Musings of a Mother With a Dirty House

     This is my official declaration stating why the house is never clean when Cory gets home.  That way, if he ever decides to make a comment about his abode in disarray, I can lovingly shout,  "Read the blog!".  No, really, it's important to gather my thoughts on this subject and write them down in a memorable way so as to remind myself, when I get frazzled about cleaning, why I seldom pick up the mop or swing the broom.  I'm sure many moms can relate to this, and if you can't, well shut it.  I will only accept comments such as, "You are sooooo right!" and "Brilliant! Just brilliant!".  Because I'm the dictator here at Poops and Poodles, so if you don't fall in line and agree with me on this, you are not a welcome member of this community-- in a loving way, and all.
     See, when I used to daydream about getting married and having a family, the completely idiotic musings went something like this: I would picture my cute little kids (usually about four of them) in cute little outfits playing so cutely together while I looked downright amazing in some trendy outfit giggling over the stove, preparing some gourmet meal to make anyone with a mouth count down the minutes until dinnertime.  It was all vague, you know, I didn't go crazy overboard with the fantasies, just imagined what having four kids would look like.  And, well, you seldom daydream about nightmares and I never pictured horrible tantrums and getting hit in the face with flying food.  I conveniently left out diaper rashes and burned beans, too.  Isn't this proof that I'm a ridiculously optimistic person?  Of course it is.  And when I pictured me playing with these super cute kids, the house was always very clean, except for the errant toys we had just played with because you don't want your house to look un-lived in, for Pete's sake.  The great thing is, I think I subconsciously told myself that the house was clean in all of these dreamings because I had cleaned it.  I never saw a maid, so I must have cleaned it.  I gave myself a lot of credit.
     So, due to the fact that I at one time imagined what life would be like being married with several kids, I set the bar stupidly high for myself.  I thought this would be....easier.  And it's so not.  SO not.  When we found out I was pregnant with James, I quit working and became a stay-at-home mom.  And I love it, even while I'm having my weekly meltdown.  But here's the thing, I thought staying at home would help in the cleanliness department.  I thought, "Well, gee, if only I could be home all day then I would have time to mop and dust and fold the millions of shirts we seem to have..." and, once again, I thought wrong.  Because it dawned on me, about three weeks in, that I was a stay-at-home MOM, like, there are people here with me all day.  Incredibly needy and dirty people, I might add.  Now, I realize you would have to be a stay-at-home WIFE if you want the house clean.  Hubby runs off to work and you clean the baseboards.  See, that would work.  But it's not the deal-e-o right now.  No, I have two little friends who accompany on nearly all of my daily chores.  I call them Dirty and his pal, Filthy.  Or Cowboy and Sassafras:

