Had one heck of a morning the other day, it seemed to last a day and a half.
My right arm has been in a sling for a couple of weeks because I wrenched my elbow something awful when the spade bit I was using to put a hole in a 4x4 (for the boys' chin up station in the yard) got bound up in the wood, the powerful drill twisting my arm out and around. It's been hard not being allowed to do much of anything with it, being that I generally want to everything myself so that it's done right. But the kids are making their own lunches, helping with dishes, taking the dog out, and being generally helpful if not completely into it.
Mother had driven north to help out for a few days and she really pampered me all the way; made lemon grass soup even. She washed dishes endlessly, made me really see how many I usually do in a day, and drove me around town to take care of oil changes, bank deposits, grocery shopping, etcetera. Sleeping in the livingroom on the futon bed, never once complained about a lack of privacy, not a word against the dog's tags clanging in the night, the cats' pouncing during their play in the wee hours. Best, she didn't point out how I was generally a bad patient, not patient at all with my situtation. I can learn a lot from her general grace, and should, and well.
She also helped me to fetch Paul home on Wednesday after he stumbled in band class and got a chair leg jammed into his crotch. Poor kid slept for three hours when we got home.
Time came for her to head home though, and for me to go back to work, which we each did if more than a bit reluctantly. There was some talk about her coming back this weekend.
The week went fairly well, and Paul got ready for his weekend scout campout, and by Wednesday evening he was completely ready. Alex and Adrian would each be at a sleepover one night, and it was a long weekend, with no school Monday. Sounded nice. Wednesday night though, Alex discovered fleas on Pippin and in her room and had a fit. I went to get the vacuum - it was still broken, what was I thinking, and had been for since just before my elbow incident. Tried to manage the situation, calm her down, etc. Would have to move her downstairs for the night.
Thursday was supposed to go like this:
Alex up at 5:15 am to spend 1 hour and 28 minutes getting ready for school, 2 minutes eating breakfast, then out the door at 7:00 for the bus. Me up at 6:20 to wake the boys. Fred up at 6:30. Make Alex's smoothy, boys' lunches and breakfast on the table by 6:45. Yell at boys to hurry up at 6:55. Yell up to Alex "are you on time?" at 6:56. Boys out the door at 7:20, Fred on their heels. Quiet house by 7:30. Off to work by 8:30. Pizza planned for dinner because it was Fred's class night, boys' scout night, and back to school night at the middle school.
This is how it went:
Got call during work that Adrian had injured his finger. Told him to be brave, it was just his left finger and the nurse had assured me that it wasn't swollen or black and blue - tough it out.
Kids ate half the pizza as soon as they got home from school. Hardly any left for dinner.
Fred ate leftovers, went off to class. Alex continued fussing about fleas and wondering very loudly about why we didn't have a working vacuum and that it was just great that she'd be alone that night to contend with life alone.
Adrian didn't want to go to scouts, his finger was swollen and a bit black and blue; after being told he would not be allowed to watch tv or video games instead, he got ready for scouts.
Stopped at the grocery store having handed the boys $5 to go get the candy that they were required to bring in to science class next day, dropped the boys off at scouts, stopped at Walgreens for a finger splint and a new cold pack, and a cherry coke to fortify me (self prescribed Rx, the cherry being the important ingredient, Cherry Garcia not being anywhere around).
I drove back to school night, arriving late, so had to park 1/4 mile away from the school. Got asked many times "what did you DO to your arm?" Found out from science teacher that niether son had turned in their first assigned project. Left early to go pick up boys from scouts. Got stopped on way out by PTA friend who after saying hello reminded me that yes, we have to be ON TOP of some of our kids, after all the boys are not Alex (who never needed being on top of) and that after all WE are all premenapausal, so maybe I ought to take some Xanax like she does.
Finally got to scout meeting, boys both happy for just moments because then (OK, BAD TIMING) asked them about that science project, told them they MUST have it completed at school next day or no camping or sleepover. HARD LINE MOM moment. Once home, realized impossible to enforce because materials were at school. Kids showered and in bed by 9:30. Alex on futon in livingroom, fussing, by 11pm.
