A Homemakers Guide to Multi-Tasking

I don't multi-task. I multi-forget.

The sun dawns bright on a new, hopeful day, a day full of the promise of tidy rooms, sparkling floors and empty laundry baskets. I start out in my own bedroom, making my bed. But alas, the bed-in-a-bag came with about a litter of fancy little pillows that looked way cooler on the bag than they do on my floor. And then there it is, under the satin-front cord-trimmed throw, the beginning of the end. A shoe. A child's shoe. I pick it up and, immediately forgetting about the rest of the pillows, I head off, shoe in hand, to the kid's room. On my way, I pick up several homeless toys and a pair of underwear (don't ask), and upon arrival, set to work putting the toys and shoe away. Just before the closet, my bare foot decends on a disabling land-mine... a Lego. I stumble and hop, gripe and hiss, and of course, drop the shoe.

A din shrouds my chipper outlook as I am suddenly sucked into this vortex of mass destruction, trying to make order out of the chaotic black hole, without the assistance of lasers or ray guns or anything. And then I see it, under a pile of well mixed clean and dirty clothes...my spatula. Yes, my spatula. My favorite, very straight, perfectly thin, slightly flexible, excellent for chocolate chip cookies- yet still perfect for pancakes-metal spatula.

I am insensed. How dare those little aliens?! I march out of the room, spatula held aloft like a brandished sword, and stomp-limp down the hall, trying to imagine what those little creatons might have been doing with it. The possibilities all lead to the same disgusting conclusion, and the same destination. Straight to the dishwasher. I open the machine, but realize at the sight of water puddles in the tops of all of the upside-down cups, that this load is clean. Unload, reload,wait... Why is my hammer in the sink? Off I go, to the studio, making a mental note to investigate this one...

MY STUDIO!!!!!!!!!! Oh, my poor, poor studio. Destroyed. Where to begin? I absentmindedly set the hammer down on a nearby chair and begin to gather up shoes, blankets, about 13 socks, cups, and yikes! scissors, off the floor. Whew, no hair piles this time. I make a teetering stack by the door of all the things that need to be relocated and then notice that there is still a huge mess, only most of it is mine. Those messy little apples didn't fall far from this tree. I bounce between piles and unfinished art projects for a while, when the phone begins to ring.

I launch myself over the teetering stack of sundries accidentally kicking it over, and speed to the living room. But the phone is somewhere in the pile of clean laundry. I don't find it in time. I bet you can't imagine what I start doing after I finally do find the phone.

As the sun is setting on the day, I make my way through the house with armfulls of folded laundry, and as I go, this is what I see: a partially destroyed studio, complete with misplaced hammer, a strewn pile of kids debris, a half-unloaded, open dishwasher, dirty spatula near by, a semi-destroyed black hole with both Legos and one stray shoe on the floor, and at last, a nearly completely made bed, minus throw pillows, which remain on the floor.

Multi-task, my sore foot. I flop onto the bed, and kick the remaining throw pillows onto the floor. Ha. Task that.


Oh, and by the way, I never did finish putting away the laundry, either.

Things that go bump in the night

OK, before you proceed, there are a few things you need to know:


1. I don't like the dark

2. I have a touch of insomnia.

3. My husband gets night terrors.

4. We often co-sleep.

5. My son, Adam, is a very light sleeper.


It was about 2:30 in the morning, and though I knew I would be tired in the morning, it would not be different from most mornings that followed these sleepless nights. I put down my book and switched off the light, hoping sleep would come. I lay in bed listening to my toddler, who had joined us about an hour ago, breathing softly beside me, and on the other side of her, my husband sleeping deeply with a heavy drone. The tired old house settled around me with soft creaks and an occasional thud. In the living room the fish tank hummed, and outside a very confused bird tried to convince the world that it was nearly morning. I began to feel sleepy. Finally.


In my fading consciousness I heard a creak and the soft thump of feet hitting the hardwood floor down the hall. I waited to hear the shuffle that would tell me which of my sons it would be, the slow heavy pace of Ethan, or the quick light footfalls of little Adam.



