Let's get one thing straight: a domestic goddess I am not. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy many domestic activities: cooking, sewing, crafts, activities with the kids. Now that I am thinking about it, all of these activities require making messes. This is where I excel. I am always willing to participate in any undertaking that involves getting a bunch of stuff out and making something new out of it. The aftermath is usually reminiscent of a crime scene, but hey, it's worth it to see a finished product. Right?
OK, so back to my original point. I think the reason I lack the skills necessary to be a super duper homemaker type is my lack of organizational skills. This is actually something I have struggled with for my entire life. In elementary school, my horrible teacher, Mrs. Miller the 4th Grade Killer, used to dump my desk out on the floor weekly because it was such a disaster. I always had a backpack filled with papers and a completely empty Trapperkeeper. In junior high and high school, my parents always knew which locker was mine on back to school night because there were papers sticking out of it. In college, while sitting in my horrendously messy room reading a textbook, something that I read really struck me in a list of characteristics of students with high IQs:
• sometimes acts without planning; may be sloppy, unorganized; is
not bothered by mess and disorder;.
Imagine that! I am so messy cause I'm smart. Go freaking figure! So, I used this as my excuse for a while, and it worked for me. I was not at all bothered by mess and disorder. However, another characteristic of my brilliance started to rear its ugly head when I became a wife, and subsequently, a mother: "perfectionistic thinking". You see, it is awfully hard to try to be perfect all the time when I generally suck at many things. Driving, waiting in lines, reading maps, folding, being bothered by mess and disorder...the list goes on and on.
As you can imagine, the task of keeping the toys, food, and clothing of my children contained and organized is pretty flipping impossible for me. However, due to my "perfectionistic thinking", I couldn't have my children grow up in a house filled with disorder. Plus, Andy is kinda methodical, routine-based, and organized. I don't want to make him antsy merely because I don't mind stepping over things to get to the kitchen. So, I set a goal to make routines for myself. To follow through. To somehow maintain an appearance of keeping it together no matter how cluttered my brain was. Easier typed than done, my friends, but I persevered. And we, my enlightened husband and I, have done a pretty good job working through my, um, issue. Sometimes, though, in our frenzied weeks, things start to get all discombobulated again and we have to take a day to regroup. So, welcome to my day today! The following picture represents two hours of hard work and wrangling of uncooperative helpers:
So that's what this whole long rambling is about, you ask? You're darn skippy it is. Why did I feel the need to write a novel about cleaning a playroom? Well, this brings me to another characteristic that I embody: procrastination!
As it turns out, Ben's favorite color is pink and he really likes hanging out with the girls....I think I am no longer concerned.
Today, Emily informed me that as she was eating lunch, her little friend Ben called her a name. You want to know what he called her? "Baby Girl". Yes, you read right: Baby Girl. What is up with this? Aren't kindergarteners supposed to call each other poopyhead and meanieface? I could have handled that. What is this, kindergarten or an LL Cool J song?
The real troubling thing is that when she told me the story, she had a hint of a smile...a glimmer in her eye that was unmistakeable. I quick told her that boys have cooties and to tell that Ben that she is not a baby...she is a strong, independent girl and if he ever needs help lifting anything heavy he should let her know. She will be happy to help!
Emily is quite the artist. She comes home from school every day with her backpack full of masterpieces. Just last week, she drew a beautiful picture of the two of us riding on an elephant through the desert.
When I commented on the horizon line in the background, she said, very matter of factly," Yes, my friend Greta taught me to do that. It is called a landscaper." As I held back my chuckle, I started reminiscing about verbal blunders of her past. Now that she is older, these gems are few and far between, but I can remember the days when she would mix up words and I would refuse to correct her because it was just oh-so-cute.
One of my favorites is when she would get in the car and ask me to put on "Jelly Bowl" (Billy Joel) and the day she walked around the house looking for her "diarrhea" (diary). I can also remember when she very clearly requested that this year, she get a "zucchini" to wear to the beach. Oh, how I love her!
And catching Ethan red-handed pretending to be flown around in the sky by a paper kite:
Oh, to be a kid again!
For the past couple of days I have been proctoring state standardized tests for homeschooled children in the city of brotherly love. This has been quite the experience, to say the least. Nothing like taking 300 kids who are used to working at home at their own pace and cramming them in a room for two days to quietly take a high stakes test. Ummm, yeah. It actually went well, all things considered. Although this was technically all about the kids, lets have a moment of selfishness where I pretend it was all about me and my amusement.
