What the Purpose in cleaning?

Sitting here with my trusty collie beside me while the floors dry,  I wonder what is the purpose?  What is the deal with all this cleaning?  Scrubbing floors,  dusting a second time in 2 weeks, vacuuming the corners  and moving furniture to get every last dust bunny that dare escape my scrutiny.

It’s graduation time in my house.  We will celebrate my youngest son’s high school accomplishments this weekend.  Family and friends will be here roasting this humble child who is the apple of his mother’s eye.  (don’t tell my other 4 children)  I have been preparing my home for this day for the past 2 months.  My psyche may never be prepared.

Most of the celebrating will take place outside, with much wondering in and out of the ever slamming screen door.  I had to question my motives while scrubbing and steaming the floors.  Is this really necessary?

Consider this:  Everything outside is going to be walked in and out several hundred times. ( Especially if the grandchildren make an appearance)  All invitees are family and close friends: they know my laid back style and sense of humor.  I’m not going to serve them from dirty plates or moldy food.  All bets are off on the slightly over- doneness (is that really a word) of said food.   President Obama isn’t coming so I don’t have to really clean that much; besides he is afraid of my Mother and respectfully declined the invitation.  It would be so cool though, right?

I’m not a slob.  I vacuum weekly, wash dishes every night out of necessity mostly and the bathroom gets cleaned weekly and again when I start raising my voice at the children.   I’m not OCD like some in my family who shall remain nameless nor am I completely out of control like others who again shall remain nameless.  My home is controlled chaos.

As a single woman who works 40 hours a week, has a social life, keeps up with her children and believes that 8 hours of sleep makes you BRILLIANT:  sometimes cleaning is the last thing needing attention.  Life is too important to worry about a dust bunny in a corner or the miniature Christmas tree that hasn’t made it to storage yet.   Lately I have found myself working overtime to get things done, clean this place up.

Why?  Plain and simple answer: Stress.  My 4^th child is graduating.  4 out of 5:  Sounds like a commercial for a medical product. “4 out of 5 Moms recommend cleaning to get over the stress of your child graduating.”  No it just gives you too much time to think about the years past.  Cleaning up after an illness,  a toy box explosion  involving several cans of play-dough and other unidentifiable substances. There was the fingernail polish on the white rug experiment when he was 3 which had closely followed the red sharpie target drawing on his bedroom wall.  At the time I thought he was going to be an artist.  Not happening.   Washing the child and his clothing when he and his brother rolled in every mud puddle they could find in a ten mile radius; some of those clothes had to be thrown out due to extreme mud infestation.  There is only so much cleaning one mother and a machine can accomplish. 

Cleaning does relieve some of the stress.  It gives you the quiet time you need.  Everyone disappears when you start the serious cleaning.   You can scrub away some of the anxiety, think through some of the unanswered questions,   and share a few smiles and laughs with yourself over those times past.

The future is dirty.  There will be other messes that require attention: some seeming unnecessary, some just for the sake of cleaning.  So here’s to the future:  may yours be filled with memories that last a lifetime.

Peace.

NEPB

Gardening in Pajamas

Most Saturday Morning I awake at the usual 5am: my internal clock can’t tell the difference between weekday and weekend.  I embrace the quiet time while the children sleep:  drinking coffee, writing or watching a rerun on the laptop. 

This morning is a little different.  I am a restless soul.  Friday was disappointing day.  My 18 year old found out that his knee will need surgery:  the same that had surgery 16 months previously.

Yes there is a story.  When this child was 3, he started telling me he was going to be a soldier.  He played army, navy, marines, anything to do with the military.  He played rough and tough.  If he fell and injured himself, all that was required was a bandage and he was out again playing.  No tears- he had work to be done and nothing was going to get in his way.  As a young teenager he began a workout routine that would shame most personal trainers.

Sixteen months ago he tore his meniscus.  It was successfully repaired and after weeks of physical therapy, it was perfect.  I breathed a sigh of relief.   His ultimate dream was within reach: becoming a Marine, following in his big brother’s footsteps.   The work out resumed and increased; Recruiters buzzed and information flowed.  A few weeks ago coming home from work, I noticed him limping and grimaced. During a workout with a friend he had injured the knee again.  He tried to soothe me, telling me it wasn’t like last time:  “There wasn’t a pop.”

Yesterday when we received the news, our question was how does this affect his future dream?  Our armed forces can pick and choose their recruitees:  they want young people in top condition, physical and mental.  What happens now?  How does my garden grow?

I went outside this morning, feeling the need to tend to my garden, yet  still in my pajamas, I grabbed a sweater, threw on a pair of flip flops and headed quietly outside.  Settling down next to my plants to take off the yellowing leaves, I realized they needed nutrients:  where did I put the fertilizer? 

I headed back inside to mix up plant food.  I stood mixing the potion to rescue my plants wishing I could mix a potion to fix knees and children .  Children are similar to precious plants in your garden.  You start them out as seedlings.  They require   water, nutrients, support, shelter from the storm and cold, new containers when they outgrow the old and sometimes you just need to stare at them and wonder why.  You will even go out in your pajamas to garden when necessary.  