THUD-THA-THUMP! There was a sudden pounding on the floor. Then a blood curdling scream from Ethan. Then more thumps with the screaming. Ethan's shrieks caused Guy to bolt up in bed in panic, joining in the screaming. "What!? WHAT!?" he hollered over and over and over, his terrified calls ringing out at a fevered pitch. Guy's screams woke the baby, who cried furiously in hysterical, high-pitched shrieks. A beat later, Adam awoke to a house of chaos, and promptly added his terrified voice to the chorus of screams.


It had been 3 seconds. Just four seconds before, the house had been a soft hum of breaths and a far away birdsong. Now, it was the ear piercing climax of an 80's horror film, minus chainsaws. I felt like I had just been launched into a haunted house. My heart raced in a nightmarish frenzy of beats, and in that moment I believed in ghosts. Guy was screaming, Ethan was screaming, Adam was screaming, and Ellie was screaming. I joined in with my own bellow. "EVERYBODY STOP SCREAMING!!!! IT'S OK!!!" I insisted, though I had no idea if it was or not. All I knew is that a few seconds ago everything had been fine!

I threw myself out of bed, and ran down the Poltergeist-length hall. Ethan stood frozen, sobbing, "There's somebody in the house! Somebody was following me!"

"No one is in the house!" I insisted in my best fake-calm voice, calling out over the crying of the baby and of Adam, who lay twisted up in his blanket on the floor beside his bed.

"Some one was following me! I heard them running down the hall behind me!" He demanded.

I glanced at Adam who sat on the floor rubbing his head, then reassured Ethan, "Look, if it will make you feel better, I will look through the house." I held my breath and imagined what might happen if someone had managed to get into the house. Didn't prowlers slip into windows at night and tiptoe past sleeping homeowners, gathering up heirloom silverware and pearl necklaces? Didn't the wife always wake the husband with a, "Harold! Someone's in the house!"? Then Harold, would climb out of bed, carefully put on a robe and leather slippers, and grab a trusty baseball bat from under the bed to investigate.

My Harold stayed in bed. And I had no baseball bat. Or slippers for that matter.

I skulked around corners trying to be cautious on the off chance there was someone waiting to shake me down for a matching silver cake and pie server set. I reached for every light switch, stretching my body out like the dark was lava and my feet would be safe if I kept them in the light. I felt stupid. And scared. I turned on EVERY light in the house, all the while insisting to myself that it was to reassure the children. By the time I had made my rounds safely back to the hallway, everyone was piled into my bed with Guy. "All is well!" I announced with the shaky confidence that comes only after the amature trapeze artist is back on solid ground.

"I fell out of bed." Adam sniffed, still rubbing his little head.

"Before or after the screaming?" I puzzled.

"Ethan got up to pee and it kinda woke me up. I rolled over, but then I fell out of bed." Ah, yes. I forgot to add that to my list. #6, Adam falls out of bed... a lot.

It took us a few moments to to put the pieces together. Ethan had gotten up to pee, waking Adam. When Adam fell out of bed, the tumble to the floor mimicked the pounding feet of a vicious intruder in Ethan's half asleep ears. Then he screamed, and of course, you know the rest.

With the house lit up like a roman candle, I sat on the tiny corner of bed that was left. After we talked and laughed a bit about our scream-fest, one by one the boys wandered fearlessly off to bed, and the baby curled up beside her papa and shut her eyes. My husband, who has a knack for falling asleep instantly, was back to nearly snoring in only a few minutes.

I drifted through the house turning out all the lights, puzzling over how the neighbors could have slept through the sounds of murder and mayhem next door. With darkness filling the house, I finished my task and hurried to bed. I settled in and glanced at the clock. It was nearly 3:30. In the stillness I took inventory of myself; heart pounding, blood rushing, a veil of sweat on my top lip. I felt like I had run around the block, or was about to.

Then, like it did when I was ten, my mind began to wander in the darkness. I began listening for the boogie man. The walls creaked. The pipes thumped. Which brings us full circle to #1, I don't like the dark, and #2, I have a touch of insomnia.

