Smaller

I spoke with an experienced swim coach in the area about training Peeved.  We talked for a while.  The conversation ended with the coach cautioning me not to “burn her out,” meaning I should be careful not to let Peeved do too much in any one sport, for fear she would come to hate it.  

I put both hands up in the stop position; closed my eyes, and lowered my head.  It was like she shot me.

What does it mean to be burned out...with regard to a sport.  Well.  I believe I know.  But, it isn’t just what you might think.  It isn’t as straightforward as saying, “I don’t want to swim ever again.”

For me, with competing in track and field until I was 23, it was more about how enormous you become inside of such a small sphere.

You think I am talking about steroids?

No.  I am talking about ego.

Being a scholarship athlete was about being in an imagined spotlight; having something very particular expected of you, feeling like you couldn’t and shouldn’t fail, and defining success as improving and winning.

Emphasis here is on “having something very particular expected of you,” which means repetition...and – in most cases- it is repetition externally assigned and enforced.  You submit to someone else, someone who is shaping you to perform a very specific task, with the goal of performing that particular task better than anyone else.

And, on top of all that repetition and subjection,

it isn’t fun to run until you puke either.  

But, the puking stops when the running stops. 

But, it is the collateral damage that gets you in the end, and I don’t mean bad knees.

For years after my track career ended, I had to remind myself that not everything was a contest.  I had to remind myself that there were not people in bleachers watching.  I had to remind myself that I was faceless, nameless, and potentially aimless.

Aimless...because as an athlete, you have a very particular task each day:  to train and to compete.  You can pick up anything – a banana – and you will say, “How does this impact my training?”  You will look at a calendar, see an upcoming event, “Can I do that without impacting my training...my competing?”

Once you take away that aim...the aim to be the best in your sport...it becomes confusing as to what you should be doing at all.  And, once you take away the contest aspect....then take away the spectators, people with expectations for you, and...don’t forget...you lose the repetition and the powerlessness...

well, it can take years to figure out how to proceed...on your own.

But, I know what you are thinking.  You are thinking, “That’s all good stuff...

I mean, you just go into your chosen field of employment, and you listen to your boss, and you shine, and you make a name for yourself, and you focus, and you set goals and achieve them.  It all transfers!  Life is a game!”

No.  It is deeper than that.

See.  I DID do that.  I went into teaching.  I wanted to be the best teacher.  I wanted to win awards and pay close attention to our principal.  I wanted to focus...hold up a banana and think, “How does this impact my teaching?”

The parents of the kids I taught, they were the people in the bleachers!  They were watching me...cheering me on....  “Yay!  Go!”

But.  Nope.

The stakes in Real Life are much higher and the chances of failing are way greater and more varied.  The job is not so specific. The losing is not so specific.

In fact, it is not a win/lose experience once off the track.  Sometimes, when you are losing, you are winning.  Sometimes, when you are winning, you are losing.

It - life -  has layers and folds and curves...and it is not just up and up and up.  It is fall way down, get off track, and then slingshot.

But, most of all, more than anything else, and this is where I pound my fist on the desk:

LIFE is not about YOU, at all.

So, that “ego” you built...that “The Best” thing you drove around...

not very attractive,

unless you are the athlete.

Meekness.

Humility.

For any athlete who spent years listening to headphones while pacing back and forth on the field like a caged cheetah...engaging feelings of superiority and drumming up motivation to dig deep into your physical abilities and pull out a greater physical feat...

Meekness and Humility were not really part of the equation.

You were trying to be Larger.

You were trying to be LARGER.

You wanted to go across the finish line FIRST.

You wanted to bang your chest and think and feel and maybe even scream, "I AM #1!"

There is no “other guy” about that.  Sure, there is sportsmanship, where you shake the loser’s hand.  But, that is not wanting the other guy to win.  You want to win.  You want to be LARGER.   You want to be the best.

THE BEST.

THE BIGGEST.

There comes a time in your life, when you realize, you need to be smaller.

You want to be the least.

You should want to be the LEAST.

Smaller.

Smaller still.

Smaller than that.

Maybe even...invisible.

You want to walk in a room and go unnoticed.  You want to slip into a room.   You want to be faceless.  You want to be nameless.  You want to be a silent servant.

There is a vast canyon between the pacing cheetah and the silent servant.

And so, when I am told by an experienced coach not to “burn her out,” with regard to my daughter’s athletic career...

I do not think about avoiding her premature disdain for swimming,

I am thinking about how to keep her ego in check, about how to make her more than a machine in the pool, and about how to teach her to soar, while also teaching her to be smaller...

Smaller still...

Smaller than that...

A silent servant.

Soar silent servant.

THAT is not easy.

