Autumn

We’ve had summer-like weather the past two weeks in Chicago Land. After a few weeks of chillier- weather, it was back to shorts and flip-flops. Super Hubs and I went to a party this weekend in which we enjoyed wine on our friends’ patio under the balmy starry skies. It could have been July.

But the inevitable occurred today……the temperature has dropped and it feels like Autumn again. Good-bye to our capris, beach towels and allergies. I saw a flock of geese this morning, undoubtedly heading to their southern condo. We are greeting jackets, apple-picking and soups in the crock-pot. Our back deck is adorned with beauty only God could design. September will leave us soon. Welcome October!! (You have always been my favorite month. Just don’t tell the others.)

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
(John Keats)

It's A Wonderful Life

Cats are the antithesis of me. I am an Emotional-Roller-Coasting Industrious People Pleaser; a #2 on the Enneagram. I work hard. And when I am not working hard, I worry that I should be working hard. So then I work hard some more. And in between working hard, I navel gaze. And reflect. And then get up to do some more work.

I have two felines who employee me as a Domestic Servant. I clean around them, keep their bowls filled, and provide a warm lap on the rare occasion they acknowledge my presence. They seem to tolerate me. Perhaps they even like me. But it’s hard to really tell. They have yet to kick me out, on the one hand. Or show me any gratitude, on the other hand. They are definitely not encouragers. And the only distribution they ever make to our household is the periodic hairball on my carpet. Or white sofa.

As I watched them doze this morning on Rock Star’s bed, and continue to doze this afternoon on Rock Star’s bed, and then presently still inhabit Rock Star’s bed 9 hours later, I am wondering about their lives. With a bit of longing. What would it be like to be a Lazy, Self-Indulgent Narcissistic Taker, who wiles her days away napping in the sunshine? Who only gets off the bed to hop onto another bed across the hall and nap again? Who then gets up to stretch, move to the other side of the bed and nap some more? Who wakes up only to have a snack, swat a moth, and then find a patch of sunshine for the purpose of yet another nap to pass the hours until bedtime? It sounds blissful, frankly.

And I envy the cattitude. I find it oddly appealing, in a perverse kind of way. No worries about the economic state of our nation. No concerns about future provision. No caring about what others think of me. No need to feel the need to lift a finger. Not ever. No pretending to like someone I actually do not. I could just hide under a bed if I’m not feeling hospitable. Or look the other way and pretend they’re invisible. No feelings of shame or guilt. No shouldering others’ burdens. No introspection or character work. I could live in the moment and look out for #1. Complete self-absorption. That would be me, were I a cat. Me Me Me all the time time time.

Cats have the market on The Charmed Life, that’s for sure. And on some days, it appears quite enchanting.

"He Didn't Mind"

He’s a charmer, my six-year-old. Loving and demonstrative, out-going and buckets of fun. He’s a true people person. But sometimes his…creativity, his…..originality, his…..ability to think outside of the box can be taxing. Draining. Distressing.

Current case in point: He went down to the basement to play video games today after lunch, followed by the family dog. After half an hour, the dog came back up, followed by Little Squirt. And the dog had wet ears. And a wet head. And was wet on his back.

So this conversation ensued:
Me: “How come the dog’s wet?”
L.S.: “Because.”
Me: “Because WHY?”
L.S.: “Because I had to pee on him.”
Me: “You peed on the dog?? For Heaven’s sake, why??”
L.S.: “Because I had to go. Badly. I didn’t have time to come upstairs. And you told me never to pee on the carpet.”
Me: (Still trying to digest this info.) “So you peed on the dog?”
L.S.: “Mom, it’s okay. He didn’t mind.”

Hmmmm. It actually kind of made sense. The dog probably didn’t mind. And Little Squirt was just being conscientious about the carpeting, thus using the dachshund as a kind of portable latrine……It worries me that I’m beginning to find his 6-year-old rationale sane and reasonable. Please, anybody, help me.