I went back outside, fed my plants, pulled off the yellowed leaves, dead blossoms from the petunias.  I gently loosened the soil around the tomatoes, hoping they would absorb more of the plant food.   My garden will need a little extra care.  The growing season is going to be longer.

Peace.

NEPB

Hair Plan

Note:  The blogger’s Cousin gave full blessing &  permission  to write of her Hair Obsession … I meant to say plan.

It all started when my cousin from the big "D" questioned me on airline policies.  Was it possible to carry aerosol cans on an airplane?  She was extremely concerned about bringing her brand of hair care product on the plane for her upcoming visit.  I laughed.  I had warned her she would be visiting a much smaller town:  1,000,000 vs 420,00 (60% being college students) “We have hair spray “ I told her, “ just little tiny bottles for little tiny hair dos”.

I hadn’t seen my cousin in 20 years, sad fact.  We had kept in touch by social media and phone as physical distance and the momentum of life kept us apart.  It was finally time, Hairspray or not.  She was finally throwing in the towel and visiting the southern branch of the family.

Friday morning I realized this woman doesn’t throw any towel to the wind; she packs it.  I was standing in the bathroom door chatting while, hair wrapped in a towel, started to rant about her hair. 

Now hair is a touchy subject with me.  I don’t feel the love, pride, responsibility …. whatever.   I don’t own it.   The last time I had my hair trimmed I walked down to my hair guru in a freezing drizzle to find my “stylist” absent and had to settle for a substitute.  I plopped down like a humiliated dog subjected to a unwanted bath and sighed.  It was going to get ugly if I didn’t control my mouth.

Then the questions started simultaneously with the combing:  “when was your last cut?”  (I interpret-You are a hair slob) “what shampoo do you use?”  (You take horrible care of your hair) and so on.  Then the BIG one…  “What is your PLAN for your hair?

I stopped looking in the mirror and turned my head to look directly at her.  “Huh?  I don’t make hair plans:  I ‘m just happy to have hair.” 

The woman who usually cuts my hair knows my history of hair..  I lost my hair to chemo treatments 7 years ago.  After 2 years of chemo, wigs, hats, scarves and being told that ridiculous lie “ you look good bald”, some hair started to come back. It took 2 years to get real hair on my head.  5 years to get any length.  I  now consider hair to be just that: Hair.  I don’t spent much time on it these days.  It’s not mine anymore. Sure it now grows out my head but other than protecting me from a bit from Winter cold, it is useless: thin, straight, a weird hue of my former self.  I color when I get tired of looking at that weirdness, spray it into submission with a ponytail holder when I am lazy: often.   I don’t spend any more than 2 minutes on this head that mostly looks like Medusa’s snakes will crawl out and turn you to stone at any moment.  Don’t ask me about my Hair Plans!

As I stood leaning in the doorway watching my cousin towel dry her head, I thought about my lack of hair plans.  She defended her right to hair care.  She had to have her special towel. “Can you believe I brought my own hair towel?” (does she think I have some contagious head disease?)  She explained It dried her hair quickly having a sponge –like effect.  This meant less time with the blow dryer.  And the blow dryer:  it had special attachments because she had to get the right effect for fullness having been born with straight, thin, bodiless hair.   (Hey! Me too- suppose we are related?)

My cousin however- takes her hair plan seriously.  Purchasing the towel, the blow dryer, did I mention the brushes?  There are 2:  depending on which section of hair she is drying.  She continued, explaining to me that she often travels with hair scissors because her bangs are a source of constant worry and need frequent pruning.  She wasn’t able to bring them on the plane:  TSA regulations being so strict.  I instantly dug around in the vanity finding a pair, needing to soothe her frazzled hair plan.    “Those might come in handy” She exclaimed happily. ( For bangs or protection?)  The hair plan continued. She applied her body building hair powder, “I use body building shampoo too! Can’t you tell! “ She laughed at me, laughing at herself as well.  I rolled my eyes at her.

Now I am no stranger to these products.  In a weak moment I gave in and tried a few.  The effect was so temporary, I gave up.  I retreated once more to my mantra “Its only hair”.   I am envious of those women who have determination to continue.  More so to those with the hair that doesn’t require such maintenance.  I’m pretty sure most long for the opposite hair of that which they have been given. It’s the statement heard in women’s dressing rooms throughout the land.  “I hate my hair!”   “I want my hair to be this way!”  There is a billion dollar industry to convince us that we need to tame our to behave the opposite of whatever its current condition, color or texture.

From our conversation that morning I quickly deducted any highly time sensitive function during this visit was going to require advance warning so the hair plan could be activated properly.  I am, if anything a good planner.  Every hair event went according to plan and I must admit, my cousin's hair performed wonderfully.  Especially considering the constant wind we endured this weekend,

Special note to my cousin:  You do know that wind adds body to your hair, Right?  You looked beautiful and we so enjoyed your company!