She'd Fly Through the Air With the Greatest of Ease...or the Opposite of Ease

Today, a friend mentioned that it sounds like I am engulfed in the “Fires of Hell.”

And, honestly, my reaction was a loud hoot, which means I might be further gone than I had realized.

But...no...seriously - I laugh to keep from crying.  You have to admit – I have had a rather twisted take on “stuff” lately.  I mean, I suppose most of it is totally normal for a homeschooling mom of five...who just had a baby...and is therefore on a hormonal rollercoaster...and whose husband is gone 75% of the month....  

Oh...for me...really?  

Wait...wait...can I just add one more thing:  we are in the doldrums of summer.  This means, not as much daily contact with other moms on fire...or in fire.

So.  Anyways.  I was thinking about this “fires of hell” observation...after I got my vile snickering under control, and after I looked under my chair to see if that was a goblin that just brushed up against my stubbly ankle (a cat – phew)...no, but, honestly, after I thought about it a bit, I thought, 

“There IS something going on here.”

I have to back up a bit to explain:

OK.  Back in grad school, I had an outstanding professor who taught the Philosophy of Adult Education.  I am not going to state his name because I have changed his ideas slightly to accommodate my own opinions.  (Sorry.  I have trouble with authority – I always have to do it my way.)  But, essentially, his deal was “We never stop learning.” 

Suck ups

That assertion didn’t matter much to me at that point in time because I was in grad school, unmistakably entrenched in learning, and I was actually looking forward to the END of learning.  I was starting to hate knowledge.  So, the promise of more of it was something I was eager to dismiss.  But, this class did hand to me some everlasting images...ideas that were married to visuals that you could whip out later in life and say, “Ohhhh...yes...I see it....I get it now.”

One of those images was a trapeze act.

Learning happens in a trapeze act.  And, we are not talking about academic learning.  We are talking about life lessons.  You are sometimes holding firm to the bar.  Then, you let go, and you go flying into space...looking to grab onto another bar.  These are the different phases of life.  The bar represents when you are firmly parked inside of ideas that you hold dear and actions that demonstrate your ideas.  The space in between the bar is sketchy.  You get sick of a bar.  You outgrow that trapeze.  You might not even make a conscious decision to let go of it...you just kinda, gradually, slip from it.  Next thing you know, you are in space...nothing underfoot...nothing to hold onto....you are flying...where is that $&#$ next trapeze? 

Lately, change has come over me.  For one, I can see myself more clearly, which is not as pleasant an experience as you might imagine it to be (throat clear).  Also, I can see others more clearly, which is not as pleasant an experience as you might imagine it to be (I am not making eye contact with anyone right now).

What happens when you can see people, to include yourself, in a new way?

Well, for one, you don’t even know how to speak.

Seriously.  You get near people, and the old you starts to blather on, and the new, more astute you moans inside your head, “You’re DOING IT again,” and then the talking-you stops talking, and your head twitches to the side like a bee is buzzing your ear, and your eyes google back and forth a bit, and someone in your circle is the first to look away from you and interjects an awkward segue to a new fallback subject...and then everyone looks at that person...but because you are such an awkward weirdo they are totally obsessed with whatever it is you are doing now, so they are now stealing looks at you, which creates this whole strange dynamic of you sitting by yourself and everyone talking to each other with their head facing the person to whom they are talking but their eyeballs are totally on you.  

In the end, you just stop doing anything at all...you even put down your fork...or your drink....or your child - you just plop that child right down on the ground at your feet, and you sit there 

and reflect

cuz that is what you are good at these days...

catatonic reflection.

You sit in groups of people and think about the people.

You try to talk.  But, you cannot chat the way you once did...all happy-go-lucky and untroubled.  Your ideas are changing.  Your actions are going to change.

What’s more - you stare now, which makes you creepy and unapproachable.

What I am saying is this:  I have slipped from the bar, and I don’t mean the corner tavern.

I was firmly on a trapeze – the same, familiar, this-is-what-I-stand-for trapeze - for about 15 years.

I slipped off.

Oops.

Ouch.

Not “Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

So, from afar, this might look like I am engulfed in the fires of hell.  For all I know, that is exactly what is beneath me as I flutter through the air, rummaging around for a trapeze, and maybe I am a lot closer to those flames than I realize.  It is best not to look down, you know.

But, I have my eyes peeled for that next trapeze, and it going to be a beaut...but, I have a feeling...I don't actually get to select it...I have a feeling it is flung at me, and I grab it.

And, if you look more closely at me...closer...closer...

I have five little people clinging to my floppy body as I am jerking through the air with my eyes all bugged out...

well, to be fair, one of them is trying to jump off and go to her own trapeze, but I am restraining her.

