My friend Randy and I were talking photo apps recently and he told me about a photo booth app that takes multiple shots in a strip and he’s all, “Here! Lemme show you how it works!” and points his iPhone camera at me, and as the camera clicks away at the four shots he’s all, “Yeah. You know how this works.”
This is not my giant bucket of peas. This is my neighbor’s giant bucket of peas. She is the better gardener, as indicated by her giant bucket of peas vs. the brown and shriveled leaves on my bean and strawberry plants.
This happens to me every summer – we go on vacation late in July, and by the time we get back my motivation to bring forth life from the dirt wanes.
Isn’t this a sweet, Little House on the Prairie kinda moment? What is it about these moments that are so easily instigated by other people, but HEARTILY REJECTED were I to be the one who says, Hey! Let’s sit down and shuck these peas together like one big happy family!?
My kids start school a week from tomorrow, and I have mixed feelings about this.
Oh who am I kidding – I’M ECSTATIC!
Despite my previous whining, it’s been a good summer. I feel satisfied that I worked well and played well, yelled a little less than usual, and occasionally swept under the dining room table.
We set the bar high around here.
I came home the other day to this freshly painted line on the street in front of our house, and I cried.
For seven years we’ve laughed about this line. The city comes every few months to repaint it all the way down our street, but because our car is always parked out front they just skip around it, leaving it faded & scraggly in front of our house.
Every so often in the midst of my amazing life, something seemingly insignificant happens that reminds me that Things are not as they used to be, and this sparkly white line in front of our house is one of those things.
I grieve transitions deeply. No matter how fabulous it is, a transition means something is different, and inevitably something is lost. I struggle to live in the moment and enjoy what I have without looking back at What Was.
For some reason when I saw this line it represented everything we did last summer when I wasn’t working – long days at the beach, free movies at the theater, and blueberry picking every week. We’ve done plenty of fun things this summer, too, but sometimes I catch my self thinking, it’s just not the same.
I know I’m being completely irrational since this line could have appeared while I was at the grocery store, but because it appeared while I was gone all day working, this new line carries some weight. It’s a monument to the next chapter in the ZugHaus.
Welcome to the neighborhood, Sparkly New Line.
dirt & bows
Yesterday I spent the evening weeding my much-neglected-yet-thriving tomato plants. Yes, like my great hair, friends are jealous of my tomato plants. They are AMAZING. Do you see them there behind me? Nearly UP TO MY HEAD.
So anyways.
I was weeding, and Bryan was reading, and the kids got a bee in their bonnet to make a party. So they dragged out a bunch of snacks and decorations and spent the next hour beautifying.
(ignore the scraggly lettuce – not as awesome as my tomatoes)
And then Thomas declared it was a costume party. As you can see (top), I came as the Dirty Gardener, which was not a satisfactory costume, according to Ruthie, until she added the bow. Bryan KILLED as Bumblebee. Thomas was, of course, Batman, and Ruthie a Princess (we embrace our gender roles).
After Thomas ensured there were trash cans for all our party trash (he’s hospitable like that), he appeared outside with Bryan’s iPhone and docking station declaring, “WE NEED SOME MUSIC FOR THE POW-TY.”
So Bryan put this song on repeat and we danced in the back yard.
The End.
crosses
Oh Christian sub-culture, I know you mean well despite your fumbled execution.
This week I’m hosting a children’s Bible camp in our back yard, led by teenage girls. Ten kids and four teenagers are chanting Hebrews 9:22: “WITHOUT THE SHEDDING OF BLOOD THERE IS NO FORGIVENESS OF SIN!”
Which sounds like we are sacrificing a rabbit on my fire pit.
Tonight I feel awake enough to relax without dozing off, but I’m also feeling antsy and don’t know what to do with myself.
Do I work? Do I organize something? Do I watch tv?
HOW DO I RELAX??
“DOH!”
I’m co-hosting a baby shower tonight at a friend’s house. In the planning, I offered to create a hand made paper garland and bake a dessert, in addition to collecting up other various supplies and running errands for the event.
What was I thinking?
I didn’t create hand made paper garlands or bake desserts even when I wasn’t working! If you’ve been to my house you know I barely push a broom, much less get all Martha Stewarty.
Yet for some reason I feel this pressure to perform as a mother, to just make it work – as if Tim Gunn checks in on me every hour to see how the hem of my life is coming along.
(It’s fraying, Tim! Absolutely FRAYING.)
Last night I sent my friend a frantic email announcing I would instead be bringing store-bought streamers and dessert. As a fellow over-achiever, she completely understood.
Can admitting failure actually be a big WIN?