    And here's what cleaning up looks like with Cowboy and Sassafras:
- I try and clean the dishes around mid-morning, when I've finally gotten over the trauma of waking up and fixing breakfast with Cowboy acting like he hasn't eaten since the Alamo.  This is not so bad when Mr. Big Stuff is here to help.  But, you know, he leaves to go to work and I'm left at the barn with my friends.  So, I start to clean up and they suddenly are hit with an INSANE desire for a snack.  I try and resist but it always gets worse if you fight it.  Cowboy comes over and starts rummaging through the silverware (and its always the knives he goes for first), Sassafras sees a sippy cup and it reminds her she hasn't had anything to drink in hours, Cowboy climbs on top of the open dishwasher door and starts jumping up and down and I resist the urge to take the spray on the faucet and hose them out of the kitchen-- because then you're looking at MORE work. So I give up doing dishes.
-I head to the playroom and start picking up the mess that always is.   Cowboy and Sassafras follow and realize it is light years more fun to play in the play room when I'm in there.  So it becomes a game of trying to pick up faster than they can take out- but, let me remind you, there are two of them and one of me.  This never works.  Plus, they take out toys in a frenzy.  It takes time to sort through the mess and put it back in its correct spot.  I tell Sassafras she better help me clean up the playroom or she won't get to watch a show before her nap.  This sounds like it would work.  But it doesn't.  Because she gets in clean up mode and her clean up mode is INTENSE.  And she gets herself all worked up because Cowboy continues to ruin the playroom and she thinks this will infringe upon her TV watching capabilities, even though I've tried to explain a gazillion times that it doesn't matter what he's doing.  So it seems to always end with Sassafras knocking Cowboy down with the swing of a bat, or Dora, or his truck, or whatever she can reach and is strong enough to use as a weapon.  So I end up with a hysterical Cowboy with a welt on his head and a hysterical Sassafras who laments the loss of her TV show and a time-out.  This is just wonderful and puts everybody in a good mood.
-So then I try laundry.  Sassafras loves to fold washcloths and feels like a "mommy" when she helps me, which I love.  The only problem? Cowboy apparently likes to fold washcloths, too.  So I give them their own sets of washcloths to fold but Cowboy won't accept this and inevitably reaches for Sassafras' neatly folded stack.  Can you say ROYAL MELTDOWN?  In her eyes, he has just destroyed her very motherhood.  She has beautifully created a gem of a washcloth with no wrinkles and he threw it on the ground with the swagger of a gunslinger.  POW.  He has crushed her maternal instincts and he knows it.  So he runs.  And she chases him and either pushes him down, pinches him, sits on him (my personal favorite) or some other physical torture and calls him something with "poo poo" in it for a dash of verbal abuse.  You know, like, "poo poo head", "poo tee tee-er" or some other name that denotes disgust.  Naive little me thought that kind of talk only came from boys.  Heh heh.
-So I move on to the vacuum.  Sassafras has a love/hate relationship with the vacuum.  She either hates it and thinks its "too loud!", which she always manages to scream louder than the vacuum itself, but whatever, or she loves it and wants to vacuum herself.  So the whole time I'm trying to vacuum, she's following me either yelling that its too loud or doing the Chinese water torture version of: "Is it my turn? Is it my turn? Is it my turn?" until I'm ready to stick the vacuum attachment down my throat and suck out my own beating heart (it seems less painful at the time).  Cowboy loves the vacuum cleaner.  So much so that he follows me around with the goal of pressing the on/off button repeatedly until I'm near certain the vacuum is going to explode or the electrical current in the house is going to go haywire and we're all going to go up in smoke.  So every time I turn to tell Sassafras it's not her turn to vacuum, Cowboy presses the button.  And every time I lean over the pick up a random shoes off the carpet, Cowboy presses the button.  Drives me BANANAS.
-Finally, I just try and pick up.  You know, the clutter.  The debris.  The little sprinkles of love that let me know that little people live here.  And it's chaos.  If I'm not entertaining them, then they are entertaining themselves which many times is far worse.   As in, Cowboy will climb anything and everything, including the pantry shelves if he has decided it's time to eat.  Never mind that there is essentially concrete underneath him.  If a cookie is in sight, its apparently worth the risk.  Or he'll find a stick of some sort and go after Boo Boo.  Or he'll dump Boo Boo's food into his water which makes me want to throw up.  Or he'll start digging in the trash, or turn on the oven, or climb the chair that is next to the computer and start banging.  You know, innocent little stuff like that.  And Sassafras will make a train in the playroom with every single toy she can get her grubby little hands on.  Or she'll go exploring in the refrigerator for something to eat, leaving the door wide open.  Or she'll get into my makeup because she wants to look like a mommy. So I end up picking up only what they've managed to destroy during the time I tried picking up the rest of the house.  SEE WHAT I MEAN?!?!?!
    So that's my story and I'm sticking to it.  I try.  Really, I do.  Because if I have a messy house, that means I have to look at it all day long.  Its the failure that's always in my face, if I choose to look at it like that.  Which, by the way, can drive you clinically insane.  So, I try to focus on what I did do during each day.  Like how many times I colored a picture with Sassafras.  Or how many books I read to her.  Or how many times I pushed her on the swing.  Things like that.  And I remember that I did actually find time to teach Cowboy where some of his body parts are and what the chicken says.  And I prevented him from dying a couple of times, too.  From falling off the slide, to eating a penny, to getting eaten by Boo Boo for taunting him.
    So, in the disheveled world of the mom, it can be hard to be proud of what you're doing on a day-to-day basis.  It's not exactly brain surgery.  It's waaaayyyyy more difficult.  Doctors get years and years of schooling to figure out how to operate on a bum brain.  And here we are, entrusted with forming typically several tiny brains into effective machines that govern smart, well-behaved individuals who thrive in a dysfunctional world.  With usually NO schooling.  We don't go to school to be parents.  We get tossed about in the world of tradition, trends, and try again.  And we get beaten down- often by the kids- and get back up.  There is hardly any glory in the momentary mom triumphs that go unnoticed in a busy world.  When your husband gets home and all the kids are alive, how many of us get thanked?  Even though we are usually life-savers on a daily basis.  When the children are miraculously well-behaved during a dining out experience, we sometimes chalk this up to them finally "growing up" instead of being due to the fact that we have drilled manners and correct eating habits into them on a daily basis.  And when they start to get older and show real compassion and affection to other people, sometimes we can forget that we had a hand in that.  That each kiss they give out was once a kiss given.  Clean house or not, I can think of no better legacy than that.
Happy Mother's Day.

