Stuck
Yes, I live. Real life is so real, that I don’t have the time to step aside and take note of it. We are dust, and these days my existence seems like a big pile of construction dirt that’s quickly being swept away by the breeze of how fast my life is running. Oh well, the Father is keeping track; and that’s probably more than I want recalled anyway. My hubby begged me to write up this little gem, however, and seeing as I have ten minutes before speeding out the door to the next thing, I figure why not?--
I was in the checkout line at Whole Foods this morning, when an intelligent young cashier-man began “checking me out.” As I finished unloading my cart I approached the swipe thingy and began searching my bag for my wallet. I looked up to find that the checker was looking at my chest—
“M’am,” (all the young men call me ‘M’am” these days. Sigh.) “uhhh, there’s uhhh-“
He was now pointing to my chest, seemingly at a loss for words. What he wanted to say was, “there’s a sticker on your boob” but all that came out was a sheepish “uhhhh M’am.”
So I look down at my chest, and there was indeed a large round sticker stuck to the middle of my breast, apparently placed there by the honey dew melon I had spent five minutes fondling before making my final decision. On it was a boldly printed crown with the slogan “The King of melons!” in the center.
That my friends, is cheap irony.
Will I write the summer? Possibly…I guess I’m just a tease.
Marthamartha
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Forty, Fit & Fishin'
Where's Martha again?
I'm "sporty-fit-n-forty" & fishn' at the lake.
This is me 30-odd years ago...
While I'm away, here are some tales from last summer...
And then there was one...
Winding down the day with a cup of decaf I opened up my silverware drawer in search of the lone teaspoon. I actually have 12 place settings of flatware; twelve dinner & salad forks, twelve knives, twelve soup spoons… but for whatever reason, these past 6 months, my household has been functioning with only one teaspoon.
The lone spoon is of course never in the silverware drawer. It’s usually in the dishwasher. This has never dissuaded me from hopefully looking in the silverware drawer first, however. Like playing a slot machine, I expectantly pull open the drawer hoping that maybe, just maybe I’ll hit the jack pot. And every 100 drawer pulls or so I get lucky, and the lone spoon will be expectantly lying there, looking up at me with a demitasse, melancholy smile. “I once had friends,” it whimpers. Somewhere in my house, there are in fact, eleven teaspoons. Please tell me, they are somewhere!? I mean, where else would they be?
It hadn’t really started gnawing at me until about a week ago, when we closed on the construction loan for our house renovation project. Yes, it’s true, more than a year later, we are going ahead with the second story addition. And while I haven’t packed one iota, the demo crew is coming in a few weeks, and all the piles of stuff that I had long ago given up finding proper places for, have started screaming at me…
“Where-are-THE-SPOONS?!”
The other day I decided to take an earnest stab at finding them. I mean, certainly the smallest search might produce at least one extra spoon, if not two or three. I began by quizzing my 8-year-old son, a.k.a. “Boy Scientist” who is always concocting various potions, mixtures and solutions in his bedroom.
“Jack? Honey, when you mix up your experiments, what are you doing with the spoons?”
“I dunno mom, I can’t remember.”
“Well, can you think hard, because mommy seems to be missing about eleven of them.”
“Well, umm, I guess I put them in the sink.”
“Are you sure? I mean, because if you put them in the sink, they might have found their way into the dishwasher. Right?”
“I dunno mom, I think that I put the spoons in the sink.”
The next day I began rifling through the many collections & piles in Jack’s room. It had been I while since I had last excavated my way into his room. Aside from the containers of mystery liquids, there were rock piles, stick piles, piles of shredded paper with cryptic Pokémon scenes scrawled on them, paper airplane piles, dismembered captain underpants books, misc. metal objects dug up from the back yard, soccer trophies beheaded by his younger brother, torsos and limbs from various action figures…but nary a single teaspoon.
I was vexed, to say the least. When did the number of spoons in my drawer elude me? Certainly I might have taken note of a 6 spoon deficit? I can’t remember even having two. But there it is. Eleven spoons gone. They are not in the couch or the mini-van or in my yarn stash. They are not in the Lego piles or the Hot wheels baskets. They are not under my bed or in the sand box or shoved down the HVAC vents.
