Lately, with all the things I’m trying to tackle, it seems like much of my home-life is spinning out of control. Where once I used to love making gourmet dinners: Chicken Kiev, with succulent spinach pastries and fluffy wild rice; my current idea of culinary expertise includes Pillsbury crescent rolls, frozen veggie’s and whatever special the Schwann’s man had last week. Where I once used to go all out in decorating for the holidays, picking up Martha Stewart magazines for inspiration to deck my house in holiday cheer; now, I buy the silly gel window clings, hand the packages to my offspring and tell them to ‘have at it’. Cleaning… well, I never had a real love for cleaning, but at least I used to keep things straight and neat: Rings in the tub or toilet? Unheard of, my mother would kill me. (Note the key terminology in this last bit… USED TO.)
Cleaning, had fallen far short on my repertoire of things to do… a few steps down from decorating, far down the list from tossing a frozen pizza into the oven, it was all but at the bottom of the barrel of chores. I loathe cleaning. To me it’s a waste of time, as soon as I pick up my little angels immediately help things back to their proper ‘homey’ place of chaotic untidiness. Dusting? Vacuuming? Well who can do that when the floor is littered with shoes, clothing and toys? My failure as a housewife/live at home maid/ servant (I mean homemaker, the PC term for these jobs is homemaker) had reached a state where the cat’s were having to weave in and out amongst the cluttered minefield to get anywhere in the house, and my husband (who loathes messes and disorganization) was making berserker charges through the house to get from one place to another: Eye’s closed, teeth gritted, plunges across the field—or rooms as the case may be.
It was bad, real bad, and one day, as my husband barged through the room, pushing aside toys and shoes as he tried to reach the coat rack, I surfaced from my other realm of fantasy and horror (I’ve been writing: murder, mayhem, suspense, fantasy) and realized that if I wasn’t careful, my family would soon disown me. It was time to suck it up and get tough.
Drill sergeant mommy came out. After school, children would not pass go, nor would they collect 200 dollars (or in this case get their afternoon snack) unless coats were in the trunk, shoes in the basket, backpacks on the hook. I made a pact with myself to clean the dishes as they got dirty, rather than as I needed them, the craft room… well… uh-hum. Laundry would NOT pile up, cat fur would be vacuumed on a regular basis, I would dust before my children had the ability to etch their names in the layers. AND I would buy those daily wash sprays and tabs for tub and toilet. This was battle! One I was determined to win.
…I remember now why I never liked those 1000 flushes, daily toilet bowl cleaner tabs—or at least not the blue ones. I didn’t grow up with them, my mother never used them (or if she did, she was smart enough to buy the ones that ran clear). I remember once going to a friend’s house that had them and the results were… interesting to say the least, a virtual art lesson in your own bathroom. But, as odd as I found the multiple day experiment, the price was worth it if I didn’t have to get down on hand and knee and scrub said toilet bowl every couple weeks (who am I kidding, every month, yeah, I’m that lazy).
So, despite my reservations on the color, it was with pride that I plopped the tablets into all three of our toilets and merrily went on my business. Toilet’s down, next the shower!
My husband returned home, immediately noting the crystalline blue waters of our porcelain thrown. I beamed under his obvious pleasure. I was acing this homemaker exam.
Next my youngest child, she found the coloring… interesting to say the least. My oldest found it fascinating, and made an afternoon of flushing the toilet over and over again to see if the blue would stay or be washed away. After about the sixteenth flush I had to ban him from the bathroom, except for bathroom emergencies.
Then my middle child, my budding artist, went into the half bath. A minute passed, then another… no flush. She burst out of the room, her face beaming with excitement, blue eyes sparkling, feet skipping, honey locks bouncing and said...
“Mom, hey mom! Come look! Blue and Yellow make GREEN!!!”
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Thou shall not use the Lord’s name in Vain
This was actually something that happened a few years back, when Jillian was a baby, Kaitlyn was two and my son, Aiden, was four. I’d forgotten about this until now...
We’d had, for many months now, a family of Jehovah’s Witness stopping in about once every weekend. I like to think it was because we were just so gosh darn nice, that they saw an inner spark in us that made them want to become acquainted with us. I mean, we certainly weren’t in need of redemption. True, we don’t attend church as often as we should (we’re Roman Catholic). True, familial prayers of thankfulness are only brought out and dusted off for those big holiday get together’s. Despite these lapses, I like to think I’m raising my children to know the difference between right and wrong, to be respectful and polite, to follow the age-old, golden adage of ‘do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ They are good children, if a bit hyper at times, but their hearts are large and filled with love, both given and received….
