Socks on the Fireplace: Pantyhose in the Nursery
Sunday Night
What distresses me is not the dirty white crews socks which are stuck to my living room fireplace approximately eight feet up. Nor, am I all that worried about the stacks of folded laundry which perch on the sectional.
What bugs me are the popcorn fragments scattered across the family room, because I vacuumed yesterday and by some grand delusion, I believed that my floor would stay acceptable through the beginning of a new week.
Alas, it was not to be.
Martha Stewart, felon, did not seem to have this problem, even when she was a free and productive member of society. I bet she did not have socks stuck to her fireplace or crumbs on her floor--because she did not have boys. Do you like how I blame everything on my boys?
I did have a moment tonight, just a while ago in the kitchen. My youngest boy came downstairs to inform me with great glee that his nose is so stuffy he couldn't sleep, "and I think I should stay home from school tomorrow!" His smile was so wide, his cheeks so flushed, his hair so blond that I just really saw him for a second, really noticed how tall he's getting and how big. Time is so fleeting. Tonight he was standing in my kitchen in his footy-pajamas that zip all the way up and next thing I know, he'll be accepting a diploma and driving off to college.
TwinBoyA, meanwhile, is in a reading frenzy. He's read three of the Harry Potter books in four days.
TwinBoyB spends his days watching the cooking channel.
My house is full of scritching noises tonight. YoungestBoy just came downstairs, dragging a pop-up tent that his brothers left in his room. It's 10:07 p.m. I opened the twins' door and when I do that, TwinBoyA always scolds his brother, his way of attempting to deflect any scolding that may come his way. They've been staying awake later and later, so I figure I need to start waking them earlier, more deliberately.
Sunday Morning
This morning, I gave ample warning to all the children. I am leaving at 9:30, I told them. I dressed YoungestBoy, Babygirl and myself and headed out the door. TwinBoyB couldn't find his shoes. I said, "That's a bummer for you. I hope you figure out a solution," and went to the car. We sat about five minutes while he found his shoes. His hair looked like a rather unsuccessful Chia pet. I'm trying to not micromanage the older boys. Hair like that makes it tough.
I settled us into the second to the last pew in church, pleased that I was on time. Then a man came and whispered to me that there was no nursery volunteer and since I am the coordinator, I had to go. I actually said out loud (with no one around), "Yes, I love to get dressed up in pantyhose to sit in the nursery!" as I tromped downstairs with Babygirl in tow.
I found only three kids in the nursery, a three year old, four year old and five year old. They all left for their classes when the sermon began and then a visitor came in with a two year old boy named Zion.
Zion's hair reminded me of the story of Samson in the Bible. I wonder if Samson's locks hung in his face, though? Zion wasn't quite two, but he was way bigger than Babygirl and had huge feet--or maybe just enormous shoes. Who knows? He never spoke, but he did grab and shove. His mother left and then returned with her baby, a girl named Anaya.
Babygirl immediately begged to hold the baby. The baby's mom generously handed over her five month old chunk of sweet baby pudge with straight-up-in-the-air black silky hair. This baby almost weighed as much as Babygirl, but Babygirl did not let this deter her. She adores babies, any size, any type.
I had a lovely conversation with the mother of the children. She recently moved with her family from Hawaii. I had such a great chat that I regretted my stinky attitude about being relegated to the nursery yet again. I always enjoy visiting with the other mothers, even while I am wearing pantyhose which I am pretty sure are part of the Curse.
What distresses me is not the dirty white crews socks which are stuck to my living room fireplace approximately eight feet up. Nor, am I all that worried about the stacks of folded laundry which perch on the sectional.
What bugs me are the popcorn fragments scattered across the family room, because I vacuumed yesterday and by some grand delusion, I believed that my floor would stay acceptable through the beginning of a new week.
Alas, it was not to be.
Martha Stewart, felon, did not seem to have this problem, even when she was a free and productive member of society. I bet she did not have socks stuck to her fireplace or crumbs on her floor--because she did not have boys. Do you like how I blame everything on my boys?
I did have a moment tonight, just a while ago in the kitchen. My youngest boy came downstairs to inform me with great glee that his nose is so stuffy he couldn't sleep, "and I think I should stay home from school tomorrow!" His smile was so wide, his cheeks so flushed, his hair so blond that I just really saw him for a second, really noticed how tall he's getting and how big. Time is so fleeting. Tonight he was standing in my kitchen in his footy-pajamas that zip all the way up and next thing I know, he'll be accepting a diploma and driving off to college.
TwinBoyA, meanwhile, is in a reading frenzy. He's read three of the Harry Potter books in four days.
TwinBoyB spends his days watching the cooking channel.
My house is full of scritching noises tonight. YoungestBoy just came downstairs, dragging a pop-up tent that his brothers left in his room. It's 10:07 p.m. I opened the twins' door and when I do that, TwinBoyA always scolds his brother, his way of attempting to deflect any scolding that may come his way. They've been staying awake later and later, so I figure I need to start waking them earlier, more deliberately.
Sunday Morning
This morning, I gave ample warning to all the children. I am leaving at 9:30, I told them. I dressed YoungestBoy, Babygirl and myself and headed out the door. TwinBoyB couldn't find his shoes. I said, "That's a bummer for you. I hope you figure out a solution," and went to the car. We sat about five minutes while he found his shoes. His hair looked like a rather unsuccessful Chia pet. I'm trying to not micromanage the older boys. Hair like that makes it tough.
I settled us into the second to the last pew in church, pleased that I was on time. Then a man came and whispered to me that there was no nursery volunteer and since I am the coordinator, I had to go. I actually said out loud (with no one around), "Yes, I love to get dressed up in pantyhose to sit in the nursery!" as I tromped downstairs with Babygirl in tow.
I found only three kids in the nursery, a three year old, four year old and five year old. They all left for their classes when the sermon began and then a visitor came in with a two year old boy named Zion.
Zion's hair reminded me of the story of Samson in the Bible. I wonder if Samson's locks hung in his face, though? Zion wasn't quite two, but he was way bigger than Babygirl and had huge feet--or maybe just enormous shoes. Who knows? He never spoke, but he did grab and shove. His mother left and then returned with her baby, a girl named Anaya.
Babygirl immediately begged to hold the baby. The baby's mom generously handed over her five month old chunk of sweet baby pudge with straight-up-in-the-air black silky hair. This baby almost weighed as much as Babygirl, but Babygirl did not let this deter her. She adores babies, any size, any type.
I had a lovely conversation with the mother of the children. She recently moved with her family from Hawaii. I had such a great chat that I regretted my stinky attitude about being relegated to the nursery yet again. I always enjoy visiting with the other mothers, even while I am wearing pantyhose which I am pretty sure are part of the Curse.
posted by Melodee at Sunday, October 24, 2004
3 Comments:
I read this quote today, and it made me think of you!
Many people have said to me "What a pity you had such a big family to raise. Think of the novels and the short stories and the poems you never had the time to write because of that." And I looked at my children and I said, "These are my poems. These are my short stories."
Olga Masters (1949-1986), Australian writer
You are my favorite writer.
Beth and Judy: Kiss, kiss, hug, hug, I'll send you a twenty-dollar bill for saying that I'm your favorite writer. Sometimes I think my writing is so dull that of COURSE no one is commenting. You have saved me from posting a gratuitous, "please comment on my blog" post. That would have been so lame!
You are my favorite writer - and I don't even want a twenty dollar bill.
What I really want is to know what is holding the socks to the fireplace eight feet up. Please tell.
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