I was still awake when that darn bird fell asleep from exhaustion at dawn.

Picture, perfect

She spun into the kitchen, half prancing, half floating, and curtsied. She wore an old, white curtain as a trailing robe tied around her neck. A princess costume in bright blue satin peeked through the cape, and clunky plastic heals and elbow length gloves nearly completed the ensamble. A half dozen strands of beads in a rainbow of colors sparkled from her neck. In one hand she held her fairy wand in a royal, scepter-like way, and her other wrapped around her favorite baby doll, bedecked in a paisley scarf. Atop her head she wore a sparkly crown, slightly askew.

I ran for my camera. I couldn’t miss this quintessential moment of childhood. In a split second I had already imagined showing her this picture years from now, and enjoying all over again this precious instant in time, only this time with a grown up version of this amazing little princess. I snapped the picture. It was perfect.

"Can I seeeeeeee? I wanna see!" she bubbled excitedly.

Ah, the digital age, when we can see the pictures we take in a split second, while the moment is still warm. It used to be that a photo was taken on pure faith. We aimed the little black box, pushed a clacketty little button, and hoped for the best. The roll of film might then sit in the camera for weeks, or even months, till it was all full. Then, depending on how far off payday might be, or where you tossed the roll when you yanked it from the camera to pop in another, the developing would wait. And wait... (When I was eighteen my mom finally took a candy bowl full of film rolls to be developed. Who could have known there would be faded baby pictures of my sixteen year old brother on them?). Taking a picture meant waiting for a memory.

But not now. Now there is no opening an envelope weeks after the special day to discover that precious moment in time had been spoiled by a blink. No revealing, shortly after granny has moved on to the great beyond, that the youngest member in the four generation family portrait has a finger up the nose. Now, there it is, the moment in the moment. A tiny screen tells all in an instant.

I held out the camera. She wrestled my hand down into her face to get a better look.

"My crown is crooked." she stated flatly, a dejected look on her face.

"You look beautiful!" I insisted, and it was true! She was adorable, happy and perfect. Her joyous little face beamed out at me from the tiny image, her slanting crown adding all the flair of a tipped top hat on a 40's tap dancer.

"Take it over." she said simply, futsing with the crown.

I helped her straighten her crown, though a little reluctantly. There had been perfection in her imperfection. There was magic in the instant; spontaneity and adorable six-year-old joy. Yet I understood. How often do I look back on a moment, an effort, and see only the flaws.

I took the picture. She stood a little stiffly, a dim, self conscious grin on her face. After the digitally-made shutter sound, she relaxed and smiled, then dashed over to inspect and approve of her new and improved self.

"Good." she said before trotting off. Yes, I suppose it was.

I saved the one of the princess with the crooked crown.

Pardon me, ma'am, is this your first egg?

When I lived in Costa Rica fifteen years ago, I rented a room from a sweet little family in the country. Instead of a ceiling, we lay in bed at night and peered up into rafters. Instead of glass windows, we had wooden shutters. And instead of a cat, we had chickens. As the house had no actual doors, the chickens waltzed freely through the bars of the security gates and into the main room that doubled as both kitchen and living space, their claws clicking on the tile. They pecked rice from the floor and occasionally messed on it, but no one seemed to mind. Soon I got used to having them murmur and hum at my feet as I sat at the table eating fried plantains and sweating. Strange as it was, this had become the new normal.
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Then one night I came home to the calls of a very distressed bird. Concerned, I asked the dona of the house, Flor, if a chicken was sick or hurt. She smiled and explained that one of the young hens was trying to lay her first egg. Since the hen had never laid before, she was confused and in distress. Her once low blllrrraaa-blllrrraaa had become the sound of feathered fear. "Bok-bok-bok BE-GOKKKKK!" she bellowed. "What-the-heck-is-going-ON?!" She seemed to demand. Every few minutes she repeated her squealing cluck. Dona Flor explained that the little hen didn't know what was happening to her, and was declaring that fact to the world. She said that after this first, most difficult egg, the hen would never again make those pained calls. Next time, and every time hereafter, she would lay still and grumble a low complaint that said, "Oh, yes, I remember this pain, but I know it won't kill me."