Confessions

I am going through a phase of doubt and confusion.  I have asked God to get me out of this, but I don’t see the cavalry riding in, so I can only assume that God feels I need to dwell here a bit longer, for learning purposes.  Oh great.  Learning. 

Let me give you the rundown...so maybe you can relate...or maybe you will just think less of me.  I am willing to risk it – either way – because I need to get this out on paper.  Be warned – this is going to come out of me like bad sushi.  I am not going to try to organize this or make sense of this.  I am just going to stick my finger down my throat and type:

at the moment, children who cannot read well...if at all...are reading to each other in the reading nook...oh, how charming...a reading nook.  It sounds like I really have my house in order.  Aren’t you impressed....good...good.  Don't stay too long.

I have a book sitting on my nightstand, a Hardy Boys classic that I have wanted to read to my kids for weeks now, so we can all feel cozy and old timey and functional.  I haven’t read even one page to them because if I have a moment of silence it doesn’t occur to me to say, “Hey, Everyone, you are leaving me alone right now, but please come back and sit really close to me again....”

And now, I hear them kinda reading some picture book, and I think, “I should go in there and read it to them,” but I don’t go.  It is this battle between my ideal and my brokenness.   My ideal eye can picture my sitting there, hamming it up with a cute book, kids on knees, smiling...getting all literate and stuff.  

But, my brokenness knows there is a chance that kids will interrupt me and swat at each other and ask me to skip pages, which is like sacrilege, and so...I stay here.  I don’t want the ideal so much that I am willing to risk sorting through the other stuff...annoying stuff for which I have no patience or energy. 

What is that?  Knowing the outcome at the beginning and not willing to try again?  Does that make me sane...or insane?  We've all read that doing the same thing and expecting a different result means you are crazy, so maybe I am just really sane...like sane to a fault.

"What she said."

Then, there’s my son, who gives me sloppy wet spitty kisses on my cheek. I have actually given him instructionals, using the back of my hand...the back of his hand...on how to kiss a cheek without allowing tablespoons of saliva to exit your mouth.  We have gone over this and over this because I cannot stand to have someone spitting on my cheek 50 times a day (this kid is really affectionate).  No dice.  The sopping-wet kisses are still coming, dripping and disgusting, and I am no longer able to receive them kindly.  I am now making noises of offense; jerking away, and saying sophisticated words like, “Yuck!”  I am Parent of the Year!  My kid kisses me, and I yell “Yuck!”  That won’t affect him in his adulthood ...no....not at all.

This is probably what happened to Magic Mike.

Then, there is my making eggs and bacon yesterday, while shouting.  I basically wasted a pound of bacon.  I mean, if you are going through the trouble of frying meat – yes, I called it trouble - then there should be a good feeling that comes over all.  But, no...I lost it...right in the middle of sizzling grease.  I kept poking with my fork while in full lecture mode...full roar.  I finished my speech when the meat was crisp, and I looked at my children for evidence of understanding, and they said, ‘Is the bacon ready?” 

I hate cooking breakfast, and not just because of this incident.  I just hate cooking breakfast.  I like to be left alone until about noon.  Did you READ that?  I have FIVE kids, and I want to be left alone until NOON! 

Rahhahahhahhhhhaaaaaaaaa!  RAH!  Ha ha.

I have poorly-selected goals.

I hope it snows tomorrow.

But, seriously, I am a terrible person for hating to cook breakfast.  I should love to make pancakes and eggs and bacon and toast...all simultaneously and perfectly and all twirling around, pushing down the toaster lever with my elbow because I have a merry spatula in one hand and a nursing baby in the other.  I should enjoy that.

But...I do not. 

I yell at you when I feel obligated to fry you your morning meat.

Then, there is soda.  I dump full cans of soda down the drain.  My husband informed me last night that dumping soda down the drain, in front of our children, whilst the children are clamoring for the soda, WILL, in fact, cause deep psychological damage in our children in their adulthood.  

Probably more of this:

I say to Husband, “But...why do you keep bringing soda into the house?”

He has no good answer.

I say, “Do you feel no part of this deep psychological scarring...as you are the supplier?”

He says nothing.

This is all on me.

Moments ago, in the midst of howls and leg clutching that nearly pulled down my pants, I dumped another can of Dr Pepper because Shirtless wanted it for TODAY’S breakfast.  I mean...who can blame him for ASKING for something as simple as soda since YESTERDAY I flipped out on him whilst cooking a NORMAL breakfast of fried meat....

Soda.  Dumped.

Then, there was the lady with the monogrammed baseball tee...a few days ago.

I am still thinking about her.