Friday morning:
I woke suddenly choking with hairspray in my throat at 5:30am because Alex was preparing herself in the tiny downstairs bathroom rather than in her upstairs, well ventilated room.
The boys woke soon after because that just fit.
Alex fussing about fleas until she left for bus.
Paul dropped and broke his favorite cereal bowl, a nice cerulean blue mug with an M&M character on it, given to him by Alex about five years ago. Real tears shed. My Silent Prayer: Thank God it was him that done broke the thing.
I called Mother by 8am, grateful for some time to talk because I would be going into work late that morning. She calmed me right down, providing insight into the humorous aspects of my day-and-a-half-long morning. "You should write about this in your blog" she said.
PS - Paul home after school, proud that he'd managed to do his science project during study hall, and had put it on his teacher's desk. Adrian had worked on it, but not finished it, and had left it at school. Got Fred to drive Adrian back to the school for his project. I took Paul to meet the campers, thinking we'd be there early enough to help with last minute packing. Enjoyed the peace and quiet of yellow leaves skittering on the tarmac in the breeze, branches against a blue, blue sky. Campers arrived at 6pm and later (departure at 6pm said the paperwork). Realized Paul needed a coat - they'd be up near the Delaware Water Gap. Called Fred, he ran it over, then turned right around to take Alex to swim team. Alex home by 9:15pm. Adrian and I got Chinese food and three Redbox movies. Laundered Alex's blankets while we watched an old Harrison Ford in the last Indian Jones movie.
Big, big sigh at around 10pm.
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Saturday, September 26, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Best Intentions
On facebook, yesterday afternoon, I posted that I had gotten paint on my brand new jeans, despite better intentions. Toni liked it, and I was glad because she's one that I could count on to get all that the statement stood for.
Alex has just about given up on me, her sense of style propriety insulted too many times by my lack of same. She was about two and a half years old when I took her shopping for a nice summer party dress. Standing in the aisle with a light blue and pink striped searsucker slipped over her t-shirt and tights, she suddenly twirled around on her toes to see its skirt fly out. I didn't teach her that, and you gotta know, I wouldn't have. But there it was, undeniable. Alex was more girly than I, and she cared about clothes. Much older now, the distressing in her jeans leaves me a little distressed, but she assures me it's cool, and she wouldn't dream of sewing any of it. She has such confidence in this assessment, and it shows in her overall stance which is such that she could wear anything and look good.
Distressed Jeans Economy:
The Right Brand at Upper Crust Store: starting on sale at $30, and going up to $100 and some of them have had paint applied to them already, For Effect.
At upper crust thrift store Plato's Closet: about $20, many with tattering that identifies them in the upper echelons of tattered styling, and which earns them special placement in the store, front and center.
At my favorite thrift store Red White and Blue: about $7
Which leaves me grateful that the boys are still just fine with RWB jeans, which look brand new in just the right distressed way, and where the $10 still-with-tags Ralph Lauren's hang right next to the $4 Levi's.
The truth is, I didn't actually get paint on my jeans. Because they were brand new, the result of a gift card spending spree, rather dark blue, and markedly untattered, I was very, very careful while wielding a paint brush at the wall. I imagined my daughter's sigh.
.
Alex has just about given up on me, her sense of style propriety insulted too many times by my lack of same. She was about two and a half years old when I took her shopping for a nice summer party dress. Standing in the aisle with a light blue and pink striped searsucker slipped over her t-shirt and tights, she suddenly twirled around on her toes to see its skirt fly out. I didn't teach her that, and you gotta know, I wouldn't have. But there it was, undeniable. Alex was more girly than I, and she cared about clothes. Much older now, the distressing in her jeans leaves me a little distressed, but she assures me it's cool, and she wouldn't dream of sewing any of it. She has such confidence in this assessment, and it shows in her overall stance which is such that she could wear anything and look good.
Distressed Jeans Economy:
The Right Brand at Upper Crust Store: starting on sale at $30, and going up to $100 and some of them have had paint applied to them already, For Effect.
At upper crust thrift store Plato's Closet: about $20, many with tattering that identifies them in the upper echelons of tattered styling, and which earns them special placement in the store, front and center.