I have thought about that little hen many times over the years. How many times have I encountered a new challenge or trial, and boystrously announced my grief to the world? How often have I cried out, thrashed and complained over a new, unfamiliar fear or pain? My first feverish child, my first miscarriage, the first time dad was hospitalized. Then I think about the other hens, the ones who have been-there, done-that-egg without complaint. I realize that I too have had pains that have come back to me once, twice, three times or more, and each time I endured them with a little more grace, patience, and perhaps, a little less racket. And in those moments when I am screaming out my loudest BOK! I look around to see another woman nearby who knows my pain and answers with a low and steady murmur.

Oh, yes, I remember this pain, but I know it won't kill me. I will learn. It may take another dozen eggs, but eventually I'll learn.

Come in, sit down

I think that my job as a mom is a lot more simple than I tend to make it. I am supposed to be a chair.

If a person is left on a chair in a pitch black room, for a while they might call out for a response, but finding themselves alone and doubting anyone is coming, eventually they would begin to reach out to see what is out there in the darkness. They would stretch feet into the blackness and tap the floor, reach arms out slowly at first, searching the abyss for danger or security. After a while, they would have navigated the space around the chair so well that they would have memorized the rug, the nearby table, the empty space... all the while holding on to the chair. Soon, as they determined that there was no impending danger in the space most directly around the chair, they would probe further. They would step away, just out of reach of the chair, then quickly return to it to reassure and orient themselves.

It wouldn't be long before the space beyond the chair would be well navigated, and, confidence having grown in the person's capacity to forge through the darkness and return to safety, they would begin to embark on a bigger journey. They would decide to see where the safety ends. Knowing they could return to the chair, and that from that point they could determine the position of all obstacles they had thus far encountered, they would push through the void till they finally reached the wall. From there a brief investigation of the wall would be followed by a return to home base, to the chair, the one fixed reference point from whence the location of all else is charted. Then would ensue the systematic investigation of the perimeter of the room, with less and less frequent returns to the chair, the understanding being that the person knows the chair is there if they need it, but now as less of a necessity and more a source of comfort and rest.

Soon, the darkness would dissipate, not pushed away by light, but by understanding. Each return to the chair having reinforced that the next time, it would be there again. Had the chair been moved the first or second or fifth time that the person had gone out exploring, all confidence, trust and security would be dashed. Had the walls somehow shifted, boundaries moved unpredictably, the chair would have become the only reliable safe-place. But from that safe place, instead of the world being a safe, comfortable place, it would be one of fear and uneasiness.

I want to be a chair. I want to be fixed and sturdy and reliable. I want my children to use my constancy to help them navigate the world, and with boundaries firmly in place, for them to feel secure at times when the terrain is unpredictable and the light too dim. I don't want to try to follow them around rescuing them or sheltering them, but for them to know that when they need a soft place to rest, I am here for them and always will be.

Treading water

I have a lot in common with Eeyore, that aptly colored blue donkey from Winnie the Pooh who manages to see the dark cloud in every silver lining. I have a hard time seeing the glass half full. In fact, if you point out the glass, I might notice, first, that you set it too darn close to the edge of the table and it'll probably fall before I get a chance to drink the water anyway.

I hear all the time that happiness is a choice. I have chosen it, picked it up and put it into my shopping-cart-of-life, but every time I look away, it winds up back on the shelf. I am the emotional fat girl that signs up for weight watchers, or in this case, mood watchers, over and over, only to find myself a short time later with a pocket full of Twinkey wrappers and wet Kleenex's, wondering how I wound up here again.

The other day my nephew and I hit upon a discovery. Neither of us can tread water. We can kick and flail and still barely keep our noses above the water's surface. He chimes in, "If I just let go, I eventually float... 3 feet under the surface." I know how he feels. I am that weird lady at the YMCA that scares the lifeguard and makes the other swimmers in my lane dry off early. Now, I have had the experience of floating. When I am pregnant, I bob like a cork. It is effortless, and I calmly, gently glide through the water, my smiling face well above my buoyant breasts. It is heaven. But it is not my norm.