I take Shirtless and Pixie to "a thing" at church, and there is the mom, the mom with a bunch of kids who is always dressed perfectly.  I saw her from afar.  I am always looking for this lady, so I can avoid her.  I do not like to be near people who comb their hair, let ALONE people who carry expensive purses on their wrist...with their bedazzled cell phones all up in their perfectly manicured nails.  

I mean...who wants to see this every day!

When I see this, I throw up in my mouth a little and then I feel really ugly, like butt ugly, and then I feel bad for my husband, and then I decide to clean up my act a bit, and then I go buy hair color in the grocery store, and then I get orange hair.  So, it is best to NOT look at the perfectly dressed mom.

But, there she was...ol perfect mom.

I was schlepping across the parking lot with many many kids...all of them mine.  I had just nursed Baby Child, so I am pretty sure my bra was still wadded up above my left boob, meaning I had one boob in its semi-normal location (near my ribs), whilst the other boob was pushed down flat by the bra bulge.  Here I come, schlep...schlep...weird boobs.

There she was – I saw her from behind...but...wuh?  wuh?  She was purseless...phoneless...she...she was wearing a baseball tee and khaki shorts.

The joy.  The rapture.  A baseball tee.

I wear those!

We were one, this mom and me.

No more orange hair for me.  I sidled right up to where she was, so I could get a closer look at her averageness and show her my weird boobs.

She turned around.

It was monogrammed.

The schleppy baseball tee was monogrammed...freshly...like vibrant colors, popping out, as in – just monogrammed this morning or something...probably in her IKEA-sponsored Pinterest workshop above her well-organized garage with hooks hanging from the rafters...for HANGING stuff.

COME ON.

I retreated.  I dove behind a large cement pillar.  I had no idea where my kids were...that wasn’t important.

Today, I’d call my hair more pink than orange.

So, um.  Yes.  I am having doubts and experiencing some confusion.

And, how are you?

Shhhhhhhh

I have a problem:  I don’t want to speak.

I am not kidding.  I don’t want to converse.  I don’t want to make comments out loud.  I don’t want to give orders.  I don’t want to utter the most insignificant of utterances.  I don’t want to part my lips, except to shove food in my mouth...now, for that, I will open nice and wide...shove a whole piece of devil’s food cake right into my silence.

But, truly, I don’t want to talk.

And, I am analyzing – with concern - this phase I have entered.  Why am I out of words?

I have felt this growing; it started small – I would say less.  It developed into my sharing only select and necessary comments, things like, “Move.”  And now, we are at the point, where I stand by, tight-lipped, and I watch brawls. 

In my head, I am thinking, “No.  Stop.” 

But, I am not saying anything. 

I am simultaneously thinking about cake.

Obviously, I am nearly nuts. 

I almost knew this would happen eventually.  I mean, you can only go around with an environmentally-induced, transitory type of Parental-Tourette Syndrome for so long, shouting out half sentences and stray words; having four conversations at once – a few of them with yourself; dashing from room to room shrieking, “Ahhhhhh,” and “Wuhhhhhh?”

And, let us not forget the abrupt delayed reactions: 

I can be at the checkout line, and I will yell out, “Darn it.” 

That “darn it” is related to a situation that occurred five hours prior to my shopping for cat food – it just re-emerged in my aching brain, unsolicited, and the exclamation has nothing to do with the current checkout experience, though the current checkout experience is now muddied and stalled, with all eyes planted on me and my wild “darn it,”

which is then followed up by an intentional, “Oh crap!” because I realize that I am shouting out random expletives again,

which leads, of course, to a whole windstorm of expletives...all the way to the car, during which time, I forget I have children with me, children who are playing Frogger in the parking lot, surviving only thanks to the extreme intervention on the part of Guardian Angels, who are about to put in paperwork for reassignment.

More expletives. 

It is raining expletives.

Like I said, you can only go around like that for so long, before you will make a decision – conscious or not – to jump in and help yourself...

by shutting up altogether.

Thas right.  Shut up.  I said it...the most horrible of mommy words:  SHUT UP.  You have never said that.  Well, I am saying it now, sister:  SHUT UP; SHUT UP...SHU SHU SHUTTY SHUT - SHUT THE HECK UP!

I just collapsed on the floor.

So, like I said – oops, not said – like I thought, 

I am kinda going through something.  Perhaps it is just a short-lived “loss for words.”  Or, perhaps I have a form of shock. 

Dunno.

Sh.

Goodbye, Teacher

My heart is heavy, and my reality reshaped.  I resisted this reshaping.  I felt it coming on, and I knew I wasn’t quite ready.  How could I ever be ready, when my blessings sedate me.

Last night, I learned that a kindergarten teacher, at the neighborhood school, passed away one day ago.

Pixie was in her class for a bit, before I pulled out Pixie to be homeschooled with the rest of my kiddos. 

