A Tale of Two Floors

I used to cringe in disgust when a Swiffer duster commercial would come on.  

Me (I would say to my single, childless self out loud): "Ugh!  Who lets their house get that dusty?  Seriously?!  Wouldn't they notice the layer of dust accumulating on their dark furniture and floors before it got like that?"

You know who lets their house get that dusty?  Me.  And anyone else with small children and a husband who has an amazing super power.  He is able to ignore messes, out of place toys, and dust. 

Well, let me clarify just a bit.  The whole house isn't a dusty mess.  My house has 2 zones: the private zone and the public zone.  Kind of like the West Wing and East Wing of the White House.  One part is on display for consumption, while the other part is where we "let out hair down" and dust, clothes baskets, and toys roam free.  Our home's private zone, traversed only by folks who share my last name (maiden or married), shows the "real" business of the house.  It also shows the problem that arises when one person multitasks (even though there are two persons of age in the house who could do any or all of the following): cleaning staff, CEO, teacher, referee, disciplinarian, cook, entertainer, personal trainer...you get the picture.

Friends who are "single-floor guests" have one opinion of me and my Sally Home-maker-ness.  I'm "so organized," and amazingly, I somehow find time to supervise messy art projects while cooking dinner and catching up with everyone in the house - all at the same time!  Here's a hint: It's because I've completely ignored the creeping funk going on upstairs so that my downstairs looks spotless and I can focus on everything that's happening right then and there.  To my guests, however, I appear to be "that Mom."  You know the type (and I truly aspire to be one or close to it)...Makes everything from scratch--kids never have a hair out of place--kids wear ironed clothes--she wears ironed clothes--manicured--pedicured--hair dyed just right--PTA President--preschool room mother--lawn looks perfect--not a speck of dust to be found on any level of her house--light from Heaven shines brighter on her and her house than on anyone else's--mom.  

Let me tell you something.  That type of mom has a cook, a cleaning service, and a clone!

My home's public zone (read that carefully!) makes it look like I've got it all together, but head upstairs to the private zone and you'll be swallowed up by the fluffy dust!  Yes.  Did you know that when dust is left to its own devices, it takes on a fluffy appearance?  Like a flower that wilts to signal it needs water, the dust at my house takes on a cloud-like appearance to signal to me that it's time to get out the Swiffer duster and Pledge.  I get to re-enact that same Swiffer duster commercial that used to disgust me.  Now I say, "Amen, sister" as it plays.  Overflowing laundry baskets, full gift bags from 2 Christmases ago, piles of woodworking magazines, books I refuse to get rid of, drifts of plastic bags just waiting their turn to line our trashcans, and a white layer of fluffy dust coating all of it...that's what my lucky husband and I get to see on a nightly basis...and morning too I guess.  Thank goodness we're both too bleary-eyed to notice much in the morning (thanks to a certain daughter who, at 20 months, still doesn't sleep through the night).  

It's a tale of two cities home over here...the best of times downstairs, and the worst of times upstairs.  The real me vs. the me I want you to think I am.  Maybe some day, 5 years from now I guess, I'll find a balance between private and public, best and worst.  Until then, I'll just continue to get my bi-annual pedicure and manicure, and whip out the Swiffer duster when I know you're comin' over.   

The "WHY" Contest

Inquisitive?  Scientific?  Annoying?  They all apply as we move into the new phase of life with a preschooler...the "Why" phase.  I knew it would come...someday.  Now "someday" is here...has actually been here for a few days, and has already worn out its welcome.  Any answer I give now gets the same response: "Why?"  Or, she'll mix it up a bit for me by asking, "But, why?"  No explanation is good enough to appease her.  

"God made it that way."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"But, why?"

Can I look at this as a chance to get as creative as I want with answers, knowing she's not really listening to me but just waiting for me to finish so she can ask her new favorite question?  Not likely, because to go along with this new found inquisitiveness, she's also got the memory of an elephant.  If I tell her that she can't have snack right at this very second because we're all out of snacks in the whole house, and the grocery store is out too, she'll remind me of this when I pull out snacks later in the afternoon and the next morning.