I wonder if some people just float better than others... that happy-float that keeps them up when others would sink. I am not saying that they don't get down, or that they don't have to choose to be happy, but just maybe they don't have to flail to keep their face out of the deep end of the emotional pool.

I'll keep trying. I'll meditate, I'll write affirmations on note cards, be grateful, take my vitamins, take deep breaths and count to ten. I'll memorize quotes from the Dhali Lama and Ghandi, and maybe even Chiken Soup for the Soul. I'll smile so that my brain will release endorphins, I'll pray and read the bible. I'll go to that proverbial market and choose happiness off the shelf, and next week I'll do it all over again.

And at the end of the day if I find my glass is half full, I guess if I get thirsty I can always drink a mouth full of pool water.

Magic

I am a mom. I am the mom of a two-weeks-away-from-being twelve year old, which makes me the you-don't-know-anything mom. I am the mom of a nine year old who hasn't noticed my flaws quite yet, which makes me the cool mom. I am the mom of a 6 year old GIRL, which makes me the nail-painting, ponytail combing, tea-party hosting mom. And I am the mom of a three year old. Today, that made me the magic mom.

"My mama magic!" She declared, her two-year old vocabulary trying to catch up with the fact that she is officially three. Her comments were aimed at my friend, who showed due enthusiasm as we waited for the explanation.

"Hers magic, hers puts choc'late in da cookies!" she said with a flourish of her hand in the air that almost made it possible to see the pixy dust she imagined coming out of my fingertips as I cast my spell on the plain old cookies, making chocolate chips mystically appear.

And for a moment I saw myself though her eyes. And in that moment, all of my weaknesses and insecurities melted away. In that moment, I was amazing and wonderful, because she believed I was. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at me, like she had just given away my secret identity, and then cheerily went back into her barely three year old world.

I was magic today, for just a moment. I sure hope I can be magic again tomorrow.

I'd like to meet the guy who invented Alzheimer's

It was actually the third time I told him he has Alzheimer's. He took it about the same as he did the first two times I had told him. He grew somber, serious, and had little to say. "Asi es la vida", he said with a gringo accent and a defeated smile that wasn't a smile at all. It has never been Dad's way... to put up a fuss.

It was easier for me this time. I guess you get better with practice, including the devastating task of telling your father he has a terminal illness that will slowly smudge him out of existence. The first time I had to tell him, it was so that I could explain to him why he had to move in with me. The second time was to explain why he could no longer drive his truck. This time, it was to explain why he couldn't rent a car to drive to Idaho and visit my mother's grave for what he has now taken to calling "one last time".

Dad was supposed to die young. That is what he planned, and that is what we were all conditioned to believe from the time we were small. His own father passed away at 44, and Dad didn't see his life playing out any other way. Mom would talk in her imagined time frame of "after Daddy's gone". "This will be a great car for me to drive after your father dies." "After Daddy's gone, I suppose I will spend most of my time at the temple." and so on. It was just understood that Dad was some how weak and frail, and his two subsequent heart attacks left little doubt for anyone that Mom would be proven right.

A year after Dad retired, Mom was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and died three weeks later. Yes, that fast. Mom died first.

But Dad didn't.

Mom had been larger than life. She could talk anyone under the table and had no need to sleep... she could literally talk all night. When I would call for a visit and Dad would answer the phone, it would be a short few moments before he would replay his old, "Well, let me pass the phone to your Mom." and that would be it, the end of our conversation.

When Mom died I called Dad every day for months. At first our conversations had been short and awkward, but as the loneliness set in, he began to talk more, listen better, and I began to get to know my dad for the first time in 32 years.

But all that is changing now. Our conversations are getting shorter. He disappears for hours into a dream world, he wanders, he stares at the fish tank for hours. Heck, he stares at me for hours. And the conversations that we do manage to have have changed as well. There are now about five of them. We recycle them over and over. The weather, the rocks in my yard, the fish, when trash day is, and now, lately, going to Mom's grave.