At my favorite thrift store Red White and Blue: about $7
Which leaves me grateful that the boys are still just fine with RWB jeans, which look brand new in just the right distressed way, and where the $10 still-with-tags Ralph Lauren's hang right next to the $4 Levi's.
The truth is, I didn't actually get paint on my jeans. Because they were brand new, the result of a gift card spending spree, rather dark blue, and markedly untattered, I was very, very careful while wielding a paint brush at the wall. I imagined my daughter's sigh.
.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A bit about Mud Wasps, Outhouses, and Eggs
My sisters and I spent summers in the country, bare chested and bare footed, among towering trees, wild grapes, and lots of room for our very young selves to roam. Our grandparents had built a complex of rough recycled barnwood buildings, decorated with wavy blue trim and quite cozy. They resided in the main cabin (special because it had kerosene lamps, and the wood stoves) and a row of storage sheds capped at one end by a cabin had built-in bunk beds for the kids. Highlights included outdoor baths in the big zinc covered steel tub, neighbors bringing us baskets of still hot tomatoes, which we ate with such relish the juice ran down our chests to our shorts, science lessons we'd get whenever an injured or dead beast was found on the property, the celebrity we enjoyed with inevitable black and blue toe stubbings, and the promise of a comforting hug if we dodged our way to the main cabin through a particularly scary thunderstorm.
Few ammenities were provided though none of us felt the burden of it really. Our playground was vast and wild, and we were wonderfully scared at the prospect of a late night trek down to the outhouse flashlight in hand, waving it back and forth across the path to fend off Indians or foxes or wayward criminals which we were certain lay in wait along the path or down inside the outhouse itself.
The outhouse was far less ominous during the day. Mud wasps could be watched during our visits, making their row homes steadily each day all summer long. I'd sit there watching them spit out their mouthfulls onto the painted wood slats, just inches away from the budget toilet paper and the heavily pine oil scented block hanging nearby. The passing of summer could be measured by the size of their complexes.
Early mornings were measured by the amount of dew on the spider webs that tented the leaves on the ground. Still silver meant that one might have a chance at finding my grandmother at the potbelly stove for a fried egg in the small yellow enamel fry pan. It would have been a special treat, joining her privately like that, and worth waking early for.
Few ammenities were provided though none of us felt the burden of it really. Our playground was vast and wild, and we were wonderfully scared at the prospect of a late night trek down to the outhouse flashlight in hand, waving it back and forth across the path to fend off Indians or foxes or wayward criminals which we were certain lay in wait along the path or down inside the outhouse itself.
The outhouse was far less ominous during the day. Mud wasps could be watched during our visits, making their row homes steadily each day all summer long. I'd sit there watching them spit out their mouthfulls onto the painted wood slats, just inches away from the budget toilet paper and the heavily pine oil scented block hanging nearby. The passing of summer could be measured by the size of their complexes.
Early mornings were measured by the amount of dew on the spider webs that tented the leaves on the ground. Still silver meant that one might have a chance at finding my grandmother at the potbelly stove for a fried egg in the small yellow enamel fry pan. It would have been a special treat, joining her privately like that, and worth waking early for.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
I'm Scared 'A You
The photos we took of our home when we first bought it have been shuffled deeply for a long time, escaping the inevitable scornful appraisal I'd have given them. Once a very public place in its tenure as a private bar, and one would think fairly well tended, it was derelect when I found it, including the modest garden which was quite overgrown, diseased, and choked with poison ivy.
Not one to be easily dissuaded, and certainly not from the vision of the completed project that had been growing in my imagination, I spent many of those early days outside, kids toddling around nearby, ripping out that ivy, cutting down shrubs, moving spidery azaleas, and amending soil everywhere. I discovered an entire half of the garden lurking behind the initial wall of closely planted, spider-mite infested hemlocks. Down they came, revealing a crumbling edge to the garden, railroad ties decomposed and about two feet of precious space layed waste to erosion.
New project: retaining wall. After those hemlocks were cut down, I spent the better part of two weeks with an axe, shovel, and pickaxe at my side as I ripped their solid stumps from the soil. The neighbors across the street would watch from their porch, beers in hand, easy conversation steady. They'd moved in just a month after we did, so were new to the area too. In her mid fifties, Martha told me that in her younger days, yard work was a way of life and she missed her garden, had fun watching me at mine. Her son, a huge, dark headed guy with a booming voice in his mid thirties, would watch too, often yelling out "I'm scared 'a you!" because of the way I'd throw myself into my daunting tasks. It always made me smile, proud and cocky in my achievements.
