight Years...Two Daughters...and One Knight (with slightly tarnished armor)...


I am now a pack mule.  No kidding.  I even refer to myself as one!  Getting out of the car these days requires a sturdy back, strong arms, the ability to balance multiple things with multiple parts of my body and the patience of Mother Theresa.  The usual scene goes something like this:  The car pulls into the driveway.  My husband has been missing from this scene for years, so I don't even hesitate.  Before the kids can reach for the latch on their car seats, the neighborhood kids are beckoning them away to their game.  I literally jump aside as my daughters scoot by.  In passing each reminds me:  "Don't forget....." and they list prizes from the day's events:  the toys they couldn't leave the house without, art projects from their day at preschool, and most certainly their beloved worn to rags blankets and stuffed toys.  And I always say with as much loving sarcasm as I can muster -- "Don't worry, the pack mule will get it"!  -- And with all the innocence of little girls, they laugh as they turn to their friends and say "Oh, Mom, you're soooo funny!"  


Mothers don't just become pack mules....mothers train to be pack mules and I admit it has taken me a while to "get it."  I believe the strongest message came to me as I made my way into our house after an outing.  Flanked with groceries, toys, blankies, and articles of clothing I glanced up to see my reflection grasping the butt-end of my daughter's beloved stuffed dog "Pinkie" with my teeth.  My gait had been slowed as I was deftly navigating my youngest daughter's trike inside the door with my foot.  Good Lord!  I AM a pack mule. 


I believe life is a series of lessons.  My moment in the mirror taught me a lesson.  Funny as it was, I stopped calling myself a pack mule--for two reasons:  (1) I am NOT a pack mule and (2) my youngest daughter got a kick out of loading up the pack mule (me!).  Re-training has begun.  These days we're learning to share the responsibilities of living together.  Each daughter is responsible for her own belongings.  "Bring it along if you must," I say "but remember, you are the one to carry it back into the house".  We've had some unhappy moments when Pinkie isn't around at bed time and it requires a quick trip to car to get him tucked in for the night!  Everyone is responsible to bring one bag of groceries inside and oh, they struggle as their friends call out -- "Come play!"

The transition has been slow but re-training is never easy.  My husband and I never discussed my pack mule revelation, but I know he's watched.  Just yesterday, I pulled up into the driveway with the car packed--from around the corner of the house, he appeared and without a word, opened the back door and began to help unloading the days' treasures--first our girls, then the groceries.  I swear I could see something shiny under his shirt.