Charlie: ‘I give you a kiss.’
me: ‘Okay.’
[kiss]
Charlie: ‘That was a SMART KISS!’
(Note: I don’t know what was so smart about the kiss, but it was way better than the ’spit kiss’ he was so interested in giving everyone last week.)
I’m beginning to love my house again. Oh, sure, it still has issues–like the broken spigot in the boys’ bathroom, and the sink in the boys’ bathroom, and the tile in the boys’ bathroom, and–okay, the whole damn bathroom, really. And there’s the Bermuda grass, which is a WEED, people, it doesn’t even grow straight up, it grows to the SIDE for god’s sake, and it makes Charlie itchy. And there’s the horrible horrible teal green carpet in all the bed rooms and the leaky windows and the porch, oh the porch! the porch!
Ahem.
But all that aside, I really am falling in love with our house all over again. Charlie’s big boy room is finished, and the guest room is finished, and I’m going to paint Henry’s room this weekend (because he keeps asking in his cheery Henry voice, ‘When are you going to paint MY room, Mommy?’) and it all looks fantastic, if I do say so myself. Charlie’s room is the biggest success so far, because it let us move ALL THE PLASTIC TOYS out of our family room (which will no longer be referred to as ‘the playroom’, thank you very much). I had actually forgotten both how big and how lovely our family room is; this morning I sat on the sofa with a cup of coffee and gazed a the wood floor (which you can SEE now that it’s not covered in toys!) and remembered why we bought this house in the first place. Leslie came in yesterday and said, ‘Everything looks new!’ And it feels new, which is wonderful.
I think I needed a little new in my life just now. I am so worn down by the day-to-day of mommmying–the same lunches, the same laundry, the same tantrums, even the same conversations (about superheros! and their powers! and their costumes!). And then there are the really worrisome things, the stuff that keeps me awake at night and makes it even harder to mangle my way through the Groundhog Day of my life: Henry’s eyesight (he failed an eye test at school, while wearing his $300.00 glasses), the letter from the mortgage company saying that our homeowner’s insurance may–or may not–have lapsed (which of course came in Saturday’s mail, so I had to fret for two days before I could confirm that yes, it was a clerical error and all was well), and under it all my constant fear that I am so horribly unqualified for this job of wife and mother and Responsible Adult and that I am making a mess of my children’s lives, and our financial life, and . . . you get the picture.
So the painting was a nice break. Two weekends of watching the roller cover the walls, turning our house back into something nice, a place I like to be. Two weekends of Wade shuttling our kids to soccer and playdates and making their lunch and searching for their shoes and trying to keep them from jumping on or off of the furniture and each other. It was good to have time to myself that didn’t feel frivolous. I was doing something for our family, but all by myself. Like therapy, but cheaper and with immediate results.
I’ve also been recycling–pulling things out of one room and moving them to another. I’m not usually good at this; I have a hard time imagining things in other places, and I’m too damn lazy to move them around. Plus all those home shows suggest that you start by emptying the room–you know, TAKING ALL THE FURNITURE OUT. And putting it where, I always wonder? And so instead of even trying, I usually just go and buy something new (and then lay awake at night worrying about how much I have spent and whether we really even need the new thing and . . . ). But not this time–this time I have triumphed. I took the mirrors off our antique bedroom set and propped them on the mantel in the family room. Ta da! To my surprise, it looks fantastic; the mirrors are framed in cherry, and have a cool Gothic-ish shape. And best of all: it was FREE! Hooray! So now I feel thrifty and industrious, which satisfies the Puritan side of me, and I am happy in my house, which satisfies the Pottery Barn side of me. One more room to paint and I may actually start to love my life again.
It’s a lot to hope for, isn’t it?
Ten years ago, I was a graduate student at Ohio State, in Columbus Ohio. On April 19th, 1995, I was in a staff meeting, joking with my tutors about Jeff, our resident flake. Once again, Jeff was late. Oh Jeff, we laughed, what would life be like if Jeff were actually on TIME for things? And then the office phone rang, and our secretary said, ‘It’s for you, it’s Jeff.’
‘Jeff,’ I said, ‘You’re late.’
A rush of words tumbled through the phone. ‘They bombed the building! They blew a truck up right out in the street! Holy shit! I can’t believe this! They just blew up the whole fucking building!’
‘Jeff . . .’ I said, in my best adult-who-thinks-you-are-drunk-before-lunch voice. ‘WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’
‘In Oklahoma City!’ he said. ‘OKLAHOMA CITY! They parked a truck in front of the federal building and blew it up! HOLY SHIT! I’m watching CNN–oh my god you can’t believe this.’
I held on to the edge of the secretary’s desk and struggled to understand what Jeff was saying. A bomb. In Oklahoma City. Who? I asked him. WHO blew the building up? ‘Oh my god,’ he said, ‘there were kids in the building. They just blew the whole fucking thing up.’