Then there's this lovely conversation that we have at least once a day:

"Mommy!  Why does the cat srow (throw) up?"

"Because she eats too fast."

"Why?"

"She's the smallest and wants to get her share of food before the fat cats take it all."

"Why?"

"That's the way the world works."

"But, why?"

"God made it that way, I said so, and just because.  Oh look, there's a plane!"

I'm a pretty patient person.  After working with preschoolers and middle schoolers, special needs and general education students alike, I am ready for any number of "whys" that she'll inevitably  throw my way until she's either too bored to continue or I've finally given the answer for which she was looking.  My husband, however, is not so patient.  I can't wait to see the smoke pour out of his ears while he tries to navigate this little part of our parenting journey.  I'm sure that'll make for an interesting blog post...someday. 

What is your favorite response when "Why" is thrown at you?  Leave your answer in the comment section below. 

 
 

Storms, Jiggling, and Ocean-blocking

Day 1 of our vacation began with a thunderstorm of epic proportions.  It overstayed its welcome and made the power go out.  The cars had just pulled into the driveway of the beach house and the rain started.  The last piece of luggage made its way into the house just as the Heavens opened up and the power hightailed it outta here.  We all agreed though, that a powerless, rainy day at the beach was far superior to a powerful, sunny day back home.

Oh, the irony of it all.

The week before vacation, my local weather person had been promising storms that never actually came.  I get to the Outer Banks and get a storm so energetic that it kills the power and sends sheets of rain down upon us for 7 hours.  If only my little town back home could've been so lucky...we needed the rain.  I mean, farmers were asking others to pray for it during our church service.

Days 2 and 4 began at sunrise thanks to the Hurricane (read: my youngest daughter).  The plus side - I was able to sneak in a 2.5 mile run on both days.  My jiggly bits were, surprisingly, not as jiggly as last year!  Progress!

Day 3 included the annual trip to Jimmy's Seafood Buffet.  My FIL is a legend there.  Being first in line is an art form he has certainly mastered and is a must when traveling with him to this particular eatery.  The food is good, but what's better is watching my husband and his two younger brothers fight for the title of "Crab Leg King."  Melted butter oozing down their chins, bits and pieces of crab flying over all of us...it's glorious.

Day 5 is a blur...I don't remember a single thing from that day.  Must have been the new drink my BIL introduced me to...Private Stock Captain Morgan's and Crystal Light Lemonade.  Tastes EXACTLY like  amaretto!  Sooo good.

Day 6 I fondly refer to as: Ocean-blocking Day

Y'all know of the "other" kind of blocking...boys detest it and usually a wing-man (of the male or female persuasion) is the cause.  The kind of blocking to which I'm referring, my friends, is the fault of rude, socially inept individuals who lead their family members to a spot on the beach that is, in no way, available.  Why is it not available, you ask?  Well, because it's directly in front of our camp and totally blocks our direct view/access to the water.  That's why!

The day began at dawn, with a cup of coffee that I didn't have to reheat 6 times, and my last 2.5 mile run of the week.  After lunch, the little kids napped while the adults sat around and talked, watched non-cartoon related TV, or secluded themselves in the loft to read or write (guess who).  One by one, the little ones arose and parents trucked upstairs to retrieve their respective toddlers, tug on their swimsuits, slather on the sunblock, and head back to the beach.