So I told him again as gently as I could, about his condition, about why he can't drive anymore. "Do you have any questions?" I had nervously asked. "Just one... you don't get better from this, do you?" "No, Dad, you don't." I said softly. I thought of trying to look for a bright side, but there is none. What more could I say?

"So I guess if we're going to Mom's grave I'd better do it sooner than later."

"That's a great idea, Dad." I said, trying to sound cheery for his sake. He was quiet, then the phone rang or a child cried, I don't remember which, and I left for a moment. When I returned and he had a broken look on his face.

"Are you OK, Dad?" I asked feebly, knowing it was a stupid question.

"I'd just like to meet the guy who invented Alzheimer's." was all he said, and he turned back to look at the fish.

So would I, Dad.

In Your Face, Book

I did it. I told myself I didn't want to, swore I wouldn't become a part of this ridiculous, shallow, high school-esque trend. I had my theories about it, or them, rather. The people with too much time on their hands, who sit at their computer all day living in a virtual world while the real one swirled around them, passed them by.

You see, I believed in the old saying; "Friends come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime." It seemed to me that Facebook had the capacity of interrupting the space time continuum, taking people out of the past, completely out of context, and catapulting them into the now, into my now. What if someone found me that I had purposely lost? What if, worse yet, I was one of the invites that was quietly ignored? If I ever had a friend that I cared for, certainly I would not have lost contact with them, I told myself. There is a natural selection, a Darwinian survival of the fittest-ness that exists within friendships. Use it or lose it, take care or take off.

And that is as it should be. After all, I have had friends in my life that were great for that time in my life, but who, on a day that neither of us likely recognized, took a sideways step to a nearby path that eventually took them far away from me. But as I continued along my path, I encountered new friends that filled in the gaps, enriched my life, comforted me and made me laugh. Imagine if we tried to keep up all of the friendships we had ever had. Imagine how little time we would have with each of them; grade school chums and college roommates, church folks and old neighbors. It would be like that episode of I Love Lucy where Lucy tries to keep up with the chocolates tumbling down the conveyor belt for her to box. Only when there are too many, they either fall on the floor or wind up stuffed in her mouth or pockets. How does one nourish a lifetime of meaningful relationships in cyber-now, and still be in the now?

I knew all this, yet the Facebuzz that droned on around me piqued my curiosity. Damn internal cat. I just had to feed my curiosity, just to take a peek. But that peek proved terminal to my judgmental resolve.

It would be so easy to click that little "Sign-up" button. I hesitated. I told myself it was just to look. But once my account was made, the voyeur in me took over. I looked up the names of old boy friends and a few high school rivals. I even looked for a chubby girl from kindergarten, just because I could remember her name, and just to see if she was still chubby. I became a 14 year old, and stayed up late that night checking the friends lists of friends of friends. I was a junkie, a Facebook whore. I hated myself in the morning.

In the light of day I shook off the shackles of my own lame curiosity. I set up some rules for myself. I knew right away that I never wanted to post what I was doing. I was embarrassed for my friends who had succumbed to the trend. "Susan is thinking about eating a whole container of Hagan Daz", "Chris just tried pork rinds for the first time." In the old days we would never have wanted people to know the mundane details of our everyday lives, now we go out of our way to update them from our iphones.

I also knew I would only send private messages. I may have floated my name out there into the world wide post office, but I didn't need the world to read my mail.

And so I messaged. I was excited to have found a few folks that I had fallen out of contact with unintentionally. I wrote to them about my life now, filling in the gap of years since we had last seen each other, and asking questions about them. I waited breathlessly for a reply.

And waited.

Nothing.

A few more days.

Still nothing.

Then one day, there in my inbox, an email from Facebook telling me I had a message!

I opened it and read. "So great to see you here on Facebook! Your family looks great! We live in Az now! See you on the wall!" Wasn't that a Pink Floyd song? (And is it a hardfast Facerule that all sentences must end with such enthusiasm?)

