The Pile I’m Standing In

A couple weeks ago I gave a short presentation on Lilipip at Tech Cafe (formerly Lunch 2.0), and I brought Ruthie along to the happy hour event because I wanted her to see see me in action.

After seeing my name tag, which said @jenzug above @lilipip, Ruthie wanted to alter her name tag to be just like mine.

Sometimes I take it for granted how much Ruthie wants to be like me. More than occasionally I’m impatient or irritated by it because it usually involves some time and effort on her part, and I don’t like to be slowed down.

It’s pure selfishness and ridiculousness on my part, because aside from Jesus who ELSE would I want her to be like?!

Bringing her along was an experiment, and one that ended successfully. Ruthie stood at the door and handed guests a name tag and pen as they arrived.

Occasionally she gave out hugs.

Having her with me felt like one of those important stolen moments when Life and Work converge, and I look forward to letting her tag along more often.

Bryan likes it when I wear two pigtails in my hair – he says it makes me look spunky. After nine years of marriage he still gets a come-hither twinkle in his eye when I wear them, so pigtails is how I wear my hair whenever he takes me out.

Friend: “Wow. Is that a salad or a dip?”

Bryan: “Yes.”

I brought this salad regularly to a weekly summer BBQ we attended with a small group from our church last summer. It’s intended as a salad, but as we all waited for our meat to grill the bowl disappeared along with half a bag of tortilla chips.

This summer we are hosting the weekly BBQ at our house, and about three weeks into it one of my friends mentioned the salad. As in, WHERE IS THAT BEAN SALAD YOU MAKE?

So now it’s back in rotation, and I highly recommend it. It’s quick, easy, and made with things I always have on hand.

Corn & Bean Salad with Lime Cilantro Vinaigrette

1 can corn, drained
1 can black beans, drained
2 peppers, any color, diced
1/2 red onion, diced
1 tomato, diced

1/4 c. olive oil
1/2 c. fresh cilantro, finely chopped
1 T cider vinegar
Juice of 2 limes
1 garlic clove, minced or pressed
lime zest from 1/2 lime
1/2 t smoked paprika
1/2 t black pepper
1/4 t garlic salt
1/4 t chili powder

• In a large bowl, combine corn, black beans, peppers, onion, and tomato.
• In heavy bottomed bowl, combine cilantro, vinegar, limes, garlic, zest, and spices.
• With a large whisk, whisk quickly as you slowly drizzle in olive oil to emulsify.
• Add dressing to salsa, toss, and serve.

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.

Ruthie lost another tooth this week, and I think it’s her last one.

She walked around the house for a couple days with a washcloth in hand, using it to give her traction as she wiggled and pulled on that stubborn tooth.

It finally came out at a friend’s house.

I gave pause to this milestone. Briefly.

But any sentiment I may feel toward the passing days is quickly overshadowed by the fact my kids can make their own breakfast when they wake up in the morning.

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.

At one point there were twenty kids shopping from Ruthie’s shell bucket. Crazy.

We spent the afternoon at a craggy beach earlier this week, and the kids collected two buckets of white sea shells. Mostly they were broken and smooth from the waves and sand, but they were infinite in number – a true delight for the obsessed.

Ruthie was focused that afternoon. While Thomas played in the distance with the friends we’d come with, she hung back, eyes to the ground, methodically searching for shells in a grid pattern.

That evening at home Ruthie laid the shells out in rows and announced she was selling them – small ones for a dime, medium for a quarter, large for fifty cents, and the one fully intact shell for a dollar.

Alrighty, I said. I’ll take two of the small ones for a quarter a piece.

Before I knew it, she’d caught the attention of everyone who walked by: Would you like to buy a shell? she asked sweetly, turning back to grin at me every time she dared to ask.

She asked everyone from the dog walkers to the neighboring teenagers to the church goers who park in the lot next door (who were the only ones who made a purchase, by the way; score one for Jesus!).

Then yesterday as I made dinner I noticed she was engaged in a project – marker in hand, looking for tape, in and out the front door, NOT antagonizing her brother.

Eventually she came to me and asked, “Mom, how to you spell ‘would’? Not the kind of ‘wood’ that’s a tree but the kind of ‘would’ that says ‘would you like to buy a shell?’”

I went outside to investigate this curious sign project and found that she’d re-purposed my magnetic clips (I later found piles of paper abandoned on the floor at the foot of my refrigerator) to hang her sale signs along the fence. She’s managed to cover the perimeter of our yard, hanging a sign on each side to let the world know she is selling shells.

As I’ve watched this unfold over the last few days, I’m intrigued by all the elements of her personality that blossomed to make this happen – focus, ingenuity, tenacity, and self-starting initiation – elements I fear she’d always use for evil rather than good.

