Because my sister isn't having the most fabulous Mother's Day

Dear Jen,

I put this in an email. A reply to your 5:35 message. I typed it all out and almost hit send, but thought it better to post it here, where we ARE free, where we CAN be. Where I feel our bond most strong, most clear, and most alive.
I love you!
Sarah


omg i wish
i could
steal you away
and the kids
i'd take them too
and we could all go to a retreat
in the woods
with a high energy sitter who happens to drive a tractor
and keeps backhoes and bulldozers handy for serious excavation
and the kids could dig a tunnel
or 200
and create a world of mazes so elaborate
that they would forget that we exist
and we could write
and drink wine
and talk about no men
feel no boredom
or wrath
but only glee
and freedom

with one another
for hours and days on end

no eyes watching
no expectations
the kids can eat with their hands
off the dirt floor of their cave
and we can toss them in a lake with a bar of soap
and cool sitter can tell stories
and they can sleep
soundly
for 12 hours or more

and we can stay up late
hear our laughter echo across the lake
smile
sigh
say sister
sister, i love you

i love you madly and forever
i wish i could steal you away

Home is Where We Muddle Through

We've lived in this house for almost four years; moved in two months before our second was born. In fact, the past two times I've moved I've been seven months pregnant. When I was pregnant with our third, several of our friends asked us if we'd be moving. Uh, no way, not again! But the question was a valid one. This is a small house. The messes are large. The dirt is abundant. Some days I feel like the clutter is endangering our very well-being. But no, we would not be moving.

When we moved in it was summer. The truck was unloaded, and we immediately went on vacation, and then we unpacked. We tried our best to get ready for the new baby (assembled the crib that she NEVER used, for instance). And that left little time and energy for any personal touches around here.

So today. Today I hung curtains. Finally. And I might even hang some more. I realized this spring one of the main reasons for my near-constant crabbiness is that I feel like I never really moved in here. I feel like I'm living in a house where someone else arranged the furniture but didn't hang anything on the walls. A house where my only real contribution has been the arrangement of the countertop appliances in the kitchen (aka my room). And the clarity of not being pregnant and not having to tend to the two older ones every waking minute hit me a few months ago. Hey, this is MY HOUSE. I can hang some art and photos up on the walls. I can put curtains up. I can throw stuff out if I don't want it around (well, if no one else is watching). I can fix the broken toilet paper dispenser (theoretically). But that's just it. I can do all these things because I do live here. But I don't necessarily like to do them. Nor am I very good at it.

Fortunately, my mom came for a weekend, looked at our "artwork" and hung it up. It took her, oh, about 15 minutes. She then laid out all of the curtains that had been taking up too much space in one of our too-few closets, curtains she had given me over the years. She looked at the curtains, walked around the house, and made me a list of what to hang where, what kind of hardware I would need, etc. Thanks, Mom! Phew. I'm finally working on it!

It's silly that I can't do such simple things by myself. I don't have an eye for it. Spatial relations and I don't mix. And yet, as the woman of the house I am expected to add the "homey" (as my partner commented on the curtains) touches. Today I also put some lilacs in three vases and scattered them about downstairs. If the house didn't smell like the mulligatawny soup that's cooking in the Crock Pot right now, I'm sure it would be fragrant with lilacs. But just the fact of having fresh flowers to look at is so ADULT.

I spend so much of my time stepping over toys. Changing peed-on clothes. Filling sippy cups. Wiping down EVERYTHING. Why did it take a veritable AHA moment and nearly four years for me to realize that parts of the house can be mine. Even just a window. The top of ONE surface. I could clean this house daily. The undoing of my work takes minutes. The floor is grimy. Every tabletop is covered in art projects and newspapers and junk mail. Toys have leapt from the bins that I was so happy to acquire, thinking they'd solve the messes. Ha. But if I have a few things to look at on the walls. Flowers in sight. And an idea for what I might do next (fix the TP thingy; change the shower curtain?) I find I feel a little more human and a little less momster.

Sweaty dish-balls...

Okay, I know it's petty but I've got to talk about it for a minute. Just a minute.

Dishes.

First of all, it's ridiculously difficult to wash the dishes, wash A dish, when there's a one year old climbing in and out of the dishwasher. We are always on a backward schedule of dish cycles, where I have to unload to reload to make room in the kitchen to even make dinner.