Attack

I was right in the middle of reading Barbara Walters, “Audition,” when an ear-piercing shriek made me jump to my feet. Little Squirt came running into the house, crying in hysterics. Apparently, while playing with his cars in the grass, he’d encountered a mob of bees. They were already irritated that Rock Star had disturbed their nest while cutting the grass earlier in the day. Little Squirt was a convenient target for their wrath, and he was stung on his finger and head. And as I was examining him, another one ventured out from under his shirt, stinging him several times on his tummy.

He was given benadryl and ice packs, lemonade and chocolate chip cookies. He was made comfortable under his favorite blanket on his favorite couch to watch “Sponge Bob.” His Spiderman band aids, which magically heal every kind of ailment in Little Squirt World, were applied to the assaulted areas. But his feelings have also been injured by these vicious insects. He previously considered them his friends who loved to dance upon the flowers. Now he is afraid he’ll be attacked again during the night, and is insisting on sleeping with someone. Anyone. Butterfly, Rock Star, us; one of the Infallible Big People in his family, who he is certain will guard and protect him, should the angry mob come calling again.

In the meantime, Super Hubs is the courageous Bee Slayer, killing and banishing the insects from their prior residence. It is war and he will win. And I am playing Nurse, scrutinizing Little Squirt for any signs of distress. (Big sigh.) It’s always something. Even on a day when the sunshine is warm and the sky is at its bluest.

On Rescuing Robert

I have an instinct to rescue that borders on the psychotic. Neighbors who know this about me appear at my door with cats. I once harbored 6 in my house until I could find them permanent homes. I’ve taken in problem dogs…..little fallen birds…..even an odd-and-dying ficus that a friend no longer wanted. I once fed a possum for an entire winter, who subsequently refused to leave my yard for a year.

And people. If I had the Brangelina Budget, I would be flying to all four corners of the world at every whim, bringing back orphans. I really would. I have three internationally-adopted children at present, but room in my heart for more. Many more. (If you are Super Hubs and reading this post, please don’t have a panic attack. We clearly don’t have the Brangelina Budget, so relax and go have a beer.)

There is a homeless man in my town that I have been stalking. I believe he needs my help, even though he doesn’t want my help. He has told me so. Several times. But I still try to help him realize his need for my help. It’s crazy.

His name is Robert. I met him in my town’s library one cold and snowy winter, about 4 years ago. He was sitting in the corner by the newspapers, where a couple vagrants tend to congregate in our local library during the frigid weather. I was selecting books for my then-toddler, when I heard Robert coughing. He was a nice-looking man about my age; unkempt and wearing a scruffy coat. As I watched him, I thought about how, when I am sick with a cold, I can go home and take cough medicine, and huddle under a blanket on my comfortable denim blue couch, and have toast and tea. And I wondered if Robert had taken cough medicine….or had eaten dinner the night before….or if he’d even slept in a bed. And before I could stop myself, I went over and asked him his name, and if he was hungry. I had a warm, fuzzy fantasy that I would buy him breakfast at a diner, and, over bacon and eggs, he’d gratefully tell me his story. We’d become fast friends. I’d take him shopping for new clothes, and help him find a job and a place to live. Then eventually, when his life turned around, perhaps he’d get married and have a family, and ask me to be the baby’s godmother..….

”No,” he said without even looking at me. I stood there, uncertain of what to do next. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? I can get you something to eat,” I persisted. “No,” he said, without looking up from his paper. I stood there idiotically for a few awkward moments. And then went back to the bookshelf, confused, because I didn’t believe he wasn’t hungry. Why would he turn down a meal? And then I felt mortified, because maybe I had hurt his dignity with my naive and simple offer. Did I do wrong?