That one moment is still crystal clear to me. The rest of the day is a blur of television and phone calls–trying to find Wade, who was on his way to my office to tell me what had happened, trying to find Wade’s mother, in Oklahoma City, who had hidden under her desk, convinced an airplane had hit the bank where she worked, trying to find Wade’s friend Miles, who was clerking for a judge with chambers across the street from the Murrah Federal Building in an office that we thought had to have been destroyed. What I remember most clearly, though, is hearing Jeff’s voice on the phone and feeling like the world–like home–wasn’t a safe place any more.
And now (later in the day) I want to add this: In the car this morning, I was listening to the live coverage of the memorial service. A survivor was talking about the bombing and the years after, and about her repeated trips to the Memorial. Charlie was in the back seat, sucking his thumb and looking out the window–and, for all I knew, not listening. ‘Mommy,’ he said, ‘what’s a bombing?’ I wish my three-year-old didn’t know that word. I wish I didn’t have to explain it to him. But I tried. ‘Buddy, a bombing is when someone blows something up, like a building.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Mommy, why are you crying?’
Charlie woke up crying last night–frightened, we think, by his new big boy room. Over the sound of Wade’s snoring, I heard him sobbing and calling, Mommy! Mommy!’ I suspect that he woke up and went looking for me, but since the new room is on the opposite side of the hall from his old room, he ended up in the living room, not in our room, and beat a hasty retreat to his bed–and started yelling.
This morning I asked him why he was crying. ‘There was a tiger in my room,’ he said seriously. ‘Two tigers. They live at Target.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘And a lion. He lives in a cave. In the sitting room.’
‘In our sitting room?’
Nodding, still seriously. ‘Yes.’ He thinks. ‘The tigers names were Henry and Charlie. And the lion’s name was . . . HARRY POTTER.’
Charlie practiced saying, ‘Shoo, tigers! Go back to Target!’ today, and at bedtime we practiced walking from his bed to my bed (which I am sure I will regret at 2:00 am when he can’t sleep). And we mused about why the tigers would like living at Target, and how the lion came to live in our sitting room.
Just another typical evening at my house.
I’ve come to realize that the moms I like the most are the ones who get annoyed with their children. Or, more precisely, the moms who will admit to being annoyed by their children. I like to think of myself as a fairly patient person, but by the fifteenth time in a row that Henry asks why Mr. Incredible can’t fly it is all I can do to keep my head from exploding. And don’t even get me started about Charlie.
I love my children, I do, and I am essentially (at my essence) so very very happy that they are here and that, through the luck of genetics, we got the kids we did. But for the love of god, can’t they just leave me the hell alone every once in a while????
And the mommies I like the most are the ones who feel the same way. I also tend to have other things in common with these women–we are all educated and relatively well off (but not so well off that we don’t sweat the last week of every month, or dread any house repair that requires a professional who charges an hourly wage). We all had interesting jobs or careers that we either gave up entirely or put on hold to have our children. We all find our–and each other’s–children charming and funny and delightful to be around. And we all seem to live very very close to the edge of Completely Beserk most of the time.
I called my friend Leslie a while ago, to check in about our playdate this afternoon. My playdates with Leslie are some of the high points of my week; we play every other or every third day, and it is often the difference, for both of us, between complete insanity and another peaceful day with our children. Leslie has three boys; the older two are Henry and Charlie’s age. The boys all play nicely together, and need very little intervention or coaching from us. Which means that we can sit and have something like a conversation, one that does NOT involve The Incredibles or Spiderman or knock-knock jokes or . . .
Anyway, we talked on the phone. Through some act of god (which I will pay for later), both my boys are asleep. Leslie’s four-year-old had decided that instead of napping or resting or playing in another room, he would stomp on her last nerve for an hour. ‘I’ve had it!’ she said. ‘I haven’t had any down time all day. I can’t take it!’
‘We’ll be there by three,’ I promised.
‘Come whenever,’ she said. ‘But please come soon!’
I had a playdate yesterday with a woman I don’t know very well, but like very much. She was marvelling at how patient I was with the boys. ‘I’m not that patient with my kids,’ she admitted. And I felt both embarassed and guilty. It’s embarassing to know that sooner or later she will see the real me, the mommy who is always saying, ‘Stop it! Just stop it!’ And I felt guilty because I hate that it takes the presence of another adult to rouse me to be kind to my children when they are at their most childlike. Because, essentially (at their essence) they are pretty damn annoying.
I think it’s time to go play at Leslie’s.
Project Complete Redecoration is STILL going, and we can see an end to Phase One: Charlie’s Big Boy Room. We are planning to finish that painting by Thursday night and move him in on Friday night (despite the fact that he is REFUSING to even talk about moving–he wants to stay in his current teeny tiny room with all his crap piled on the floor and all his toys in the family room. No way, son–get packing.)
Either the paint fumes or the constant stress of trying to figure out what the hell else we need to do before our company comes is wearing me down–I’ve got nothing to say tonight, despite the fact that I’ve spent three days mulling a dinner party I went to on Saturday and trying to figure out why lawyers make me so damn nervous, and trying to remember all the smart smart things I used to know about the Origins of the English Novel. But that will have to wait for another day, after all the freaking painting is done . . .
So very tired. Must sleep.
| BlogHer Ad Network |
| More from BlogHer |
| Advertise here |
| BlogHer Privacy Policy |