Now, having been raised by the daughter of a true Southern Lady, I was privy to proper beach etiquette from a very young age.  You kick up sand into a stranger's coffee cup while chasing your little brother (even though you can't understand why anyone would take an open coffee mug onto a sand filled beach)?  You apologize through the tears of embarrassment streaming down your face.  You set up beach games out of other beach-goers' path to the ocean.  You play your music loud enough for only your group to hear.  So, imagine my surprise when I descend the stairs from the house to the beach, in the South mind you, to find a large group of unruly folks with an obnoxiously bright, huge umbrella, camped out not 10 yards directly in front of us.  How rude!  They must be from the Nawth, says my inner monologue to no one but herself.  I was not quiet about the displeasure I felt after stumbling upon this discovery.  Loud music - good, but loud - emanated from the center of their offending heap of beach paraphernalia, trashcan frisbee games were set up dangerously close to our blow-up baby pool, and all of it, all of it,  was blocking our direct access to the ocean.  How dare they!  I tell you, if any of their errant frisbees had come anywhere near my babies, Momma Bear would have made her beach debut!

Maybe it's a sign of the times - people becoming more and more disrespectful and rude.  Maybe it was just this particular group of tourists.  All I can hope is that by telling my story, I can shed light on this epidemic of rudeness.  If I've stopped even one family from ocean-blocking another, I'll consider that a success.

Dead as a Doornail

Let's chat about technology, shall we?  I realize that without it you wouldn't be reading this or any other blog.  Thousands of nobodies like me would continue about our lives.  No one would know a thing about our personal or private lives, and instead of writing witty bits for strangers, we'd be doing something more productive - like dusting, ironing (which I detest), or weeding our gardens.

Today, however, I'm lost.

I raised my phone to snap a photo of the Hurricane wearing her Daddy's OSU hat (her cuteness rivaled anything a baby - human or otherwise - could conjur).  Just as the flash pulsed, my phone went black.

DEAD.

Resurrection has not yet occurred.  I'm still holding on to hope though.  

Now, I'm utterly dumbfounded.  How will I contact my friends?  I haven't bothered to memorize a phone number since I first met my husband 6 years ago.  The only other phone number I'd deemed worthy enough to memorize before that was my ex-boyfriend's from 3 years prior to that!  Calling hostesses to confirm trunk show dates?  Following up with ladies who want to be stylists?  Fuggedaboudit!

UGH!  What's worse?  No Scramble with Friends.  No mobile photos to upload, and no way to Facebook stalk while my husband plays an uber-important game of Civilization on our home's only computer.  

I've been without my trusty sidekick for 3 hours now, and I'm already getting the DTs.  Can I go on?  Am I going to make it?

Doubtful.

Those 3 Little Words

There comes a time in every parent's life when your child says something that moves you.  Moves you to tears, hysterical fits of laughter, or just plain moves you off your tucchus because your kid just said something that requires parental action!

My time came only yesterday, when my almost 3-year-old sponge looked up at me with her big blue eyes and breathed, "I hate you."  No sarcasm or true hatred dripped off her tongue with this sentiment, mind you.  I don't really even remember her being reprimanded for anything which could even warrant this devastating news.  It came out as nonchalantly as it possibly could have - as though she was merely trying it on for size...just to see what I would do, perhaps?

"I hate you."  

Really?  Already?  Quiet, meek even - yet it rattled me to the core.  Yes, folks, my heart broke just a bit that day.  My mini-me had cut me to the quick.  Does she even know what "hate" means?  Surely not!  She does, however, know where she learned these words, and she saw what happened to the child who dared utter such a thing in the presence of said child's parents.  Yet, the true princess decided to try it out herself anyway.  Was she testing the boundaries as any good little almost 3-year-old should?  But of course!  (read: I sure as heck hope so!)

Lordy, the worst thing I recall telling my mom was that she was embarrassing.  I guess I'll have to agree with the experts on this one - today's parents have it rough!  

"I hate you."  At age 3?  I wonder what gem she'll throw my way at 4.  At least, in my childhood days, we had the common decency to wait until our teenage years before we spoke such harsh words.

That's the Story of the Hurricane

Do you want to know why there's a virtual dust-bowl going on right in my very own home?  2 words: Hurricane Hayden.  Are you looking up Hurricane Name Lists right now, or checking the local weather report to see if you missed a big weather-related event?  Don't bother.  "Hayden" won't appear on any of those lists, and no, a true hurricane did not just happen...at least at YOUR house it didn't.  That name does, however, top my "list" once in a while, and recently, it's been there daily.