But I digress. The reason I’m telling you all this is because I was so proud of myself whenever our Jehovah’s ‘friends’ showed up. I was polite, my children were… well, not screaming and running around like maniacs, my house was relatively clean. We always took their ‘newsletters’ with a smile and promise to look them over. When pressured, we gently replied that we were happy with the church we currently attended. I guess I truly thought they kept on coming back because we were always so open and friendly. I think it must be hard to be part of a religion that makes their members go on ‘quests’ to recruit new members. I mean, look at what happens when the Rainbow Vacuum Specialists are making the rounds! The first ‘victim’ in the neighborhood, after slamming the door in their face, quickly calls around to all the neighbors, who then go into Escape and Evade mode. Doors are locked and bolted, lights are turned off, you grab the children and hide in the back room closet, hoping, praying that the vacuum toting salesperson (who promises to get 6 square feet of your carpet cleaner than you can imagine—and leave the rest so dirty that you HAVE to buy the vacuum or, new carpet) will get tired of knocking their knuckles raw on the front door and leave before the baby starts squalling and gives you away. I imagine that the reception to traveling ‘religious recruiters’ is not all that different. So I honestly thought that stopping by so routinely was their way of fulfilling their quota for the week with a friendly, ‘no doors slammed in your face’, kinda family.
Until that fateful day…
On this day, the house was not clean, in fact it looked like a tornado had struck: racing through the house, upturning cushions, scattering toys, flinging shoes and socks far and wide… On this day, my face did not hold a friendly smile; a combination of illness, stress, lack of sleep and hyper children had set my features into a permanent down turned scowl…. On this day, my eldest child, my son, the child that most resembles me in personality and physical features, decided to reveal to not just myself, but our faithful guests, just how far from polite and respectful we were…
Jillian was crying, again. I had determined at 3 am that morning that she must be teething, or still suffering lingering effects from the nasty viral infection that she’d had the past week. The same viral infection that I was currently suffering from. Cold? you ask. Um, no. It was not, merely, a cold. This illness grabbed onto you like the flu, claws unsheathed: high fever, aching body, sore throat soon followed by the coughing hacking, sneezing, stuffy, pounding headache symptoms of a whopper, Nyquil—so you can get your rest medicine—cold. Only I couldn’t rest, and it wasn’t the flu (I’d already brought my children to the doctor and been told it was just ‘a nasty virus going around’). Regardless, I was miserable—and so was Jillian. My elder children, on the other hand, were not miserable. They were having a grand time amusing themselves. A game of bowling for toys had ensued in the hallway downstairs, a rousing diversion of fling your dirty socks onto the fan had followed, after that… well, I don’t know what they’d done after that.
I was just trying to survive.
So needless to say, it was not with any sort of miniscule relief when the doorbell rang and diverted me from my all important quest for survival. I glanced up at the clock: 9am, realized the day… dawning horror clenched my chest. The Jehovah’s Witness were here—to witness my failure as a mother and housewife. Great. Trying to twist my scowl into some semblance of a smile, and failing miserably, I jammed my finger into Jillian’s mouth (she wouldn’t use a binky, only my upside down finger) hoping the enticing fleshy treat would curb a needy baby’s appetite for constant attention and quiet the ceaseless crying. A piercing scream emitted from somewhere upstairs. I responded in kind; cringed as I realized my visitors probably heard that, too. My hand closed on the doorknob, I took a quick glance around—oh hell, I mean heck, oh heck—and opened the door anyway.
“Hello,” the lovely, impeccably dressed woman holding pamphlet and bible greeted me. “How are you today?”
I glanced down. If my sweatshirt clad body and red nose wasn’t a big ole ‘Not Well’ sign, then these people had no idea what the meaning of true suffering was. Then again, when faced with crucifixion and end of days scenarios on a daily basis, my misery was miniscule to them.
I mumbled a reply, then tried to divert their attention, “And you?”
Which of course, paved the way for an in depth homily on the recent teachings of the pamphlet she was holding. My sad attempt of a smile faded by the first coming. By the time I was given a refresher course on the sacrifice Our Lord Savior had made for us, my ears had plugged up.
Something bumped my elbow. Aiden, curious as to who the visitor’s were.
Jehovah’s shepherdess smiled down at him, then went on to wax poetically about the second coming of Christ and when Jesus descended-
My eyes glazed over.
Aiden pushed forward, eyes wide, and exclaimed in his best evangelical preacher voice…..
“Did you say ‘Geee-zus’!?"
Oh God-I mean gosh... I hung my head in shame.
We’d had, for many months now, a family of Jehovah’s Witness stopping in about once every weekend. I like to think it was because we were just so gosh darn nice, that they saw an inner spark in us that made them want to become acquainted with us. I mean, we certainly weren’t in need of redemption. True, we don’t attend church as often as we should (we’re Roman Catholic). True, familial prayers of thankfulness are only brought out and dusted off for those big holiday get together’s. Despite these lapses, I like to think I’m raising my children to know the difference between right and wrong, to be respectful and polite, to follow the age-old, golden adage of ‘do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ They are good children, if a bit hyper at times, but their hearts are large and filled with love, both given and received….