First off, we had an incident of grafitti. One of the awesome staff members of the hotel where the test was taking place kindly took me aside to explan how there was some new artwork in one of the bathroom stalls. Oh, geez. So, using skills gained from watching Law and Order, I quickly devised a plan on how to investigate the situation to determine the offendor. Since the "artwork" was in the boys bathroom, I could cut the list of students pretty much in half. My next plan was to take a picture of the graffiti and compare it with the scrawlings on the scrap paper of the students. This handwriting analysis would surely determine the offendor, right? I am so good at this, I thought to myself, all those years of watching TV really paid off.
So, off I go to snap a photo and examine the artwork with my specially trained, investigative eyes, hypothesising about what I will find on the other side of the stall door. Vulgar language? A nude drawing? Nopers. The kid wrote his own damn name. Darnit. Then, when confronted, he admitted to it. Double darnit. All of this investigative talent just wasted on a case fit for an amateur. Oh well.
Moving right along, I would like to now discuss something that may be controversial. Trust me, my comments are purely observational, I am not trying to be judgemental. I think that was disclaimer-ish enough, so here goes. It seems as though we have a lot of students who are really religious. Many families came to the test with all of the women and girls only showing their eyes. I know it is customary for some Muslim cultures to cover their hair so they are not drawing attention to their beauty and luring poor stupid men into wanting them. I get that. I really do. Same reason nuns and biblical women cover their hair. I know for sure that I would be a lot less hot if I wore a big robe and didn't show my gorgeous fake blonde hair. If all women did this, we would probably have so many more inventions and cures for more diseases since the scientists would not be so busy checking out Dr. Hottie's ass when she bent over to get the bunsen burner or checking out Dr. Milf's cleavage as she scrubbed out the test tubes.
With that said, the first day of testing, I was extremely distracted because the word "ninja" kept popping into my head. I had an insatiable urge to say the word ninja. I swallowed my urges, but this was SO INNAPROPRIATE of me. Then, I started thinking about Michael Jackson's kid named Blanket because I think I saw him (her?) wearing one of those veils a couple of times. I had to get over this! So, I started engaging in long meaningful conversations with the covered women. They were really smart, terrifically funny women with whom I had more in common than not, so this was very enjoyable...and after I spoke with each of them, it became easier and easier to not ask them childish questions like "do you ever trip over your robe?" or "isn't it hot in there?" or even "how do your kids know if you are really their mom, or just an imposter who stole her shoes?". I am glad I had this experience, because I really do feel like I grew up a bit in my ability to look past physical appearances and focus on what is inside. Whew! Another disaster averted.
My freshman year of college, I learned a valuable skill. Actually, I believe it was my dear friend Jill who taught me this life-changing practice: the art of the nap. You see, before I went to college, I was never really a napper. To lay down and get all drooly in the middle of the day was not something I was into. Or so I thought. But when Jill would lay down and get snuggly after class, what was a girl to do? There was no good TV on in the afternoon (Springer was on at 11, and it was all downhill after that). So, I would reluctantly get myself a blankie and lay down on her little pull out couch. She had the routine down pat...close the blinds, set an alarm, and then simply sleep. Just like that. At first, this was just impossible for me, but I gave it the old college try. I would lie awake thinking of everything but sleeping. I would toss and turn, and think about homework and laundry and Ramen noodles.
I even began to doubt the nap. Was this just a waste of time? I was never even really tired in the middle of the day. What was the point? But again, I persisted. I would learn to nap no matter what, damnit. I then began to think of it as a "sympathy nap". I really wasn't tired, but Jill was, so I would nap in order to sympathize with her feelings. I am so selfless. Fortunately, this plan worked! Success at last!
Now, as an adult, I have a whole new appreciation for the nap. Although I rarely have the opportunity to nap myself, this has become a very important part of my life. When Emily began refusing a nap at age 2, I was devastated. How would I survive? Life as I knew it was over. Now that Emily is at school, Ethan is the main napper in my life. I have once again gained 2 and half hours of uninterrupted time each day while my dear boy slumbers. On weekends, the entire household has taken to "family naps" where we pile pillows and blankets on the floor, and encourage one another to sleep, or at the very least, sympathize with one another's desire for slumber. One thing that I have learned is that this is rarely successful unless everyone under the age of 6 has spent at least 3 hours blowing off some steam. This is a serious prerequisite to the family nap, or it turns out to be a complete disaster. So, this weekend, we went on a family field trip in an effort to have some fun and blow off some steam.
The Easter bunny generously gifted the children fishing poles, and my Mom gave the kids these stylish and snuggly fleeces, so we decided to give them a try. I think it may have been too cold for the fish, but by the time we left, both kids had dirt under their fingernails and leaves in their hair, so it was definitely a success.
At first, they were all gung-ho about the fishing adventure:
That was our cue to take a nice walk in the woods, and visit the playground