The only thing I can hardly allow myself to believe, is that perhaps, perhaps my independent five year old; who likes to help himself to yogurts and do everything himself, and can’t quite reach the sink yet, has thrown away the spoons with his yogurt cups... all eleven of them? No, I just can’t accept it…
“Sporty-fit-and forty” is now only 35 days away! I may not be as sporty and fit as I hoped for, but I will certainly be forty. Where my thirties went, I can’t recall, but I bet my children could tell me.
The boys, now 8 & 5, drive me crazy, and somehow love me to death. We do need a bigger house. Jack, who must now weigh 80+lbs still jumps and flaps at any exciting thought; and when both boys start tearing through the house it sounds like a pack of charging elephants. They remain completely sweet, however. This was the dialogue in the car yesterday morning--
“Hey Jack, when we grow up, will we still be friends?”
“Yeah Joey we’ll be friends. We’ll just be grown-ups.”
“Yeah and the second best thing about being a grownup is that you get your own house.”
“Well Joe, first we go to college,”
“Yeah, that’s right, college!”
“and then, we find ourselves some wives.”
“Are wives girls?”
“Yeah, girls, that we, you know, that we love. And then they have babies.”
“Yeah, and then the girls are mommies, and we’re daddies.”
“Yeah Joe, then we’re parents, and then our kids grow up and they have kids.”
“What!? No they don’t!”
“Yes Joe! That’s what happens when you get married, you have kids, then they have kids, and then we’re grandpa’s, and then…we DIE!”
At which point, both boys erupted in hysterical laughter. Obviously, the angst of their mortality hasn't come to fruition.
"Boys, you know that you won't really die."
"I know mom, we'll go to heaven. And that's where we'll have the biggest family and the biggest house!"
How did my eight year old get to be so wise? Yes, the home front is on the move, and I’ve barely been able to stop and take note of it. My “part-time” job working for the church has become an all consuming way of life. Not that I feel like I’ve lost anything. I will cautiously say that I’m beginning to understand Christ’s words, “he who loses his life, finds it,” as piece by piece, the spoons of self service are being displaced. I’m not sure my life could be fuller. Ministry can be a wrecking ball, of sorts. By God’s grace, I may live to praise Him for it.
It's a girl thing
We don't make much of feminity in our family. I live in the dog house. Two boys and a daddy dominate any chance of mommy exerting her fanciness. I do cling to vestiges of glamour--pedicures keep my toes looking nice in sandals, I keep my hair long, and wear pink or skirts at any opportunity. But the fact is, I'm just playing at girliness.
The other day for example, I had climbed into the van to make a quick run to Target to exchange the "Optimum Prime" Transformer action figure that Grandpa bought Joey for his birthday. (Busted after 5 minutes of action.)
I began driving down the street when I noted on my drivers side window a small green gecko lizard, clinging for dear life.
What would most females do in such a situation? "Eeek!" in dismay, while stepping on the gas and blowing off the offending reptile? " Pas moi.
No, this was too good; too many mommy-points to be savored. Slamming on my breaks, I pulled over and oh so gingerly lowered the car window, taking care not to do it too quickly; and bare handedly nabbed the creature.
A quick one-handed-Y-turn and I peeled into the driveway. Running into the house with glee I couldn't wait to show off my conquest--
"Guys! Guys! I got a lizard!"
"Jack quick! Mom's got a lizard!"
"Cool mom!"
I felt pretty cool. I passed ownership of the prized pet over to my hubby, and returned to the afternoon hunting and gathering at Target...
The other night we were all sitting out on the back deck having the usual dinner discussion with our 8-year-old about planets and space. This discussion was related to the names of the planets and what Roman or Greek gods they were named after. Jack seemed to be well informed:
"Yeah and Venus is the love goddess, because that's a girl thing."
Who decided "love" was a "girl" thing?? I guess I need to read that book about Mars & Venus...
Tonight Joey was running around screeching into Jack's voice-change-amplifier toy. Laughing hysterically down the hall, he stopped in front of me, giggling with loud distorted reverb--
"Hey mommy! I'm sexy!"
"What?!"
"I'm sexy!"
"Who told you that word?"
"Christopher. Yeah, and mommy, "sexy" is a "girl" word."
"Oh, well, am I sexy?"
"No! you're just mommy!"
sigh. I guess I'll just go out back and scare up some more lizards.
You know you're almost 40 when...
...you realize the babysitter is the same age as your cats.