A few things that sucked but didn't ruin my day

1. Trying to adhere my most recent drawing to a piece of Plywerk plywood where it stuck beautifully but one millimeter off on the left side. That sucked. Their adhesive is so good that you can watercolor right on there with no buckling BUT when you miss your mark, you're screwed. But I'm going to see if my husband can't just sand that side or something. Meanwhile I redrew it on a another paper and painted it today taped to my desk. Old school.

2. My son bringing his bowl in from breakfast and dropping it into a basket of toys. Milk + soggy leftover cereal + basket + toys = gross. I clean it up and thank my son for trying to bring his dish into the kitchen.

3. My son (again) trying to get down his sister's bag of leftover Halloween candy because she was whining about it and I'm sure he was hoping to score a piece since he ate all of his and him knocking over a nearly full bottle of canola oil that unfortunately had no cap. Sucked. A half a bottle of canola is actually and mysteriously seventeen gallons of oil when it's spilled onto your counter (and in between the counter and the stove and onto the stove and onto the floor). And it takes a roll of paper towels to absorb.

4. Playing memory on the floor in my studio my son knocking over my cup of coffee on to the carpet. Including the black dregs at the bottom. Seriously? Three spills in one day is a personal best. My carpet cleaning friends will be so pleased to see we switched the mezuzah.

5. Taking the kids to the supermarket after I picked them up from school and getting into the car only to notice that my daughter is missing Julio the rat. I drive back to the front of the store and park in the handicapped parking and run in to see if anyone has seen her rat. I receive many raised eyebrows. But no rat. So I drive around the parking lot three times looking for Julio and then spot him between two cars, jump out of the car, snatch the rat and return him to his rightful owner.

See. I'm learning to control my tantrums too.

Notes from inside the hatch

Do you watch LOST? So, if not, I'll let you in on a bit of the plot from the second season. We come to learn that there's this weird underground hatch where someone has been living the last few years (and other people for many years before that) who has to type in a particular code every 108 minutes to diffuse a growing cataclysmic energy. At one point we learn that the guy down there doesn't get to the computer in time to type the code and that's what makes the plane crash down on the island in the first place - the energy starts to explode or implode or just plode. Whatever. It's not good. The plane gets pulled to the island, breaks in half and makes a big mess. And then it happens again later in the series, to test if the whole punching in the code is really just a load of horse pucky and in fact it is not horse pucky and this magnetic force thing grows out of control and the hatch releases the cataclysmic energy again, but all the way this time, which draws in all things metal and then makes the sky go white and brassy. Anyway, great show. Many interesting facets. For me though, the whole punch in the code every 108 minutes or fear the cataclysmic force is something I can relate to on a personal level. That force lives in my home. He calls me mommy.

Thankfully our cycles are not every 108 minutes because that would be very unfortunate. But they run about every 108 hours. About every four days my son reaches a certain level of, I don't even know what to call it, energy or frustration or molecular imbalance, that requires him to release. He goes into lymbic mode. All higher brain functioning ceases. The only thing that functions is his voice box. And tear ducts. Those go into overdrive. And the part that kills me is that I can see it coming on. It's like a very slow moving train, but a train nonetheless that, even at slower speeds, can MOW YOU DOWN.

Every 4-5 days is actually amazing progress. It used to be closer to every 108 minutes. So I can tell that he's trying to become a rational person. He's learning about being flexible (this is seriously the main focus of what they learn about in his preschool, which if you ask me is nothing short of revolutionary). And he exhibits flexible behavior. But then, in due time, his magnetic energy grows so fierce that it just implodes drawing us all in a spiralling heap toward him. And I don't have any magic code which I feel is the big joke of parenting. It's like saying to someone, here, go perform open heart surgery on that man. You can reference this nice paperback.