But I digress. The reason I’m telling you all this is because I was so proud of myself whenever our Jehovah’s ‘friends’ showed up. I was polite, my children were… well, not screaming and running around like maniacs, my house was relatively clean. We always took their ‘newsletters’ with a smile and promise to look them over. When pressured, we gently replied that we were happy with the church we currently attended. I guess I truly thought they kept on coming back because we were always so open and friendly. I think it must be hard to be part of a religion that makes their members go on ‘quests’ to recruit new members. I mean, look at what happens when the Rainbow Vacuum Specialists are making the rounds! The first ‘victim’ in the neighborhood, after slamming the door in their face, quickly calls around to all the neighbors, who then go into Escape and Evade mode. Doors are locked and bolted, lights are turned off, you grab the children and hide in the back room closet, hoping, praying that the vacuum toting salesperson (who promises to get 6 square feet of your carpet cleaner than you can imagine—and leave the rest so dirty that you HAVE to buy the vacuum or, new carpet) will get tired of knocking their knuckles raw on the front door and leave before the baby starts squalling and gives you away. I imagine that the reception to traveling ‘religious recruiters’ is not all that different. So I honestly thought that stopping by so routinely was their way of fulfilling their quota for the week with a friendly, ‘no doors slammed in your face’, kinda family.
Until that fateful day…
On this day, the house was not clean, in fact it looked like a tornado had struck: racing through the house, upturning cushions, scattering toys, flinging shoes and socks far and wide… On this day, my face did not hold a friendly smile; a combination of illness, stress, lack of sleep and hyper children had set my features into a permanent down turned scowl…. On this day, my eldest child, my son, the child that most resembles me in personality and physical features, decided to reveal to not just myself, but our faithful guests, just how far from polite and respectful we were…
Jillian was crying, again. I had determined at 3 am that morning that she must be teething, or still suffering lingering effects from the nasty viral infection that she’d had the past week. The same viral infection that I was currently suffering from. Cold? you ask. Um, no. It was not, merely, a cold. This illness grabbed onto you like the flu, claws unsheathed: high fever, aching body, sore throat soon followed by the coughing hacking, sneezing, stuffy, pounding headache symptoms of a whopper, Nyquil—so you can get your rest medicine—cold. Only I couldn’t rest, and it wasn’t the flu (I’d already brought my children to the doctor and been told it was just ‘a nasty virus going around’). Regardless, I was miserable—and so was Jillian. My elder children, on the other hand, were not miserable. They were having a grand time amusing themselves. A game of bowling for toys had ensued in the hallway downstairs, a rousing diversion of fling your dirty socks onto the fan had followed, after that… well, I don’t know what they’d done after that.
I was just trying to survive.
So needless to say, it was not with any sort of miniscule relief when the doorbell rang and diverted me from my all important quest for survival. I glanced up at the clock: 9am, realized the day… dawning horror clenched my chest. The Jehovah’s Witness were here—to witness my failure as a mother and housewife. Great. Trying to twist my scowl into some semblance of a smile, and failing miserably, I jammed my finger into Jillian’s mouth (she wouldn’t use a binky, only my upside down finger) hoping the enticing fleshy treat would curb a needy baby’s appetite for constant attention and quiet the ceaseless crying. A piercing scream emitted from somewhere upstairs. I responded in kind; cringed as I realized my visitors probably heard that, too. My hand closed on the doorknob, I took a quick glance around—oh hell, I mean heck, oh heck—and opened the door anyway.
“Hello,” the lovely, impeccably dressed woman holding pamphlet and bible greeted me. “How are you today?”
I glanced down. If my sweatshirt clad body and red nose wasn’t a big ole ‘Not Well’ sign, then these people had no idea what the meaning of true suffering was. Then again, when faced with crucifixion and end of days scenarios on a daily basis, my misery was miniscule to them.
I mumbled a reply, then tried to divert their attention, “And you?”
Which of course, paved the way for an in depth homily on the recent teachings of the pamphlet she was holding. My sad attempt of a smile faded by the first coming. By the time I was given a refresher course on the sacrifice Our Lord Savior had made for us, my ears had plugged up.
Something bumped my elbow. Aiden, curious as to who the visitor’s were.
Jehovah’s shepherdess smiled down at him, then went on to wax poetically about the second coming of Christ and when Jesus descended-
My eyes glazed over.
Aiden pushed forward, eyes wide, and exclaimed in his best evangelical preacher voice…..
“Did you say ‘Geee-zus’!?"
Oh God-I mean gosh... I hung my head in shame.
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