On Suffering- For Tripp Roth

Just in case you're tempted to slash your wrists during the first part of this post, keep reading, I swear it doesn't end on a depressing note. I swear.

    So my little friend Tripp died on January 14th.  My little friend that I never met.  I'm just getting around to blogging about it.  It took awhile for me to process it.  He died, and I cried myself to sleep that Saturday night.  I moped around the house and faked smiles playing Legos.  I went through the motions of fixing dinner, crying into the peas, sniffling next to the turkey.  And then, lo and behold, I noticed something.  Something beautiful started pouring out across the internet.  The love people had for this little boy.  Thankfully, I was not the only hysterical person on the earth over this.  I felt comforted.  There were a ton of other people bathing their pillowcases in utter sorrow.  And boy, did this make me happy.  Not happy because we were all miserable but happy because we all loved so much.  A little boy we never met.  A mother who we all admired more than we could put words to.  A grandmother who essentially stopped her life to take care of her daughter and her first grandchild.  The endless rocking.  The endless, tortuous baths.  The unending, unconditional love.  It was all too much for us humans to bear.  I've never seen something, been a part of something, so darn heartbreaking, but so darn beautiful all at the same rotten-wonderful time.

    ABC ran a news story on Tripp about a month before he died.  The story generated many comments.  SO many of them were infused with love and support, sending love and prayers their Ponchatoula-way.  There were the occasional hard-hearted, why-don't-you-put-him-down-like-a-freakin'-dog comments.  They pretty much got ripped to virtual shreds by the rest of us.  I don't tolerate people comparing a little boy to a dog very well, apparently.  Gulp.   People from all over the world poured out their hearts to this little boy and his family.   So many cried.  So many prayed.  So many hoped.  It didn't end with a miraculous healing and a chorus of hallelujahs.  It ended with reality.  Not everyone is healed.  Tripp wasn't healed of EB on this earth.  All the saints intercessions we implored.  All the Hail Marys.  All the Our Fathers.  Were they heard?  It appears, "Thy will be done" was heard loud and clear.
     Even when Jesus, GOD, walked this earth, not everyone was healed.  Isn't that hard to bear?  That he didn't heal everyone.  Sometimes we only focus on the ones in the bible who were healed, you know?  We know them all- the man at the pool of Siloam, the man with the withered hand, Peter's mother-in-law, the bleeding woman, etc. etc. etc.  But you know what?  He didn't heal everyone.  There were sick people left when Jesus died.  There were paralyzed people left when He died.  There were still lepers when He died.  He obviously didn't come to cure everyone's physical ailments.  I don't know, maybe part of why He came was to make sure that those who suffered could know that it gets better.  Maybe to make sure that those who suffered knew that they were loved.  Fiercely.  That there is a place where there is no suffering.  That even though He doesn't heal your son's EB blisters, even though He doesn't take away your daughter's cancer, even though He doesn't shrink your husband's tumor, that He loves you beyond words.