The next time I saw him, it was a few weeks later. I was on a Date Night with my husband, and, as we were walking into a restaurant, I spied Robert sitting on a bench across the street. So, to Super Hubs sheer horror, I shouted a greeting to Robert, and ran over and invited him to join us on our Date Night. To which he refused, and I persisted, and Super Hubs grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the restaurant, and then lectured me over dinner about my bad judgment and codependent behavior and utter disregard for safety and blah blah blah. I barely listened because I was thinking about how I would box up our leftovers and then bring them to Robert after our date. I was a woman on a mission of my own appointment: TO SAVE ROBERT. I begged Super Hubs to drive around town after dinner, while I looked out the window holding the leftovers, searching for Robert and calling his name. I never did find him again that night. He was most likely at the local police station filling out a Restraining Order against the Crazy Blond Stalker Woman who kept trying to feed him. But I heeded Super Hubs advice, and stopped trying to push my unwanted charity. Still, I worried.

I continue to worry about him. Especially when the evil Chicago Winter rears her vicious head. What becomes of Robert then?

I see him every so often around town. I caught a glimpse of him yesterday as I was driving down the highway. He was sitting on a bench alone, wearing his bulky winter coat, even though the temperature hovered around 70. I wondered about him, and about his story. Perhaps he was once a tiny child who sat on his mother’s lap while she read him nursery rhymes. Did he have dreams, like my little boy, of becoming an astronaut or a race car driver? Did he ever grow up to have a good life that he loved? And what went so tragically wrong that he ended up homeless in my Chicago suburb? Was it hard luck; poor choices; adverse circumstances? Perhaps a little of each?

Robert is undoubtedly somebody’s son….or brother….or cousin….. or father. Yet he sits alone, whenever I see him, wearing that grimy coat and a look of hopelessness. And it breaks my heart! I want to help him. No, I want to rescue him….save him. But I cannot. And I hate that I cannot. I hate it to the core of my being.

But what I do know is that Robert is a dearly loved child of God. And somehow, he is surviving. Without my help. So I need to put aside my Mother Teresa Complex and my compulsive deliverance tendencies and just wait for opportunity. Maybe there’ll be another time when I can offer help to Robert, and he’ll accept. Or to someone else. Human suffering impacts me deeply. It brings out my Inner Rescuer. So if I can’t rescue Robert, maybe I need to take myself to the animal shelter and see about another cat….

"This is Mrs. H."

Life has felt a bit uncertain to me lately. It’s as if I am looking through fog; I can visualize the scene ahead, but it’s a little ambiguous and without clear definition. For a whole lot of complicated reasons that would take up another post and a half, I have felt kind of off…..a tad unsteady….less than secure. It has to do with changes in my life (Note to The Reader: Do not confuse this with THE CHANGE. I am far too young). And some odd circumstances and confusing complications. So recently, because of the uncertainty, I’ve been craving and cooking comfort food. Such as meatloaf and mashed potatoes. And macaroni and cheese from scratch. Chicken pot pie. Mrs. Field’s cookies. (Wonderful. Now I’ve gone and made myself famished.) I’ve been a culinary maniac, whipping away haziness with a whisk and an apron. And that has helped, in an odd sort of way. Except for the added poundage to my anatomy. That has not been helpful.

With that in mind, I have hence turned to comfort TV. I’ve been feasting my eyes on shows that soothe me with their mindless scenarios. Programs that bring me back mentally to the times in my life that were less complicated. Readers, I have discovered MeTv. And I’ve become addicted.

Last night Super Hubs and I enjoyed a marathon of “Hart to Hart” that I’d recorded earlier in the week. Whoever knew we would turn into such a wildly exciting couple, shamelessly gorging on a popular 80s TV show for the better part of a Sunday night?? It felt sooo naughty! And brought me right back to the carefree days when I had ginormous hair and nada-a-laugh-line.