Instead of clearing the hot spots in my home, dusting or vacuuming when the girls go down for their naps, like any good stay-at-home mom should, I'm scrambling around picking up broken crayons, remotes that have been picked up from one room and tossed into another, toys from the playroom that have been exiled to new and exotic locales like the pyrex dish cabinet or the fishbowl, and de-soaping the bathroom sink.  And, since Hurricane Hayden doesn't nap for more than an hour before crying out for "Mommy" or fooling me into thinking she's "stuck" in the rails of her crib, that's about all I can do in my "spare time."  So, the dust just sits and sits.  More dust comes along to join the party, and it all just sits.  Throw in some cat hair tumbleweeds and we've got a real dust-bowl showdown!

I was unaware that people in a house with carpet in only one room could create so much dust.  Apparently, I was wrong.  I suppose I'll be able to tame the tumbleweeds soon enough.  Hurricane Hayden, well, she's another story altogether.

An Earnest Explanation

First, allow me to apologize for the extended hiatus.  It’s hard to be witty and funny when someone you love is going through a life-threatening illness.  Last August, my Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer.  He went into the hospital the day before my oldest daughter’s 2^nd birthday.  He fought the cancer and won!  As of Thanksgiving, his cancer was declared “in remission,” and we all had something for which to be extremely thankful.  Good spirits abounded, and I was well on my way back to bloggerdome.  Astonishingly, a month and 4 days later, my Dad passed away from complications that his cancer treatment caused.  I won’t go into much detail, as any of you who have watched someone pass away right in front of you know, it’s not a pretty sight or sound.  In fact, I’ve neglected to dream since December 29^th because I don’t want to hear or see those images again…ever.

The positive side is that we were all there to say goodbye to my dad.  We each held his cold hand, told him we loved him, mom kissed him, and we waited until he took his last breath. 

Having that image and those sounds seared into my brain for the past 3 months has made being funny, witty and even interested in sharing anything a daunting task.  However, I’ve recently felt the urge to write again.  I find it cathartic and that it gives me a voice when I so desperately need one but can’t find the words to say.  Thank you for indulging me and letting me share my family’s tragedy with you.  No one may ever read this, and that’s OK with me.  I know someone in Heaven who is smiling down on me, knowing that I’m finally back to doing something I love, which must mean I’m somewhat back to my normal self.  I sure am glad about that, because I’ve missed her.

If you are interested, below is what I wrote about my Dad.  It was printed on the back of the program for his Memorial Service.

                                                              My Father, My Hero

     Saying that I loved my Dad is an understatement.  "Love" does not encapsulate just how much I adored, revered, and almost idolized him, and honestly, I still do and always will.  He wore a cape under his suit and could leap tall buildings in a single bound as far as I was concerned.  Where most children have heroes like Superman, Wonder Woman or a fireman, I had Daddy. 

    When my 4-year-old eyes saw him come home from work one day, I ran down our walkway and took a "leap of faith" (as Daddy referred to it) off the steps and into his already fully loaded arms.  He somehow managed to catch me.  When my tender teenaged heart would get broken by some boy and I thought my world would fall apart, my Dad managed to put it all back together every time and somehow made me a stronger person in the process.  When I was old enough, I learned about and truly understood all the challenges Daddy faced in his life, some on a daily basis, and most no one should ever have to deal with at all.  He overcame each and every challege that was thrown at him, confirming his heroic status in my eyes and showing our family that strength, love and faith can get you through anything.

     Now, I am relying on that strength, love and faith to get me through the challenge of a life without my hero.  Although it feels like my heart is broken and my world has been shaken to the core, I can eventually put it all back together and become stronger in the process.  I also know that when God calls me and it's my time to take a "leap of faith" off this Earth and into Heaven, Daddy will be waiting there to catch me...and just maybe, along with those angel wings, he'll also be wearing his cape.