But, for about ten weeks, Little Miss Pixie had a teacher, and she loved her the way Pixie loves, with tattered gifts from her own closet; with wild art; with thoughtful crafts; with kindness, volunteering, and absolute obedience, and with tears:  Perfect Pixie Love.

This teacher was spunky.  She was witty, feisty, kind, casual, and she called many of her students “Baby.”  I liked her right away.

Bashful little Pixie would arrive for class in the morning, and she would be met with a knowing, “Have a seat, Baby.”  Pixie needed this kind of familiarity and assurance.  I was thankful for her teacher’s star quality.

When I learned that her teacher, a few years younger than me, was a recent breast cancer survivor, I braced.  My vulnerable bubble, with its delicate defense of routine, was eerily invaded by this grim message.  My faith failed to promise me immediate wisdom or hope.  I was disappointed by my anxious reaction and my obvious denial of certain realities in life...like eventual death. 

I looked around the kindergarten classroom:  death had tried to come through here?

I found myself looking curiously at the colorful walls of alphabet trains and candy shapes and animated numbers, “But it looks so full of life in here...so vibrant...so uplifting...so magical.”  It was as if someone was next to me on a cloud, describing the scene of a crime, and I was trying to imagine the horror, in the midst of bouncing, thrilled, laughing children. 

Over the course of those first days of school, as I faced my own weakness, I focused on the current truth of Pixie’s teacher, that she was standing there, “Have a seat, Baby.”

But, in my moments alone, I couldn’t help but to wonder what went through our teacher's mind, during her moments alone.

And I hated thinking about that.  I hated that her bubble was ripped open.  Hated it.

I can talk away the problems of most of my friends.  I point to research; I rip out articles; I counsel, and I listen. I share what I have been through, and I help with plans.  I go and go and go.  I go because I want you in your bubble.  I love you and want you in your bubble...your perfect bubble.

My idea of loving you is maintaining your bubble for and with you.

But that is so fearful, and that is so impossible, and that is so exhausting,

and it will prove futile.

What was at first alarm was evolving into hope,

hope that life didn’t have to be perfect – behind you and in front of you -

to be lived. 

The colors on the wall were no less vibrant; the children were no less energetic, and a smile had to be worn in any case, and there was another day, and then another.

Pixie’s teacher and I had a few short conferences and the many mornings of informal greetings.  I didn’t know her well.

But, my heart was very much in her hand,

and – Lord Knows - I really wanted her to survive; oh, sweet Jesus, did I want her to survive.

But, you don’t get what you want.  We are near each other to give what is

Needed.

This teacher...

she took me toward realities.  She taught me. 

This is a small town.  Driving down the street today, I saw her memorial in front of the school.  I saw the mothers, in their workout gear, next to their SUVs, standing near the signs that children had placed, everyone crying.  I drove on to see parents gathered in driveways, crying together. 

I saw people with their feet so solidly on the ground.  Bubbles popped all over the place. 

No floating along.

Workout gear aside; SUVs aside; reputations aside....

We were all sober on the ground.

I began to cry, too.  I couldn’t control my tears, and I thought to myself, “You have no right to cry.  You barely knew her!” I felt ridiculous.  I felt embarrassed that I was using this as a chance to be emotional.  I felt like a bandwagoner.  I was angry with myself –that I saw people crying, and I decided to cry. 

But, it wasn’t a decision. 

It just came over me, just like the reality of her struggle had come over me on day one.

She had come over me.

Some blessings sedate you.
Some blessings wake you up.

And, I cried because I had wanted to cry all along,

And it was time now.

Stank, Towers, Bumps, and Carvings

What is it about the parents’ bedroom?  

This is not mine.  I promise...

not that I am judging this one.  I am not.  

It looks nice.

And please don’t tell me you have a nice parents’ bedroom.  If you do, stop reading this right now...no, wait – read just this:  I have a nice parents’ bedroom, too.  It is incredible....a sanctuary of classy furniture; fine fabrics, and organized, dust free, modern conveniences all within arms reach of the bedside.  OK.  You can go now.  Have a nice day...in your nice bedroom (terrible parent).  

For the rest of you, now that we have cleared out “the others,” I want to talk about why we feel our bedrooms should be everything that is wrong with us...on steroids; no wait, not steroids...street drugs...whatever kind of drugs leave you dirty and sleeping in dirt...

yes, those.

And, now, a mental tour of my own Master Bedroom.  

First, you have to open the door.  We love to keep the door shut.  This is for an assortment of reasons, but – most importantly – it is so I am not tempted to peek in there every time I pass that doorway (6,385 times a day) to be reminded that my life is apparently in shambles. Of secondary importance...the door stays shut in the off-chance that a visitor strays down the hallway.  Any outsider going down the hallway is on a fact-seeking mission, and that heathen's plan of debunking you should be thwarted.  Anyone who is bold enough to OPEN the door should be cuffed and escorted to their vehicle.  BOOM.