     Physical cures are NOT evidence of God's love.  Merely existing is evidence of God's love.  Physical cures do not ensure that you go to heaven.  You could be healed of cancer and lead a terrible life and end it with a terrible death.  Therefore, being physically cured could not possibly mean you are loved more than those who are not healed because God wishes all to be saved.  Not to throw a dagger at those who have been healed, no way.  But they received a gift and what they do with that gift is what counts.  Those who were not healed received a gift too.  The gift of an early entrance into paradise.  Maybe not what they were hoping for because we don't have a flippin' clue how great heaven is.  Maybe not what their parents or loved ones wanted because we don't get to peer into the window of heaven and see them so freakin' happy that we're actually jealous they got cancer.  But it's a gift just the same.  I'm sure Tripp feels sorry for the rest of us down here.  He's probably playing the drums and chewing on a cherry Twizzler while I'm sobbing uncontrollably with snot running down my nose over him.  Really?  Actually, he's probably like "Who the heck is that lady with the snot all over moaning and groaning about me?"  I'm sure Tripp Roth feels very sorry for me at the moment.  That's okay, Tripp ole' buddy, just keep praying for the snot lady to be where you are one day.
     It's bitter but it's true, sometimes this is a valley of tears.  Bad things happen.  Sad things happen.  Every prayer is not answered in the way we want.  Every pleading of the heart is not met with earthly consolation and a "everything's okay".  No, sometimes everything is not okay.  I guarantee you Courtney is not thinking everything is okay at the moment.  And good for her for being honest.  I'm sure she heard a million times at the funeral the phrase everyone uses when they don't know what else to say- "he's in a better place."  And it's true.  He is.  But it's still not okay.  It still hurts like the dickens.  It still rips my heart out and punches me in the gut.  And if suffering people can be real with God and say, "I know my boy is in heaven, but this hurts like hell," then maybe we reach acceptance a little quicker.  Even if we're saying it ten years later, that's alright.  Even if we tell God that this world He created totally bites,  that's okay.  He knows it's true more than anyone.  That's why He doesn't leave us here.
      The day Tripp died I let myself be crazy with sorrow.  I didn't even try and drum up every thought I could to make me cheery.  I was mad at God.  And I think I even told Him off a time or two with one of these zingers: "Maybe the atheists are right!  Maybe You don't care!"  I'm thirty-four years old and, yes, sometimes I yell at God like a two-year old.  But, as a wise priest once told me, "You can keep yelling, just make sure you never walk away."  And I didn't.  I didn't walk away from Him, even though I was so sad and He broke my heart.  Because, as St. Peter once said, "to whom shall I go?"  Where else would I go with my tears?  I realized a little bit later that, no, the atheists weren't right.  Because the only thing worse than Tripp Roth suffering like he did would be for there to be no heaven.  No reward.  No purpose or meaning to it.  Yes, sometimes God hurts us in the moment, but He never walks away.  So I begrudgingly told Him I was sorry for yelling.  For like the hundredth time.
     I swear, though, people can be amazing.  Oh the love I saw for this little two year old, blistered boy.  People gave to that family like the world was coming to an end.  Love oozed out every pore of people's bodies as they read Courtney's blog.  Isn't that a miracle somewhat?  Maybe we read about and see and experience a lot of cruelty from others in this world.  But that blog was a place where love ruled.  That boy stole a million hearts and those hearts beat stronger because of him.  Tripp created a situation where, just by existing, love flooded hearts and people were more generous, more prayerful, more compassionate.  In a way, Tripp Roth didn't receive a gift of healing.  He gave the gift of healing.  To us.  To those who don't have a clue.  To those who don't deserve it.  The little suffering boy became a sort of vessel of grace.  It's how suffering works.  It's why it's so powerful.  Those who suffer open our hearts.  To the realities of this world.  To the grace that is flowing.  To the very heart of a God who once suffered terribly, too.

     So, I thank Tripp, Courtney, Grammy, Paw Paw Carey and everyone else I feel like I know now.  You went through the fire.  The fire so many of us spend so much energy  avoiding (with good reason) our entire life.  But this fire fell into your lap.  You can't control what happens to you, only how you respond.  Well, gang, you hit this one out of the park.  You inspired thousands of people and made sure your little boy only knew love on this earth.  You couldn't control the blisters from forming on the fragile skin of your son, but you succeeding in not letting your hearts be blistered- with anger, with despair, with bitterness.  Congratulations.  I know this probably doesn't feel like a celebration, but I celebrate just the same.  Your son died, but Love won.

P.S.

We can't do anything about Tripp, but you know who we can do something about?  Bruce!! Yay, Bruce!  Take a look at this stud muffin:

Check him out on Reece's Rainbow: http://reecesrainbow.org/?s=Bruce - we don't want Bruce to be friends with Tripp just yet.