So today he was due for a release. And it happened at the park while we were visiting our friends in a town not too far from here. We were getting ready to come home and I asked him to get on his bike and ride it back to the car which was only about a thirty second ride. He started to crumble. I said, just put on your helmet. It's much easier to ride than to walk a bike. But his legs were rubbery and he couldn't get himself going and it was cold and he was tired and probably hungry. In an attempt to diffuse what I could see was a big ole train barreling right toward me, I said to him, you can go ahead of me and get to the car first. He loves to be first. A few seconds later he says, tell me again what you just said, and of course, I have no idea what he's referring to, and he just falls apart. I try to understand how I can help him. But I have no idea what he is talking about and I know, from much experience, that whatever it is probably makes no sense to me. So I just walk ahead toward the car. And he screams for the next ten minutes for me to come back. But I can't. We've played out this same or similar scenario so many times I just can't do it anymore. Eventually my husband goes back and he quickly gets on his bike and rides to the car and through his hyperventilation explains to me that he needed me to repeat what I had said to him.

Me: But I don't know what you're talking about.
Him: I wanted you to tell me again that I can pass in front of you.
Me: Then why didn't you just tell me to say that?
Him: Because I didn't remember!
Me: Well neither did I!
Him: But you said it!
Me: But why on earth did you need me to say that again if you knew what I said anyway!?

And so, here we are, all of us, players in my son's masterpiece theater of the absurd. And ten minutes later he is back to his charming self, at first solemn and regretful, but soon after scarcely remembering the event ever happened. And I am left to dwell on this, only the most recent of what appears to be a never-ending series of cataclysms, until the next one reveals itself, in approximately 102 hours.

Quarantine lifted

Hi. I'm Susie. I write this blog. Remember? Little stories about my family and life? I know. I've been gone a while. Bad blogger. No, we didn't take the kids to Disneyland.

I stayed home with my daughter last Wednesday and made some headway on Project Garbage House. I also took her to see Dr. Murray who said she had an upper respiratory tract infection and a gunky ear. I'm not clear if that was a separate thing or what. Not important. Here's where it gets hairy for your protagonist (that's me). We both develop fevers Wednesday night. 102.5. For the next three days I could not regulate my body temperature. I was freezing under my covers, then sweating like crazy, then frozen from the evaporating sweat. And my daughter was basically her happy go lucky self with a little more apple in her cheeks. During this time I sneezed so many times I basically made myself incontinent. TMI? Too bad. My blog. On Thursday morning I decided there was no way I could take care of my daughter since I could hardly get out of bed so I kept my son home from preschool to entertain her. Brilliant move it turned out. They left me alone to sleep all morning, I fed them lunch and then my unbelievably wonderful husband came home at 2:00 to take them all on a field trip and away from Mommy. On Friday I sent my son to school and stayed home again with my daughter. We managed somehow and my husband came home early again and took the kids again. Love him. And the whole weekend was more of the same. Lying around in our pajamas, taking temperatures, administering fever reducing agents. On Saturday night my son developed a fever too. So we took it easy again on Sunday and by Sunday night it seemed like he'd be able to go to school on Monday but then I noticed the eye booger.

GEORGE JESUS! So I vigilantly cleaned his eyes out and made him wash his hands a hundred times and washed his pillow and his kitty and prayed to God that he didn't have pink eye. Monday morning, no gunk but slight fever. So I kept him home but sent the girl. At this point I don't have a fever either but plenty of post flu nasal garbage. And also keep in mind it's been three weeks since I've had any time during the day to work on my business or paint or anything so I'm very close to having a major come-apart (although I did paint Tiny Village on Saturday night. Dab painting, dab nose, repeat). The text says "spread over us a shelter of peace". This was literally an S.O.S. painting.


Someone heard my painting prayer. This morning everyone was fever and gunk free and back to school/work. When the kids left this morning at 9:00 a hush came over the house. I made myself a cup a coffee and just sat on my couch listening to myself breathe. I'm actually so relieved that I work for myself now because trying to juggle sick kids when you don't have a nanny is awful.

In other news, I gathered up the kids on Sunday morning and we went room to room setting aside baby toys to give to our new baby friends. Five boxes of stuff these kids were willing to part with! And guess what we found during the great purge? Softie the scarf!!! On the very same day that my husband switched the mezuzah. Coincidence? We'll have to ask the carpet cleaners.