A bedroom has a door for a reason...just like a purse has a zipper.  Once, a Spiritual Adviser told me that the state of the inside of my purse was the state of my inner life.  I tipped my purse to expose a soiled diaper; a spare - old and fuzzy - cleanish diaper that was now a few sizes too small, and some wipes in a baggie.  I assure you, there wasn’t another blessed thing in there.  I mean, it isn’t like I am going to remember to put my WALLET in my purse...my wallet was home on the counter where it belongs.  After laughing with tears streaming down my face (I am always thankful for those cleansing laughs), we determined my inner life was for shi#. 

I miss that adviser...so kind, so good...such a subdued cutup...I was so good for her.  

In any case, I imagine that the state of the Master is also an indication of something VERY BAD about your life.  

Apparently, my life, like my purse, smells.  If you open the door to my bedroom, you are met with a stale odor.  I mean, what IS that smell?  Is there a sickly hobbit living in the back alcoves of the closet?  It reeks like...like...maybe crunchy socks (tell me you have found a crunchy sock...or, again, stop reading) mixed with burnt canola oil?  I dunno.  Maybe vegetable oil...not canola.  In any case...dirty sock food...you know.

Once you get past the smell of sizzling hobbit socks, you will notice the lawn.der.ree.  You will notice it because it will topple over ON you because everyone knows that you cannot walk near it, thereby vibrating the floor near the stack(s) of lawn.der.ree.  It is a soft game of Jenga.  You need underwear, you have to try to pull it from the tower. You knock the tower over, you have two choices:  pick it up for the next six hours OR run like the wind.  There’s a lot of wind here.  This means that the lawn.der.ree is a bit strewn...oh, heck...it’s a lot strewn, I mean there is no sense lying now – you know about the hobbit.

So, your evolving visual:  a floor covering of clean (rahhhhaaaa) clothes, behind which soars a leaning achievement of craftsmanship.  We, the Free Laundry Stackers (FLS), are a secret society.  We meet in musty sheds and plan world domination. All the Kennedy and Bush females were/are members - we're bipartisan.

This symbolizes a pile of laundry.

So, stanky air, a carpet of clothing, and then...then...the bed...over yonder.  THIS bed has never been made.  It is said that the untold blankets on THIS bed, a king-sized, are for a twin bed.  However, the blankets are intertwined in such a complex system that this has never actually been proven.  In fact, the hobbit could be hiding in there; the hobbit could be one of those bumps...or it could be a cat.  Either way, don’t sit on it.

If you are the mother...your place is in the far right upper corner... no... higher... higher... yes, right there, next to the clock.... no, closer... closer to the clock; yes, there...yes, put your nose against the face of the clock.  Yes, I know it is glowing red inside your closed eyeballs.  Stop complaining.  That’s your spot.  NO.  Don’t stretch your legs.  Why are you stretching your legs?  The hobbit-cat bump is there.  You want WHAT?  A blanket?  Oh sure, and how about taut body parts...would you like that, too?

I took some time out to pose for this.

The mother’s spot – that postage stamp-sized area in front of the clock – is sanctuary.  Enjoy that little square of excess.  It is the only good-smelling spot in the house.  It smells like shampoo – because you go to bed with your head wet...because you are not allowed to stand around DRYING your hair.  What is this...A SPA?  Come on, now.  You have a lamp in the corner, next to your square...stick your head under that.

The rest of the room is dark.  We keep the blinds drawn.  Obviously.

The furniture has been attacked.  We are not sure the exact dates of the incidents, but it is legend that elusive forces with sharp tools (from your junk drawer) entered in the darkness (constant darkness) to carve the wood and spell words with backwards letters...apparently a dyslexic gang.  They go under the alias, “Naw Me” - sounds Asian.  The kids know all about them - probably learned about them on Youtube - and are quick to spurt out their name in events of ruin and graffiti.  I am sure you have heard of them. 

So, let us review - stank, towers, bumps, and carvings...that about sums it up.  

There are a few crooked pictures on the wall, but DON’T TOUCH THEM.  The dust is stacked up just so on the top of the frame.  Release that into the air, and...well...you won’t really do anything about it, but it just SOUNDS wrong, doesn’t it?

Okay, so we were going to talk about why our (OUR...cuz I am under the impression that YOURS looks like MINE) Master Bedrooms look like THAT.

Why.  Why do we let our Masters’ Quarters rot?  Why?  Tell me.  Someone tell me. 

I don’t hear anyone.

Well then...

Why are there soiled diapers in my purse?

