This Reminds Me

Archive for October, 2008

I’ve long said, “You can eat off my floors.”  That’s not the same statement as “My floors are so clean, you can eat off them.”

You might look in my kitchen and think, “Ugh.  Mess.”

My spice rack….oh, how I’d love to have them all in alpha order and grouped by sweet/savory.  Never gonna happen.  My middle name should be “Monk.”

Or peek in the breakfast room, and think, “Yuk.  More mess.”

The church pew we bought when we were expecting Rachel.  It held diaper bags for years.  Now it holds jumbled backpacks, sweatshirts, purses and school books.

But walk a few steps into the den, and you’ll really see some mess.

Hannah and I dragged out the year’s accumulation of Samaritan’s purse stuff today, getting ready to pack boxes as soon as the Halloween candy goes half-price next Saturday.  Oh.  My.  Gosh.  Lip balm, toothbrushes, knit caps, silverware sets, school supplies Happy Meal Toys – thanks to generous friends, we’ve got it goin’ on.

Yes, it’s a mess.  But a happy one.  I put away all the Halloween decorations, except the kitchen dish towels, the breakfast plates and the pumpkins the girls painted at Fiesta Texas. We need the room!

Lately, I’m remembering the line in “Terms of Endearment” when Flap (Jeff Daniels) says to his mother-in-law (Shirley McLaine), “You always seem to forget your manners around me, Aurora.”

“You’re not special enough to overcome a bad marriage” is my absolute favorite movie line.  But that’s for another time.

I think we’ve forgotten our manners this election.  And in general.

Why is it necessary to attack a candidate’s family?  Or to print T-shirts describing a candidate in vulgar s*xual slang?   Or to puff up and bellow, “Well, if So-and-So is elected, I’m leaving the country.”  Or to extend one’s middle finger at a candidate’s supporters?

We are Americans. We are not citizens of some sweltering banana republic where every pseudo-election galvanizes the rabid zealots before the reprisals begin.

I am certainly not a bastion of political correctness.  Nor do I preach “tolerance” when an action is fundamentally morally wrong.  But we’re Americans. I don’t have to agree with you about politics or religion or anything else.  I just need to respect your right to have that opinion – no matter how wrong I think it is.  I may not like what you believe.  I may warn my children against it.  I may circle with friends and pray that you change.  I may not want you in my home because of it.  I may give money to an organization to fight it.  But because I am an adult – and an American – I am not going to spit, print. wear or wave vile epitaphs about you personally, your family or your belief.

Some of the filth being slung around reminds me of my children as toddlers, so frustrated with their limited grasp of concepts and language that “poo poo head” was a favorite comeback.  Are we toddlers, stumbling stiff-kneed in a world so intimidating we can’t be polite or rational?

It’s like we – as a nation – have somehow forgotten the mornings after elections.  No matter who wins or who loses, we are still Americans. We will get up November 5 and be glad or mad about the outcome.  We’ll shower with the same soap and get dressed in the same clothes and eat the same breakfast.  We’ll wave to the same neighbors and ride the same buses and dock the same laptops.  And soon, we’ll again be voting in the same polling places.  And later voting again.  And again. Because this is America, and we self-correct.

We don’t always get it right the first time.  Plus the world around us changes.  Technology.  The nature of terrorism.  Balancing our needs with those of others.  But that’s okay.  We can change our laws – and our lawmakers – as times require.

We make those changes peacefully.  No riots.  No reprisals.  No fear of the voting booth.  No having to leave the country.

And no need of name-calling.  Or vulgarity.  Or filth.

Because there’s a morning after the election.

And it can’t come too soon.

There’s a sweet spot in motherhood I’m discovering more and more frequently.

My kids are better than me.

When they were little, i spent so much time holding back.  Overlooking that double-jump in checkers.  Not spotting the silver slug bug turning the corner.  Clenching my jaw to keep from grunting, “Draw the card with the ice cream bar so we can finish this game already.”

But often now, I just marvel.  When Rachel sings, when Lois draws, when Hannah organizes, when Julia runs – I think, “Omigosh.  They’re better than me.”