The garden is rather pretty now, ten years later. Broad, curving lines of bricks show off the perennial bed borders, a few of those original azaleas filled out, and grass covers where the kids enjoyed muddy escapades.
Martha died several years ago, falling victim to a swift intestinal cancer. I created a painted chair in her honor with a stylized lilly of the valley on its seat. Her son moved back in a couple of years later, to keep his dad company, and I hear his booming voice daily, most often in conversation over his cell phone. Though I couldn't picture myself doing quite such hard work again, bad back and all that, it's a good feeling knowing that I once did, easily and with pleasure, and accolades.
.
Not one to be easily dissuaded, and certainly not from the vision of the completed project that had been growing in my imagination, I spent many of those early days outside, kids toddling around nearby, ripping out that ivy, cutting down shrubs, moving spidery azaleas, and amending soil everywhere. I discovered an entire half of the garden lurking behind the initial wall of closely planted, spider-mite infested hemlocks. Down they came, revealing a crumbling edge to the garden, railroad ties decomposed and about two feet of precious space layed waste to erosion.
New project: retaining wall. After those hemlocks were cut down, I spent the better part of two weeks with an axe, shovel, and pickaxe at my side as I ripped their solid stumps from the soil. The neighbors across the street would watch from their porch, beers in hand, easy conversation steady. They'd moved in just a month after we did, so were new to the area too. In her mid fifties, Martha told me that in her younger days, yard work was a way of life and she missed her garden, had fun watching me at mine. Her son, a huge, dark headed guy with a booming voice in his mid thirties, would watch too, often yelling out "I'm scared 'a you!" because of the way I'd throw myself into my daunting tasks. It always made me smile, proud and cocky in my achievements.
The garden is rather pretty now, ten years later. Broad, curving lines of bricks show off the perennial bed borders, a few of those original azaleas filled out, and grass covers where the kids enjoyed muddy escapades.
Martha died several years ago, falling victim to a swift intestinal cancer. I created a painted chair in her honor with a stylized lilly of the valley on its seat. Her son moved back in a couple of years later, to keep his dad company, and I hear his booming voice daily, most often in conversation over his cell phone. Though I couldn't picture myself doing quite such hard work again, bad back and all that, it's a good feeling knowing that I once did, easily and with pleasure, and accolades.
.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Siblings
The relationship I have with my sisters has become the essential fertilizer in many of my life adventures. Despite our differences, which seem to fade over the years, we've found common ground in our parenting, travels, and daily worries. Knowing this has given me strength when I might have given up, coupled as it may be with simply not wanting to appear less than fully capable in their eyes. A relationship with my brother has proven just as deep, if not tended to with the same regularity.
Watching my daughter and sons cultivate their bonds this summer, finally getting past (at least for now) the often vicious tauntings that colored most of their conversations last spring, has been very rewarding. Whether or not the complete and utter boredom I offered them for several weeks this summer led them to it, in the end they own this new freedom with eachother. Several days of Monopoly, Life, and Battleship games in front of the floor fan was the cultivator.
The easy banter and laughter in the ride home after an unexpectedly short day at the beach was the bloom.
.
Watching my daughter and sons cultivate their bonds this summer, finally getting past (at least for now) the often vicious tauntings that colored most of their conversations last spring, has been very rewarding. Whether or not the complete and utter boredom I offered them for several weeks this summer led them to it, in the end they own this new freedom with eachother. Several days of Monopoly, Life, and Battleship games in front of the floor fan was the cultivator.
The easy banter and laughter in the ride home after an unexpectedly short day at the beach was the bloom.
.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
EAD, not EET
It tickled my funny bone, but as many things that do, it was also fairly obscure. I'm talking about the name of my blog Boxwood Beadle, which has several layers of meaning for me. My sister Tina pointed out that maybe I ought to address that.