In life with Ruthie, every morning is a do-over. No matter how bad it was between us yesterday, today is our Memento moment – we just don’t remember.
Almost every morning Ruthie wakes up around 5 or 6. Many times she’s like a bathroom light switch – ON and a little too bright. But lately – ever since we got this new down comforter, actually – she pads into the room, silently slips into bed with me, and sleeps in the spot her daddy just vacated.
It’s always our best moment together.
Thomas treats any camera like it’s wielded by the paparazzi – any time you get one out he’s covering the lens, his face, or running for cover.
The boy is so against being photographed, we’ve taken to calling him Sean Penn.
But yesterday he was so proud of himself for spelling his name in sticks that I took advantage and asked if I could take his picture. Thankfully he forgot his prejudice for just a moment.
What a cutie pie!
Yesterday I made myself take a break. I’d worked the amount of hours I’d set aside to work, and there were no pressing issues that couldn’t wait until the next time I clocked in.
I cleaned the kitchen, pitched some clutter, and managed to keep five kids happy and entertained.
At 4:30 I finished a task and considered what to do next. There is always a long list – sometimes mental, sometimes actually written down, sometimes stashed away on my computer – ALWAYS taunting.
I looked at my dining room table (cluttered with Legos and markers), I looked at my piano (dusty), I looked at my bathroom (swimsuits on the floor and toothpaste spit in the sink), and I decided to…. take a break.
It felt absurd to take a break in the midst of so much left to do, but my day started at 6am with a call to Montreal and I hadn’t stopped moving or thinking since then.
So I opened my Google Reader and stretched out on the couch.
Thirty seconds later the kids were milling about in the room.
Seriously? They’d been playing happily for several hours. I have a big house with a basement playroom and a back yard. I hadn’t seen these guys for more than a thirty second pass-through, and the moment I sit down for a break they hover.
I felt like a half-chewed carcass in the desert, fighting for my life as five three-foot vultures circled around me, waiting for me to breath my last. They weren’t even doing anything – they literally were standing around in the living room while I laid (layed?) there reading.
It was an interesting sociological phenomenon, watching their obvious discomfort and perplexation at my doing nothing. Was I the battery that energized the entire household? Was I the monkey winding the box? Apparently my lack of bustling shut the entire operation down.
Until I said “FRUIT SNACKS!” and they all went racing into the kitchen to raid the snack basket. They never returned, and I finished my break.
Me: “Thomas, be sure to tell your friends to stay out of the blueberry bushes.”
Thomas: “What blueberry bushes?”
“The three blueberry bushes we planted in the garden.”
“We don’t have any blueberry bushes.”
“Yes we do. They’re the bushes next to the big hole you’re digging to the center of the earth.”
“The strawberry bushes?”
“NO! The bushes right next to the hole!”
“But MOM! I’m TRYING TO TELL YOU SOMETHING – we don’t HAVE blueberry bushes!”
*sighs* “Never mind.”
Thomas, to his friend as they walk out the door: “Mom’s lying. We don’t have any blueberry bushes.”
This was me waiting for fireworks on the 4th of July, though it looks more like I’m waiting at the finish line for the Iditarod.
As it goes in Seattle, it rained and it was cold. We tried to convince the kids we’d be better off snuggling under a blanket watching Where the Wild Things Are, but no – WE WANT FIREWORKS TAKE US TO THE FIREWORKS.
Given that 90% of my parenting style is born from a keen sense of laziness, it was difficult to muster up the motivation to take my kids out in this weather. But apparently THIS was the day I was to turn a new leaf, to lose myself in the adventure, and to do something “enjoyable” for my kids that required effort.
So off we went.
We waited until 9:15 to head down to a Lake Washington pier near our house. Bryan had already parked the car down there for the drive back, so we walked the mile and a half or so, schlepping chairs and blankets. It was cold, but the weather seemed to be holding, and I thought maybe we’d be spared the rain.
Around 9:30 it started to rain.
It rained hard.
It rained and the wind blew.
The wind was cold.
My feet and legs were drenched and freezing inside five minutes.
At 9:35 Ruthie began to whine that she was cold and wet and wanted to go home to watch the movie.
We’re here because of you! I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. Well, I may have mentioned it. At any rate, Thomas threw a fit at the idea of going home, so Ruthie and Bryan waited in the car while Thomas and I braved the elements.
The only part of this adventure more harrowing than the rain and cold, was Thomas asking every 30 seconds when the fireworks were going to start – I wasn’t sure he was going to come out of the evening alive.
As I listened to the internet whine all month about the crappy whether in June, I tried to remind everyone that this is what Seattle DOES. And sure enough, the forecast beginning July 5th is amazing with sun.