Good Hair and Peace!

NEPB

Window of Time

There’s a window in my old house where I spend hours looking out.  At times I stare out into the sunrise , blazing with color.  Other times I stare into the dark at the end of a long day when I am tired not knowing where to turn next. 

It’s my kitchen window.  I have no dishwasher. I am the dishwasher.  For 10 months it has become my source of peace and reconciliation. I make decisions at the window, remember list of to-do, go over poignant conversations of the day and I talk to you in my head.

The “you” is my friend who is no longer with me.  She was everything to everyone who ever met her: Instantly their friend.  She kept the bullies at bay in high school, there were many who had me in their sights.  And although our paths ventured through time, the notion of each other was never far away.

When we reconnected, she became again that confident and protector as though the years had never waned.  She encouraged me through tough times: told me of a light at an end of a very dark scary tunnel.  Then she encouraged me again to pursue options I was too afraid to reach for:  She became my biggest fan and my biggest critic: A role not taken by any other except by my Dad.

Her absence this past year has left me breathless, wordless: Unable to finish many of my usual writings.  I have written pieces many times, only to leave them in the folder incomplete.  Knowing that she wouldn’t call and critique the latest post was something I looked forward to was a treat.  That gift is gone.  

Other friends have nudged me gently to resume and for a time I pursued a different path.  A path I discovered was not really me: A cooking blog.  I don’t do things well in the kitchen! My friend knew this about me.  She often banned me to corner of her kitchen with the most childlike task, hoping silently I wouldn’t ruin her appliances or burn the food.  She attempted to teach me things, while I stared blankly at her. When I failed she gave up, exclaiming that I was truly the worst cook she had ever met.  She never gave up, even at the end of her life.  She left us swinging hard at home base.

She still comes to me in dreams.  It is always a good dream involving water, where I am trying to rescue her, but she needs no rescue. She assures me the she is okay.  She is there to check on me as usual. I am bewildered: Shouldn’t I have had the chance to rescue her for once, If only in a dream?  Her name is never far from my lips or those of my children.  We speak often of her and laugh when we think of things that would have made her laugh.

She is laughing now:  For she would not want us to be sad for long.  The time of sadness is passed.  She doesn’t need a rescue any longer.  We need only to rescue ourselves now.  And laugh at the good times as we look out that window .

Looking out the kitchen window this morning, I see clear blue skies, and a new Spring green popping from the Maple in the yard.

 I love you Suspott.  It’s going to be a beautiful day.

Peace.

Crafting Humiliation

I admit it:  I waste valuable time scrolling through board after board on Pinterest looking at other people’s craftiness.  They can cook, dress themselves, decorate, and create works of art much better than I.   I don’t know why I suffer through the self-imposed humiliation.  What could I possibly be hoping to find?

Take cooking for instance:  How much time do these people have?  And who in the world eats that many brussel sprouts?   I work 40 plus hours a week, am out of the house an average of 12 hours per day which leaves me very little time to prepare; much less think about cooking some of these intense  meals.  They try to trick me by saying it only takes 30 minutes to prepare.  Ha!   That is for the skilled cook.  Obviously they don’t realize my mental limitations when it comes to cooking or food prep of even the smallest task.  I can’t always get the cardboard off a frozen pizza!  Don’t laugh.  It provides extra fiber.

I recently began looking at the Christmas crafts, hoping beyond hope I would find something my 10 year old daughter and I could do together.  I thought I had found just the thing:  Trees made from paper plates!  How hard could this be?   I purchased some paper plates thinking I would give it a try while my 10 year old was away.   This way I  would look like a skilled instructor.   It wouldn’t be like that failed attempt at jewelry making that we both sigh and shake our heads over.

I pulled up the Pinterest page, plate and tape ready.  I started trying to shape the plates into a cone just like the one in the picture.  Not happening.  I unrolled it, flattened it, rolled again.  I had a little more success.  I could see my attempt was never going to look like the picture posted.  “Liars”.  I swore a little. 

Making up an excuse, “she must be a retired art teacher or ex- Martha Stewart assistant.  I could tell that my little dream of a crafty Christmas afternoon with my daughter was fading away rapidly.  Good thing I didn’t say anything to her.

 I sat glaring at the failed Christmas tree attempts, trying to think of a solution.  The trees were pretty cool looking.  Decorating with them with different elements from outside would be fun for the two of us.  I decided I would go on line and see how much the cardboard trees cost at the local craft store.  Just as I was logging in to my laptop, the tape failed and the trees turned back into ….. plates.

I’m going now, to the  craft store.  I am not giving up.  I am not giving in to the giant crafting machine, just a few little cardboard beginnings we can call our own.    The paper plates will be put to good use.  We will eat our frozen pizza and Christmas cookies from them: Christmas cookies that we cut from a roll and drop on the pan.  Maybe we will add our own sprinkles.  That’s as far as I am taking it.

Peace.

NEPB