My little girl is growing up. She’s using her mind, she’s creating, and she’s solving problems (no tape? no problem! I’ll use clips!).

I’m growing up, too. I didn’t intervene. I didn’t freak out over the magnet clips. I didn’t try to control any element of this process.

She asked me to spell a word, and she asked me to buy a shell.

It’s all her, and I’m so proud of that.

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.

—

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.

—

(For ratings and other reviews on books I’ve read, visit my Shelfari page and my books category.)

The drama next door has proved to be excellent fodder for teaching my kids the benefits of discipline. I mean, nothing says “I do it because I love you” better than observing the neighboring teenagers swear all day long, come and go whenever they please, and threaten your dad.

“Do we let you get away with stuff like that?” I asked Ruthie the other day.

“No.”

“Do you understand why?”

*silence*

“Nobody loves that kid enough to correct him when he gets sassy,” I said. “Nobody bothers to tell him it’s wrong and disrespectful to treat people that way, and now he’s full of anger and tries to bully other people. We discipline you because we love you.”

People keep asking how I’m doing, knowing a stranger was in my house while we slept, six feet from my kids’ bedroom. Am I scared? Feeling unsafe? Angry? And the answer is (surprisingly): not really.

I’ve touched on all those emotions briefly, but for the most part I’ve seen God unfolding a bigger picture. He loves these kids, and he desires to discipline them so their hearts are turned toward wisdom and away from folly. As I see Bryan reaching out to these boys – talking to them like men, calling them to account, and telling them what is right – I see that God is using us to show them what it means to be loved through discipline.

And to clarify, I don’t think either of the neighbor kids or the 2-3 friends I see there daily actually DID the burglary, but their actions and activities invite a certain peripheral crowd into the neighborhood that they can’t really control.

Like the time their tires were slashed by a kid because they wouldn’t let him inside the house. They say that kid doesn’t come around anymore, but who knows. There are so many.

All this to say, we take precautions to protect our family, we keep a watchful eye, and we don’t  trust a word they tell us apart from their actions. But we love them, and we hold out hope, and we tell them the Truth as long as they’ll let us.

And so far, they let us.

I just spent the entire evening doing nothing – something I long to do almost every minute of every day.

The kitchen is a mess, the laundry is unfolded, the bounty from Costco is still piled up on the table. Yet? I sat in my chair all night… doing… nothing.

And now that I’m moving this party to bed, do I feel refreshed? Relaxed? Rested?

Nope. I feel guilty, unproductive, and lazy.

What IS this crazy relationship I have with busyness, anyway? I got three hours of sleep last night, so yes – I’M A LITTLE TIRED. I fell asleep some time after 2am and my alarm went off at 5:30, so yes – I SAT IN MY CHAIR STARING AT THE WALL.

I think that’s grounds for not hauling a few laundry baskets up the stairs, don’t you? So why do I feel like such a jerk? It’s not like I stayed up until 2am on purpose – I simply couldn’t sleep.

And seriously. Laying around in my pajamas while someone else acts responsible is, like, the best fantasy I have right now. I don’t even dream of running away (anymore) – I just want a couple hours to remind myself what it’s like to have a couple hours.

My dysfunction is so fickle: I WANT! I DON’T WANT! I WANT!

Right now, though, I want sleep.

Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while you shouldn’t have fucked with? That’s me. -Walt, Gran Torino.

Things are going awry in my neighborhood, and I don’t plan to be a passive bystander. I’ve been watching kids come and go from the house next door for a year now, during all hours of the day and night. One by one, in and out, coming from one direction, leaving in another.

I can’t say for sure what’s going on in there, but I have my suspicions. Actually, I think it’s pretty obvious what’s going on over there, even though all the grown-ups in that house think these are just kids being kids.

On June 8th we were burglarized while we slept, and my kids’ room was about six feet from the laptop they stole off the kitchen counter. The police tell us it’s the first owner-occupied burglary in five years, and it likely involves someone associated with the house next door.

This event was the tipping point re our tolerance of the shenanigans over there. I am no longer a casual observer, but a vigilant mama bear. Have you seen a mama bear around her cubs? She gets a little huffy when you look at her the wrong way.

The neighbors are obviously not excited about our sudden interest in their comings and goings. On Saturday one of the kids who’s over there a lot flashed his tattoos at Bryan, postured, and threatened him with some “you don’t know who you’re messing with” business.

(I’m shaking in my boots, kid. Your grandma dropped you off in the turquoise Astro van.)

Tomorrow I will be cleaning off my front porch and plunking a chair down next to a cooler full of beer, Gran Torino style. This is MY neighborhood, and you better believe I’m paying attention to it.