I always wanted to be Jennifer Hart when I was a teen. I believed she had it all: A killer body, a doting, millionaire husband and the perfect home. She was gorgeous and generous and kind to animals. She never seemed to have to actually do anything, other than wear designer clothes and fight crime with her husband. No housework or career to worry her pretty head over. She was always happy and nice and never PSMing. And her hair….the way it was thick and layered and big. So very, very big. It was always perfect. Even if she was fighting a hooligan on the top of a speeding semi. Or was bound,gagged and stuffed in the coffin of a mummy in the bowels of a museum. She had great hair.

So I am grateful to Stephanie Powers, for developing the role of Jennifer Hart into a character that I wanted to emulate. One that got me, in the past, just a little bit excited about what the future might hold. The thought that tomorrow could be good. And for giving me, in the present, a bit of pleasure and comfort with my (non-millionaire-but-entirely-wonderful) husband, at a time in my life when I am feeling anxious about tomorrow. And for the reminder that tomorrow will be good.

Inadvertant Elimination

I was enjoying catching up with some girlfriends over coffee, earlier this week. I had a lovely 2 hour window when Little Squirt was in school, and my time was my own. I was just laughing over a friend’s story, when my phone rang. I was alarmed to see that it was Little Squirt’s school. My mind raced as to what could be wrong. Was he ill? Lost? Homesick? Being expelled??

Nervously, I answered. “Yeesssss?”
School Nurse: (hesitating) “Ummm…..we’ve got a bit of a situation.”
Me: “Situation? WHAT KIND OF SITUATION???”
School Nurse: “Little Squirt had an accident.”
Me: “Accident? Car? Playground? What??”
School Nurse: “Not that kind of an accident. An ‘accident’ in his pants.”
Ahhhh. The light dawned, and I almost giggled.
School Nurse: “So, would you mind coming over right away to bring him a fresh change of clothes, and (whispering) some baby wipes to clean him up?”
Oh. That kind of accident.

I bid farewell to my girlfriends and headed to the school, so thankful that this was my third child. I was horrified when my firstborn, Butterfly, accidentally peed in her pants in kindergarten. I was mortified, and she was mortified, and the teacher shamed her. But it was a snooty private school, and I was a first-time mother who couldn’t put the situation into perspective and reassure myself that my daughter would not grow up to be a chronic pants-wetter. She is now 17 and always uses the potty appropriately. Has for years. So, you see? No problema, really.

I found Little Squirt in the office, absolutely gleeful.
“Mommy- guess what I did?” (giggling)
“I know, buddy. Let’s clean you up.” I corralled him into the bathroom and took care of the situation. (Which wasn’t nearly so bad. Just a tiny, little…..well, never mind.)
I tried to do a quick assessment of Little Squirt’s emotional status. Was he traumatized that he might now be labeled “The Kid Who took A Dump In His Pants” for eternity? That he would have classmates remember this situation at all the future Reunions? And forever harass him about it?

He could care less. He actually was a little proud. He held his head high as he walked back down the hall towards his classroom. You gotta love that kind of self assurance.

Controlling My Substance

I am catching a cold, and I’m not surprised. I have three children in various stages of sneezing and sniffling, either from allergies or viruses. This morning I had all the symptoms that warn me of an impending bug attack. So, in an attempt to thwart these unwanted terrorists invading my body, I headed to the local pharmacy. There I stocked up on zicam, throat lozenges and Puffs. One can never be too prepared for winter colds, I believe. Or for sinus infections. I suffer from them every once in a while. I had one that lingered for an entire winter one year, turning me into a snorey mouth breather whose husband was forced to sleep in the guest room. He was cranky and my head felt like a concrete block and it was all so dreadfully awful.

Ever since then, whenever I get a cold, I drink extra fluids and begin a decongestant right away. But apparently I haven’t bought a decongestant for quite a while, because I had no idea the shenanigans required! I had to hand-carry a “Sudafed” card up to the pharmacy, where I long-sufferingly waited in line behind a confused senior citizen who needed to have all of her 14 drug purchases explained in great detail. Then, after finally requesting my Sudafed purchase to the Pharmacy Tech, I needed to give her my driver’s license, which she scrutinized meticulously, casting occasional furtive glances my way. She spent many minutes typing my information madly into a computer, all the while whispering into a walkie-talkie, and trying to discern if I was going to sell the Sudafed on the Black Market. Like maybe to Little Squirt’s kindergarten class. Because I look the type. And I need a job.