Yo Quiero Ser Hispanos

     Okay, so, I thought for today's light-hearted post, I would give a complete analysis of my views on immigration.  I mean, why blog if you're not going to make people squirm and squeal and call you names?  I love controversial issues.  About as much as I love going to the dentist and having them say "Nah, I think we can do this without anesthesia."  Um, what?  But, you know, I also have trouble shutting up.  So it's inevitable that I have to give my opinion about everything, and the limiting status update space available on Facebook just wasn't cutting it.  So, yes, immigration.  Here's what I think when I hear a debate on immigration:  I want to be the immigrant.  How's that for a fresh perspective?
     I think my infatuation with all things non-American came when I lived in Central America for seven months.  I applied to go and live and teach at an orphanage called Farm of the Child outside of Trujillo, Honduras.  Here, let me show you on a map:

Notice it's on the Caribbean, but that had absolutely nothing to do with why I chose to go live there.  I swear.  Okay, maybe a teeny tiny bit, but definitely not a major factor.  My original intent on becoming a sort of "modern missionary" was to get out of America.  I know that sounds, well, drastic.  And quite unpatriotic.  But I was tired.  Tired of being asked when I was going to get married, or for that matter, get a boyfriend.  Or when I was going to get a boyfriend who actually went to Church.  Or when I was going to start to be attracted to men who went to Church.  It was complicated.  

    I was also tired of talking about poor people and ready to, um, actually meet some.  Teaching religion I had many opportunities to talk about social justice, to spell out the Church's teaching, to try and rev up some sympathy for those who had little.  But it became redundant.  Empty.  And yes, I had gone on week-long missionary trips and volunteered at homeless shelters and all the rest of it.  But I didn't really know those people.  I tried to help them for a minute, a day, a week, but then I went home and very easily and quickly forgot about them.  I wanted to challenge myself on a new level.  To see if I really could hang with people from a very different background and culture for an extended time.  To build real friendships.  To come to better understand their plight from the inside and stop talking like I already did.  

    So I did it.  I took the plunge.  And it was really hard and really wonderful all at the same time.  But I left after seven months with an undeniable love of all things Latino.  And I still don't know whether the terms Latino and Hispanic are interchangeable.  Not a clue.  But what's really important to know is that I was entirely jealous of those with the pretty olive skin, big brown eyes, and fluent Spanish speaking skills.  I know its their primary language, but still.  I was jealous it was their primary language.  The women cooked easily over an open fire, laughed heartily with a sweet glint, and their plight of poverty became just that much more intriguing.  Truly, I was not jealous of their struggles and I was despondent over their lack of basic healthcare and good education, but they were so beautiful in the midst of it.  The food, the language, the celebrations all held its own mystique and I fell in love with "other".  With that which was so different than what I had known.  I loved cooking baleadas and tried my best to thrust my hips to the earthy beat celebrating a quinceanera (with very little success, people.  I do NOT have Latino hips.  Never have and never will.  That I have accepted.  It gets ugly quick when I try and fight it).

                                   

     Some of the people were intent on coming to America, sure that it held the key to their prosperity.  It was difficult to witness that because in many ways I knew that to be true but in other ways I wanted to shout: "No! Keep what you have here.  This is wonderful.  I haven't heard Beyonce's name in weeks and this is good."  But sometimes it's just not.  America holds many opportunities that some of these countries just don't right now.  In some of these countries where people flee, corruption has a firm grip and getting out from underneath all of it will take a lot of time and lot of really good people to step up (and then I look at the corruption in our own government and think, "We're the answer?!?!? Good Lord.)  But we are in many ways.  And so we have an immigration issue.  

     It ain't easy and I got NO answers.  I listen to the Democratic argument and I'm like "Yes, definitely" and then I listen to the Republican argument and I'm like "Oooohhh, good point."  Totally confused.  And I just want to switch places with the immigrant and say, "Here, you can have my spot."  Not to glorify the places in which they come from, no, I know it's not that simple.  But to acknowledge that no country embodies every dream.   Everybody deserves a safe place to raise their family and food and clean water and education and.....the list keeps growing.  But you can have all that and still feel very needy.  Still feel very disconnected.  Still feel very alone and confused.  Happiness takes on a very perplexing landscape when you really sit with it.     