Crickets...appalled crickets.

Well.  We can just think about it for a while then.  Probably, if you answer these questions, you will find eternal happiness.  You will also find underwear more easily.  You will also find things you didn’t want to find.

As for me, I’ve set up basecamp, behind the bump –

I’m gonna capture me a ninja with a developmental reading disorder.

 This is not a ninja.

  

Time for a Change

I go through phases when I rearrange furniture.  It starts out innocently enough.  I get an itch for a change. 

However, if the mood is right, the innocuous itch abruptly turns into an infection, and I have to move furniture in the next thirty minutes or my life will be in turmoil.

When the infection strikes, I typically proceed to a kid’s bedroom.  I enter with a Swiffer and bulging eyeballs, and I proclaim in a riled, winded, caffeinated voice,   

I initiate the rearrangement project by venturing to clean out the large rodent-sized (like ferret-sized…are ferrets rodents?  They look like rodents…) balls of dust. 

The random kid – whose room I have occupied -  is usually adolescently-adrift ON the bed when I enter.  This means the kid doesn’t look up from their handheld device when I enter the room; they don’t make eye contact; they truly trust that they cannot be engaged if they stay still.  They will even start to mouth what they are reading…just to let you know that they are reading and cannot see you....therefore you cannot see them.

But, remember, I want to rearrange...more importantly...I want to change my life. 

No prisoners. 

I get going by moving the bed.  That creates the “point of no return.”  If you move the bed even one inch, you dislodge an apocalypse of dander that takes your lungs by storm, leaving you temporarily derailed.  

Once you find the will to go on, with a slight wheeze, you realize what you were determined to realize…that you HAVE to move everything IN this room…to clean this room.  You have unearthed the hidden disgustingness; you have held up a piece of it, in the air, as proof,

"LOOK at this!"  

Now, you will mumble-scold your child for a bit, muttering questions while your eyes are rolling in your head, as you clear dust-ferrets,

“Who lives like this?” 

and “What is all this crap?”

 In return, the kid, still trapped and invisible on the bed, mumbles mocking responses,

and you pretend not to hear any of it because then you would have to deal with that type of insubordination, which could totally throw you off your path…

of changing your life.

by moving all this here furniture around….

So, it is not enough to just take a broom and slap under the bed.  Any good mother knows…you have to move every single piece of furniture...which means you will have to then take everything off the walls and re-position posters and framed art...and then you have to go into their CLOSET.  I mean – this is basic math.

 

I usually have enough frenzied force to move the bed WITH the kid on it, and I roar the entire time...sometimes whole sermons, but, at the very least, short spurts of audacity conveyed through grunted words, “You think I won’t move this bed…I’ll just move this bed with you on it…I am stronger than you think....” 

The kid never even said he wouldn’t get off the bed.  You hadn’t asked.  You were fostering their invisibility.  You thought in your demon voice “Gettttttt offffffff,” but those words never made it out of your mouth.

Suddenly, the kid understands your purpose and remembers the last time this happened...and he dives from the bed, mid-bed-rearranging, and scurries for cover down the hallway, announcing frantically door-to-door, “Mom’s rearranging.” 

This alert causes extraordinary unrest.   Children scamper out of their holes, converging in the kitchen to drink contraband (cans of soda) as their leader (the oldest child) calms them and urges them to pay her in gum for their protection...quickly...before mom returns to the kitchen for fresh rags or duct tape or hostages.

The oldest is a con; she knows she too is without defense.

For, she who holds the Swiffer always wins.

And The Mama has the Swiffer.

And The Mama needs change.

The mama is going through some changes...

probably HORMONAL changes....

Act busy!

So, oldest siblings school younger siblings:  grab a broom and act involved and concerned and dedicated.  Sweep the same spot for thirty minutes – she’ll never ever notice...just move the dirt around.  She will whirl by and, without looking at you, say something like, “Oh…thank you for helping, sweetheart.” 

BUT, if you are not seemingly on board (warns oldest children, remembering those ill-fated days of lack of involvement)...she – the mother – will stop and squat in place and blubber to you about the dreams she had when she was 12.

Don’t be the cause of that.

Don’t all moms go through urgent times when we need swift change? 

Sometimes we plan.  But, sometimes, it has been subconsciously planned without our knowing it…building in the recesses of our mind for a while, and when it comes to the surface it is well-formed and commanding, and it motivates us instantly and in peculiar ways.

What did we see that triggered its surfacing?  

Hm.  Dunno.

May we never see it again.

Some people end up in the mall, buying new wardrobes...

my husband favors my interpretation.

Changing of the Guard

I cannot wait for you to turn 40.  You are just going to love it. 

Something astounding happens. I mean, it is a little frightening – if I am being honest – the reality of it is a little frightening….