Two weeks ago, I found a small wooden board on my kitchen counter.  I’ve been married to Keith for almost 19 years.  I’ve scooted around entire wood shops in my kitchen, so I thought nothing of one measly board.  Until Lois said, “It’s mine.  For school.”   Then I paid attention.

As we drove to church, she recounted her AP English assignment:  Make the board board representative of yourself.  Then explain it to the class.

Brain flash!  I hurriedly shared my brilliant idea, amidst the backseat catcalls of “lame,” “pathetic,” and “Michael Scott’ish.’  Drill five holes in the top edge of the board.  Fill each hole with a different writing instrument representing the different phases of your life – crayon, pencil, pen, art pencil and – ta-da! – an empty hole, because you don’t know what the future brings.  Write your name across the front of the board in the style and medium representative of your different ages.

The laughter and groaning continued into the church parking lot.  I thought:  My offspring don’t understand my great idea.  So instead of —mmmm—-listening to the sermon, I sketched.  Passed it down the row to Lois, who rolled her eyes and pointedly left it in the sanctuary on her way to Sunday School.  I picked it up with maternal efficiency, just knowing she’d want it later.

I even showed my sketch to my buds working the nursery, who were perhaps too quick to agree it was brilliant. Did they really shut the door behind me?  Was that LAUGHING I heard?!

Lois had her own idea.  She and Keith cut the board into strips, then she built a bookshelf sporting items integral to her life.  Books.  Headphones.  Fashion.  Colorful posters on the sides and a warm blanket on top.

I’m not too sure about the Hello Kitty bandage at the bottom.  Sometimes it’s best not to know.

It goes to school for a grade on Thursday.  Regardless of what she receives – the mark will be higher than what I would have gotten.

Because, yes – she’s better than me.

And I’m glad.

What grade will she get?  Feel free to post your guess in a comment below. First, best guess wins an original Lois sketch.  Of something.  Unless you’d rather have one of mine.  No one seems to want them.  Sigh.

We’re skipping church this morning.  Everyone is either going out of town (Keith and Hannah), or too tired (the rest of us.)  What better way to acknowledge my sin than by blogging about our boo-tiful day yesterday?

I’ve always admired folks who decorate beautifully.  People like my sister can take knotted string, an apple core, broken spaghetti and crusty spray paint and create a stunning centerpiece in 10 minutes.  I am not one of those people.  I keep Rubbermaid boxes jammed under the stairs and spread the contents around the fireplace.  The orange-topped boxes contain memories of Halloweens past – kids’ crafts, Beanie Babies, stuffed animals and a few books.  This is Julia’s third Halloween home, and she was thrilled to discovered I’d kept some of her kindergarten and first grade crafts to display.

We headed to Fiesta Texas for Fright Fest, and opened the gates at noon.  Didn’t leave until 9 p.m., which is why everyone is overtired today.  Of all the characters roaming, I liked these ghastly twins the most.  They never smiled.  I took their stony countenance as a challenge, – kind of like the visitors who taunt the guards at Buckingham Palace, hoping to crack a smile.  Nope.  Shortly before we left, a ghoulish “convict” screamed and chased Rachel at least 100 yards through the Old West area.  Her Superman cape was flying – her mouth was hanging open screaming back – her feet were flying, all while clutching the pumpkin she’d painted hours earlier.  I have not laughed so hard in months.  I hurt, I laughed so hard.  People applauded, and I heard, “Man, that belongs on You Tube!”

I don’t play the Frugal Maternal Unit at Fright Fest.  The girls feign great shock when I allow each to have her own soft drink, and I spring for extras like pumpkin and cookie painting.  Rachel chose a “rasta” theme for her pumpkin.  Lois – Lestat the Vampire.   Hannah – a Hannah Montana theme. Julia – a vampire with a sword in its head.  (Child psychologist, anyone?)  They’re now gracing the fireplace mantle. No, no, I won’t save them for next year.

Rachel’s cookie tasted a bit like paint.  She’s not sure why.  Yes, she’s a senior this year.  And can vote next year.  Comforted by that, are you?