Buried

My daughter's had a runny nose the last few days and her school asked me to keep her and her nose home tomorrow because I think they're tired of wiping it every three minutes. I know I am. So that means I'm home from work for the day and I could not be happier. My home has reached a state of disarray that it has not seen since we moved in here and I just can't get on top of it. I apologize for ranting about my domestic chaos for the last several posts but it's really all consuming. I have basically ceased to function normally. Now I take out jars of jam and just leave them out. With the lid off. Sometimes even the milk doesn't make it back into the fridge. My clothes are all over the place. There's a giant pile of shoes and socks at the front door. Toys are everywhere. And there's laundry in every available position. Washer. Dryer. On the top of the dryer waiting to be dried. On the futon in the guest room. In the laundry basket. And in the hampers. And the worse it gets, the less I am able to deal with it.

WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE!! WTFP!!

Now I am starting to understand those people who are just buried under the junk in their homes. Because once you pass a certain point you almost need an Oprah style intervention. You just lose all motivation. Like right now, for instance. I could be straightening. But I'd sooner put a pen in my eye. And I have a housekeeper who comes once a week so I have no right to complain. But she ends up putting whatever's out back in bins willy nilly and now we are going on three weeks of random stuff going into random places which is why I still can't find my soft scarf (see previous post)! And in all honesty it's not even bad by normal standards but I am a very tidy Virgo and believer that everything has its home which brings me to another issue of worldwide proportion that's been on my mind and that is what to do with all this stuff that I want to get rid of because no one's home should be a landfill. I am dying to get rid of a ton of our things - a ton of toys, appliances, just crap we don't need. Little things. Hangers, for the love of ginger! Who the hell needs this many hangers! But how to do it? You can't just throw shit away anymore. You have to give it to Good Will so it can be thrown away in Africa.

But back to my daughter, who as it turns out needs to see Dr. Murray again since my husband looked in her ears with a microscope and saw one ear looking shiny and happy with its tube in place and the other ear looking like Chernobyl. So I'm more than happy to take a sick day with my daughter, for her sake and mine. And while she's playing dress up in her room, I'll be casually putting away her clean clothes. And while she's playing top chef in her kitchen, I'll be cleaning mine. And next week, when I'm back to being a Work From Home Artist, I'm sure I'll have something else to write about. If not, I will make something up for your entertainment.

Dear Home,

I don't know how to bring this up without sounding overly sensitive or confrontational. So I'll just put it out there. Are you mad at me? Did I offend you in some way? Are you not happy with the rain gutters or the color we painted the kitchen door? I'm only asking because I can't figure out why you keep taking my stuff and hiding it. Like my keys this morning. I took the keys to open my trunk and get the kids' lunchboxes still sitting there from yesterday so the Mr. could make their lunches and I could leave for work. I brought the lunches in, grabbed my purse and then couldn't find the keys. So I spent the next ten minutes looking all around the house and they were no where. What gives? And this isn't the first time you've taken our keys. What about when our daughter was born and you lifted both my set and my husband's set within a one week span? Do you know how much those goddamn electronic keys cost? Like $150 smacks. So for the next year we measured everything in VW keys. The plane ticket was two VW keys...And then what about my badge for work? I've been there less than two weeks and I already need to ask for a replacement? So I need that back. And also my favorite scarf. The one I've slept with every night since I bought it in on the street in Chile in 1996. The one my kids call softie because it has reached a level of softness unparalleled in the garment manufacturing industry. We can talk about why a 36 year old sleeps with a scarf later. After I get the scarf back. And as long as I have you on the horn, I'm not thrilled with the ants. Or that nail that keeps coming up in the dining room floor, that I have snagged my big toe on seven hundred and twenty-one times, even though I bang it back in every four months. And the way you've started piling up little stacks of papers and legos and cars and small socks and magnets in every corner of you. Every friggin' corner! It's enough already! Put your crap back where it belongs! Including the etch-a-sketch that's on my bedside table. And then give me back the keys.

Sincerely,
Susie