But, it happens when you least expect it – it is definitely something that just APPEARS, so there is no sense trying to prepare for it…it just happens one day...

maybe even at your local pool…while your children are in line at the snack bar, whipping their dollar bills around in the significant (tree-bending) breeze, while you yell, “That is going to blow away, and I am not going to chase after it, and you are not getting another one….”

It just whacks you. 

What is “it?”  Hold on…hold on….

It is startling at first, and then temporarily disappointing.  It is sorta like arriving at your dad’s childhood amusement park after a ten hour drive, and you are all like, “That?”

You are disenchanted, but you quickly accept it for what it is, and you decide it is good to be off the road, the long road that required endless map checking and dangerous turning around in the middle of the highway.

You have no idea where I am going with this.

Sorry.

OK.  So,  when you turn 40…I mean, not like THAT day….it doesn’t arrive in a box with a fluffy red bow or anything like that…not on your actual birthday.  BUT, when you turn 40, you are on the threshold of

THIS; and, what this is…is THIS:

you enter another social or neighborhood scene prepared to look around you for answers, for hints, for pointers, for a mama-Yoda...

and you are prepared to receive guidance in your usual head-down, barely-making-eye-contact, repentant manner, “Oh…thank you; I’m sorry.  I am just figuring this parenting thing out,” 

WHEN…and here is the key part…WHEN, you notice a woman interacting with her child and you say to yourself very matter-of-factly,

“This woman doesn’t know what she is talking about.”

And, you just shake your head, get that image out of your mind…but, guess what – it isn’t over - you walk smack dab into another,

“That woman doesn’t know what she is doing either.”

And you get a little panic-stricken, and now you have your eye out for it, and you find another,

“Oh, snap…that one is unsafe, too.”

And then you start to feel breathless,

“Oh my WORD, what is THAT ONE doing?”

And, you barrel around the bend to see an entire gaggle of cluelessness.

The gaggle is bikini-clad, with phones in their hands, sitting outstretched on low chairs with their limbs exposed TO THE SUN, and they have children…many many children…but they are not watching them AT ALL!  Their children are beating each other with folding chairs near the zero entry area of the baby pool.  There is an all-out beatdown going on, with four year olds flashing gang signs and chucking anything not cemented into the ground.

Your eyes are open in a way they have never before been.

Women everywhere are ruining their children, right in front of your old face.

No one has any idea what to do.

Good Googily Moogily.

Could it be?

You are in charge?

After countless more of these enlightening observations…

you realize…you come to see that

YOU…

you are the answer-holder now.

It is a changing of the guard, if you will.

You are “the veteran.”

You have been alive a long-a$$ time. 

Now, YOU know. 

See. 

That is it. 

You came into this scene ready to learn more from the old hands,

but – as far as THIS scene goes…you’ve got the oldest hands…

and that is going to be the case in basically any scene from now on where there are young children running around….

You know basically what there is TO know, and you have been elevated from TAKER to

GIVER.

I mean, you can still learn a few things…I guess…I mean, you can go read a bunch of parenting books, and you can get some newish info…like the latest thing…if you are so inclined.  But, in general, you know how to keep your kids alive,

and – these chicks…

their kids might not make it to supper.

Just like your kids almost didn’t make it to supper back in the day…

or you just didn’t cook supper….

That’s irrelevant now.  Your kids are clearly still alive.

You have a responsibility to be the knowledgeable, experienced one.

And, even if you still are completely convinced that you have NO idea what you are doing…

you are going to have to fake it and ACT the part.

Cause they are coming…

they, the younger people with children, are looking at YOU.

So, stop digging that little white crunchy thing out of your nose and pulling your wedge out, thinking no one is looking…

cause they are studying you and your mystical ways…

and you just told a whole table of newbies that it is okay to pick your nose in public.

Except the bikini chicks…they aren’t studying anything…they are, like, texting.

I know…go ahead and laugh maniacally. 

How scary –

YOU ARE THE EXPERT!

But…let’s face it.  You were never given any good directions anyways.  You were never told anything that incredibly brilliant during your own sojourn in instability. 

Because, in truth, no one ever really knows.  They just faked it and got it to catch on and others starting doing it and then it became a thing,

and the more people doing the thing, the more substantiated it becomes, and then…it is more than a thing, it is WHAT you do, and everyone is doing it….

You have been fed bullhockey for years and years. 

You have been doing it, raising your kids on it.  Those veterans weren’t wise…they were probably laughing at your gullibility.

You just realize this, one day...around the age of 40. 

You just realize…

YOU, quite likely, know more than most…at this point.

Scary?

Yes.  Darn scary.

Go make up something good…

and get other moms doing it….