There are better house cleaners than me. This is fact.
I’m not in denial of it anymore, either. In fact, I wear this badge proudly. I see it as one of the benefits of approaching my 40’s – I really don’t care what you think about me anymore, because I know I’m awesome. And if you see a few dust bunnies under my dining room table? I think I’ll survive your quiet judgment.
In the summer my house gets particularly funky, what with all the being outside and all. This is why I never understood Spring Cleaning. Why clean like crazy in the Spring? I go crazy in the Fall when I become reacquainted with my broom and duster again.
But where I am lacking, Bryan takes up the slack. He ACTUALLY CLEANS the house, while I just make the house APPEAR clean with trick lighting and strategic furniture placement.
I used to feel guilty when he cleaned the house. I took it as a sign of my failure that I couldn’t manage to pick up a broom while he worked outside the home all week.
Lately I’ve been working on taking responsibility for my actions.
Instead of blaming my bad day or the fact that I’m too tired or something else came up, I simply accept the fact I am a little bit of a slob. This may sound like the opposite epiphany to have, but bear with me. If I admit I am a slob, then I can either change or live with it. No more making excuses or blaming someone else.
So now I practice thankfulness instead of guilt.
If Bryan cleans the house, I thank him for helping me instead of barking at it him that I CAN DO IT, ALRIGHT? I WAS JUST ABOUT TO DO THAT. And if I have to apologize because I played Plants vs Zombies all day instead of emptying the dishwasher, I apologize and thank him for picking up the slack.
Guilty feelings breed drama, and I’m kind of over the drama. I’d rather own it and move on.
There are people in this world who go through life with very few regrets, and I’m not one of those people.
My inability to make a decision or figure out what to do next paralyzes me, and I find myself under the constant pressure of wondering whether I should be doing something different than what I’m doing at the moment.
It doesn’t matter whether the issue is big – should we visit my mom in the Midwest this summer or my in-laws in California? – or small – should we stay home and chill today or go for a hike? – I churn the options around in my gut, usually until a deadline forces me into a decision.
Often we end up doing nothing.
I feel like I regret everything. Even if it’s amazing and perfect and exactly what I needed, I still wonder if there’s something else I should have done.
Like today.
Today we stayed home and chilled, but I can’t stop wondering whether I’m squandering away the summer because we stayed home today. And then I remember Ruthie starts three weeks of day camp next week and won’t have a moment to relax, so I’m back to being content with my decision today. Until I’m back to wondering whether this is quality time with my daughter before she’s gone all day.
You see that wrinkle in my forehead between my eyes? That’s my frown wrinkle, though I prefer to think of it as my thinking wrinkle.
It sounds more justified.
With everything going on lately, I’m reminded of a book I read a few years ago by Chris Rock’s mom. I don’t think I appreciated it is as much when I first read it, as my kids weren’t in school yet and we lived a pretty isolated, preschool-mom life.
Now that my kids are in school and I find myself entrenched in my local community, I think I would enjoy another reading. The following is a review I wrote in 2008. The original is here.
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Harper Collins Publishing recently sent me the book, Mama Rock’s Rules: Ten Lessons for Raising a Household of Successful Children, by Rose Rock – mother to comedian Chris Rock. It’s a great, quick, entertaining read filled with simple wisdom, such as the benefits of eating dinner together as a family (“Feed Them and They Will Tell You Everything”).
Rose raised one step-son, six birth children, two “children of her heart,” and one best friend to son, Chris. In addition, Rose counts more than seventeen foster children that came through their house starting in 1969. Her house was the one on the block all the kids hung out at, but it wasn’t because she was easily duped. Her kids were the kids who had curfews. Her kids were the kids who got in trouble for not being where they said they would be. Her kids were the kids who weren’t allowed to sass or swear or otherwise disrespect their parents.
Regarding curfews, she tells a story of Chris complaining about the family rules. “Why can’t I stay out? Other kids are still out there,” he said. “The day will come,” Rose said to him, “when you are going to leave Decatur Street and go out on your own. You’ll come back sometime and those same kids who sit on the stoop will still be here, sitting on the stoop, I promise you that.”
Years later when Chris drove through the old neighborhood, “he actually saw two of those neighborhood guys still sitting on the same stoops, even at that late hour.” Chris went to his apartment, called his Mama, and told her she was right.
She seems like a no-nonsense mom, but one who is filled with enough kindness and love to share with anyone who comes into her home. Her tough love won the respect and admiration of many children, including her own. It was a great book, and I definitely recommend you pick it up.
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(For ratings and other reviews on books I’ve read, visit my Shelfari page and my books category.)