Once again the Bad People have ruined things for the Good People. While Good People have been using decongestants for years to innocently declogg their sinuses, Bad People have apparently found alternative functions. Like taking them to improve their athletic performance. (Okay- Do I look like an athlete??) Or making crystal meth. (Like I’d have time to figure out that recipe. I can barely get dinner on the table!) So while the Pharmacy Tech explained in great detail how I could not purchase any more pseudoephedrine ("ANYMORE," she said vehemently) for so many days and blah blah blah lest I be tasered and strip searched and flogged and put on the Drug Dealer International Watch List forever, I could feel my sinuses fill up and harden like an ice block. Wonderful. So out will come the vaporizer, and off will go Super Hubs to sleep on the couch.

Soul Weary

I have been woefully negligent in the writing arena, as of late. I have written very little all week. But to write from my soul, I need to fortify myself with a large serving of creativity, a sprinkle of humor, and dollop of passion and a serving and a half of introspection. And I’ve been neglecting my soul recently. It’s hungry. Starving, actually. I’ve treated it to a few helpings of nutrition this past week, but not nearly what it needs. I’ve fed it a lot of junk food, and expected it to carry burdens that really were not its own. And the wear and tear on my soul as of late has given me insomnia, headaches and a general feeling of melancholy.

For me to be creative, and witty and passionate and self-aware, I must feed my soul. I need time and space to be still with God. I need to listen to the heartbeat of nature; smelling the air, feeling the breeze, hearing the call of the cardinal, feasting my eyes on the pillowy clouds floating in the sky. I need to read good books, filled with words woven by gifted writers into beautiful stories or poetry. And I need my friends; sisters with whom I can share that I am soul-weary, and they will listen and empathize and encourage.

The past two weeks have been filled with transitions. And I am transitionally-challenged. I hate change. It’s always been hard for me. Stability and consistency keep me balanced and peaceful. I’ve poured a lot of emotional energy into these transitions, and neglected the care of my soul. I am not my best self when I do that. But another week begins tomorrow- so I will try.

My Soul is Awakened by Anne Bronte
My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring,
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;
For, above, and around me, the wild wind is roaring
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray,
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing
And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!

It Must Be A Boy Thing

Little Squirt and I have fallen into a comfortable Kindergarten routine. I take him to school in the morning, where he lays his backpack on his classroom number, and then heads to the playground until the bell rings. Then I tearfully watch as he lines up with his class behind his teacher (I am such a wimp) and proceeds into the building. Occasionally he will turn around to look for me, giving me a subtle wave. “Good-bye, my baby.”

And then I have 2 1/2 hours all to myself, for the first time ever, since I became a mother of three. I am like a hamster running in its ball; free, but not entirely. I don’t usually have a set destination. I kind of just go with the flow.

And then I’m back at his school by 11:30, lining up with all the other cars that will soon fill with kindergarteners. I park by the area of the sidewalk with Little Squirt’s assigned number, and soon see him and his ginormous smile, accompanied by an even ginormous-er backpack. I am careful not to pepper him with questions as he enters the car. The kindergarten staff has advised us not to interrogate them. They’ll tell their stories in their own way, they said. So I hold back, instead asking him his lunch preference.

We shared spaghettios and fruit today, as I read him the next chapter of “Ribsy.” Then, relaxed and satiated, he was ready to enlighten me on his morning. “Mom, guess what good thing happened to me today?” he said. Ahhhh. I loved these moments. The sharing, the bonding, my eyes opening to the various ways my youngest was experiencing life and learning.
“What, sweetie?” I asked lovingly.
“I farted in school.” ………………. Charming, isn’t he??