     It's my dilemma.  I meet the Hispanic mother in Wal-Mart who only speaks Spanish and I want to be best friends.  Amigas beunas, por favor.  And I want to follow her around with my cart and get the same ingredients as her, sure that she is making some delectable item tonight- from scratch, of course.  Some would call this stalking.  I call it intensely admiring.  Big difference.  And I lose the ability to even be able to process my infatuation.  Why am I obsessed with these people?  It's lost on me, but I am.  And get this, it's not even just Hispanic people!  I know, this is getting juicy.

    We have neighbors that are from China and, don't you know, the obsession has crossed over to them.  Scary.  They just happen to have two little girls the same age as our kids and so it's just impossible to not be friends.  And to not get a swing set so that they'll keep coming over and Cory and I can keep bombarding them with questions about all things Chinese.  And get so excited to tell them that we watched a documentary on rural China and it was awesome.  And to practice "Ni hao!" because it's the only flippin' Chinese word I know and I got it from a cartoon Katherine watches.  So embarrassing.  Ugh. I'm telling you, it's exhausting loving other cultures.   

                                        

    Katherine, James and I were over at their house not too long ago and the always gentle, always wonderful mother offered my kids a snack.  A snack that looked like chocolate covered birdseed.  And I was like, oh no, this is going to get awkward.  I was sure Katherine would eye it suspiciously and James would throw it in the grass.  But, no.  Held out with a gentle hand, my kids took to it like little hungry hummingbirds.  Of course they would eat birdseed if it was offered by the lovely Chinese mother.  See?  Even my kids want to be Chinese.  From the mouth of babes...or in the mouth of babes.   And I cringe when all I have to offer her two cute kids is a Twinkie and aging Easter candy.  What is wrong with me?  

    This is all said in a spirit of sincere awe, and a tad bit of envy.  I am consistently amazed at the beauty this world encompasses.  Yes, I know, many Central American countries are in horrific battles against poverty and corruption and the like.  And yes, I know China has a one-child policy that forces many women to do the unthinkable.  And then there's a tiny little issue called Communism.  I get it.  This is a blog post, not a doctoral dissertation.   It's just that sometimes I want to move to El Salvador and sometimes I want to move to China.  And sometimes I want to be Amish.  Don't you ever get tired of the American culture?  Of Brangelina and People magazine?  Of reality shows and obvious plastic surgery?  And I'm sorry ahead of time to all the high school and college girls, but don't you even get tired of the hand on the hip pose and aviator sunglasses?  Cause the good Lord knows that I do.    

     I do know we have incredible beauty right here.  No need to lecture me on that.  But one seldom seems to appreciate the surrounding terrain when it's all you've ever known.  I never knew the unspeakable comfort of a towel that has just come out of the dryer until I didn't have a washer or a dryer for several months in Central America.  In Honduras, my towels and, might I add, my underwear, gave about as much comfort as a pile of rocks.  Dryers do amazing things to cotton.  And I most definitely took for granted my freedom.  I'm not talking about the "land of the free, home of the brave" kind of freedom (although that, too).  I'm talking about the freedom to jump in your car and head to the gas station and get a Coke.  Do we even realize what a luxury that is?  Even as our teeth are rotting out from the sugar, do we realize that not many people are able to choose the way they get their cavities so freely.  In Honduras, about fifty people shared two old cars and the nearest "gas station" was across three rivers.    

     That's when I give thanks for those who have come to live with us from other countries.  No matter the complexities of immigration issue, I try to remember we're talking about people.  People who have a valuable contribution to add to our landscape.  Fresh perspectives, new foods, old customs.  All is well when we see the beauty and vastness of God's creation, from the mountains to the deserts and from the Asians to the Caucasians.  The way we think, the way we live, the values we hold dear.  Everything is more beautiful when it's been challenged.  I'll always be an American at heart.  It's home.    But I have always loved visiting other people's homes, and realizing in all our differences, there is something beautiful there.

    

P.S.

Wouldn't you know, I went to Old Navy today to do some birthday shopping and they had all these "Mexican"-looking clothes (I'm not good at fashion labels).  But, seriously, is that a sign or what?  I wasn't able to do too much damage because Katherine kept asking the little boy mannequin to dance with her.  When he wouldn't respond, she'd shout: "Mom!  This boy is being RUDE!!!!".  She always seems to keep my shopping in check :)