Second of all, what exactly does my husband DO when he runs the dishwasher? I have yet to spy on his setting choices, and the amount of soap he uses, but every time I open the dishwasher after he's run the cycle the dishes are sweaty. Not like dripping wet cause the wash just finished and they haven't had a chance to dry BUT RATHER cold sweat I just puked up my breakfast, my lunch, and then my dinner and I'm clammy all over. This doesn't truly describe it though. You have to imagine a dirty sweat, with bits of food all over you. Does he not rinse appropriately before loading the dishes? Does he forget to actually USE the detergent (this has been my theory for a while, but I keep giving him credit - can you really forget the soap EVERY time?). Is the dishwasher just playing tricks on me, trying to irk me? I mean, it's not hard to send my mood into acid-reflux, but COME ON!

I literally have to remove half of the dishes and rinse them off and leave them on the drying rack. The other half I just put away and hope I forget what they ever looked and smelled like the next time I pull them out of the cabinets for the kids to use. Yes, I eat out of the dog's bowl because I imagine it much cleaner. I mean, I know where my dog's mouth has been. My kids? That's totally different.

Let me be clear. These dishes make me think of sweaty balls after a hike in the woods during a camping trip where the only semblance of bathing is the murky pond at the end of the trail. Okay, now who wants to think about that?

Anyone who makes me get the mop out before 8 am is officially in TIME-OUT!

People are messy. Kids are messier. In the course of cleaning a child up, another large mess is made. Example: bath time - in my house - every night! It's inevitable that there will be spills and falls, sticky messes, muddy messes, bloody messes. The very thought of all the cleaning is exhausting. You clean the sink - 10 minutes later someone leaves a glob of toothpaste or a big, green boog smack dab in the middle of your cloroxed beauty. You mop the floor - a dog and three boys pounce through with muddy feet, only to turn around and head back outside. Why did you come inside in the FIRST PLACE! You do the dishes - the dishes get used, you DO THEM AGAIN! You do the laundry (you even FOLD the laundry) - the kids decide they want to play race car in the basket and dump the laundry, and then the dog throws up on it. It's terrible that I could go on and on forever. It's so damn tired it's just aggravating. And yet, it just needs to be done. It's just part of life. Life is messy. My life is messy. My boys are messy (4 of em including Dan the Man). Shit, I'm messy too. I try to be neat, but only really on days when I think anyone would care, or if I'm trying to rein in that chaotic feeling that comes on when I realize that this rhino ride I'm on isn't ending ANY TIME SOON. In fact, as the boys get older I'm afraid it will just get harder. And busier. Louder. And messier!

So I clean the floors and do the laundry. Get to the bathrooms when I can or if my mother is coming to visit. I do the dishes and scrub behind their ears - or at the very least I throw them in the shower for a hose down. We do what needs to be done because there is no one else to do it. No one else who keeps it all catalogued in their brain as the Things That Need To Get Done. I've mentioned this list before, if briefly - the running list.

All the generalizations aside, anyone who makes me get the mop out before 8 am is officially in time out, and has started the day on mommy's shit list. Max was that man this morning. Threw his full-to-the-brim cup of apple juice onto the kitchen floor SO INTENTIONALLY. And... I was not amused. Nor upset, really. I calmly picked him up and brought him to the dining room so I could put him on lock down in the booster seat. He screamed NO BUCKLE as I quietly struggled with him TO BUCKLE. Finally I wedge my foot between his legs and pushed down as hard as I had to in order for him to sit back and stay back while I clipped the buckle.

And then I walked away and I mopped. 7:28 am. Barf!

He screamed. I mopped. Not a stitch of anger in me at that moment. It was just so clear to me that there are some things, some messes, some problems that are just NOT Acceptable. And if YOU CHILDREN do them and cross that line, Mommy will NOT be upset, will NOT scream, will NOT shake her head and say things like, "I'm so disappointed in you." No, No, it will be worse. You will see me completely unaffected. No change in tone or decibel. No outward signs of dismay. Instead, I will punish you as you ought to be punished for the crime you have committed. And then I will gladly go about my business, not for one minute feeling a shred of guilt or sadness at your glum faces and drippy eyes. Sorry, Charlie. Momma don't play that game. Some rules CAN'T be broken. And forcing the mop into my hand at 7:28 am is one of those times Momma Ain't Got No Sympathy!