When I was about thirteen years old, my mother was assigned to write an article about Longwood Gardens in Pennyslvania. A well known and beautifully manicured topiary garden, its lush, dark green, sculpted boxwood bushes took many forms from simply towering columnar hedges to smaller, ankle brushing animal form creations among the lawns. The day we went, likely a hot summer day since my siblings and I were along for the ride, the boxwoods were dripping with japanese beetles. Time has sculpted my memory of the day to focus on the horrific experience of regularly shaking the shimmering beasts out of my unfashionable, thrift store pants cuffs as we made our winding way through the windless, humid garden. This, coupled with the strong, cat-piss aroma of the boxwoods, gave me a lifetime distaste for boxwoods of any form, proudly sculpted or otherwise.
A few days ago, while I was contemplating a title for this blog, I wanted to reference my current home, so looked up the word boxwood (ironically, our sidestreet's name.) Up came a lovely, red and black insect called the boxwood beetle, which apparently is completely harmless, except to boxwoods. Aha! That appealed to me. From there, I recalled from somewhere deep in my mind the archaic word beadle, which means herald, so there I had it; Boxwood Beadle.
.
When I was about thirteen years old, my mother was assigned to write an article about Longwood Gardens in Pennyslvania. A well known and beautifully manicured topiary garden, its lush, dark green, sculpted boxwood bushes took many forms from simply towering columnar hedges to smaller, ankle brushing animal form creations among the lawns. The day we went, likely a hot summer day since my siblings and I were along for the ride, the boxwoods were dripping with japanese beetles. Time has sculpted my memory of the day to focus on the horrific experience of regularly shaking the shimmering beasts out of my unfashionable, thrift store pants cuffs as we made our winding way through the windless, humid garden. This, coupled with the strong, cat-piss aroma of the boxwoods, gave me a lifetime distaste for boxwoods of any form, proudly sculpted or otherwise.
A few days ago, while I was contemplating a title for this blog, I wanted to reference my current home, so looked up the word boxwood (ironically, our sidestreet's name.) Up came a lovely, red and black insect called the boxwood beetle, which apparently is completely harmless, except to boxwoods. Aha! That appealed to me. From there, I recalled from somewhere deep in my mind the archaic word beadle, which means herald, so there I had it; Boxwood Beadle.
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Thursday, September 3, 2009
To-Do
If ever there was a Moment of Doubt Show, this would certainly merit consideration for Best Of since despite years of loving nuges to do so by family, my forays into writing have been anything but public. Be Brave, says I...
I'll start with precious, safe stuff.
My summer to-do list started out as a perfectly well designed Word document, but the rows between each item spoke early on to my understanding that the list itself would be as much a work in progress as any of the task outlined on it. Clipped tightly to an aging brown masonite board, its corners have earned their curl, notes in ink and pencil and crayon have eased its early grace, and its surface reflects its tenancy on the kitchen table. Shoved aside shamlessly for dinner or company, it nontheless was my constant companion this summer, giving my restless hands a job to do with the promise of a self-made rainbow at the end. All around the house, things have been washed/sanded/primed/painted, ground/grouted, cut/sanded, torn out/planted/mulched, opened up/patched, ripped out/built. Paint, mortar and steel dust under the fingernails, and sawdust in the nose, splinters, backaches, and sore knuckles have been a small, if not welcome, price to pay.
It all looks Much Better Now. Ahh, there's the rainbow!
.
I'll start with precious, safe stuff.
My summer to-do list started out as a perfectly well designed Word document, but the rows between each item spoke early on to my understanding that the list itself would be as much a work in progress as any of the task outlined on it. Clipped tightly to an aging brown masonite board, its corners have earned their curl, notes in ink and pencil and crayon have eased its early grace, and its surface reflects its tenancy on the kitchen table. Shoved aside shamlessly for dinner or company, it nontheless was my constant companion this summer, giving my restless hands a job to do with the promise of a self-made rainbow at the end. All around the house, things have been washed/sanded/primed/painted, ground/grouted, cut/sanded, torn out/planted/mulched, opened up/patched, ripped out/built. Paint, mortar and steel dust under the fingernails, and sawdust in the nose, splinters, backaches, and sore knuckles have been a small, if not welcome, price to pay.
It all looks Much Better Now. Ahh, there's the rainbow!
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