I tried for a while longer, a few weeks maybe. But I didn't like being the chocolate that fell on the floor. I was ashamed. I had fallen for it, hook, line and keyboard. Time to take my brick back out of the wall.

I have wandered back there, once or twice, the way you might drive by your old high school. I haven't found the kind of reunions I expected, but that's ok. It's not the right season, and Facebook is not a good enough reason.

Hunter Gatherer

I have figured out why I like to shop. Why most women do. It is a timeless, ancient yearning within us that we can't help. We are gatherers. Our ancient foremothers wandered fields and forests looking for mushrooms, fruits, nuts and kindling. It is within our very DNA to be able to spend an entire day on a quest for just the right loincloth. As the items we seek no longer grow on trees, we have wisely adapted to gather within the confines of department stores and garage sales.

I also use this rationale to explain to my husband why I bring items home from junk piles at the curb. I have "gathered" an entire patio furniture ensemble. I thank my ancient ancestors for inventing and popularizing the concept of eclecticism. I need a bumpersticker..."Born to Gather". This innate drive to gather goes hand in hand with our instinct to nurture. Hence the long shopping sprees that end with cute rompers and sundresses in a size 3T.

Men are hunters. They are hardwired for speed, to chase the fast thing in front of them and overtake it. This not only clarifies why they detest shopping so much, but also explains their behavior on the freeway.

I took my eyes off of her for just a moment...

A few weeks ago I took my dad out to Sears to buy pants, toddler in tow. We were scoping out prices, sizes and trying to figure out the difference between regular, loose, and boot cut. My cell phone rang and I quickly chatted with my midwife, then excused myself to focus on the task at hand. Before signing off, I scanned around to look for my daughter.


"Tessa? Gotta go, Claudette. I don't see Tessa."


I poked my head in and out of curved spaces between round racks. As a veteran mother I didn't panic right off. Kids wander. You find them. It is a cycle that repeats itself dozens of times on every shopping trip if they are not in cart, stroller, sling or on a leash. It's going to be fine.


"Tessa?"


I kept my calm search up for a few more moments, but after almost a minute, the thought, THE thought, that horrible, sickening thought flitted through my brain. This is the men's department. This is where men come. Where is she? Why is it so quiet? What if a man...?


"Tessa!" Now I am beginning to sound firm, a little urgent maybe. "Tessa, this is mommy, where are you?" She knows it's mommy, idiot. You are scaring her. You are scaring me.


This happened once before, three years ago nearly to the day. Nine months pregnant, I was hobbling through Ross with tiny Ellie, my then 3 year old. She was microscopic for her age, 5th percentile, still in 12 month clothes. She kept hiding in the racks in a very one-sided game of Peek-a-boo while I rummaged for a gift. Then she was off, down the aisle, giggling. I guess we're playing tag now, I thought. I lumbered off and tried to catch her. I could see her tiny head bobbing down the row as I pursued her, and in a moment she reached the end. With one last glance and a triumphant chortle, she turned the corner and disappeared from view. It took me about 5 seconds to reach the end of the row, but when I turned expecting to see her, she was no where. I scanned, looked, retraced, and began to get nervous. The store was locked down, the shoppers were alerted over the PA, and in a few frantic minutes a woman appeared carrying her.


"I saw the purses move all by themselves, and when I looked behind them I found this tiny, little girl." I thanked, panted in relief, and held Ellie close. At that moment, Miss $7.50-an-hour in a blue vest steps up and lights into me. "You should really keep an eye on your child! They can disappear in a second!" Really? NO KIDDING! I wanted to yell, but I didn't have it in me. I HAD had my eye on her, but my elephant belly couldn't keep up with my eyes. Too spent to even respond, I thanked the purse lady and left the store giftless, and gifted. Blessed that my child was in my arms, frustrated she had run, furious at all the evil people that I imagined had taken her, kicking myself for not having forced her to ride in a shopping cart, I ran to my van. I was sobbing before I even got there, much to the surprise of the guy on his cell phone nearby. I buckled her in, climbed in the front seat and heaved, gasped, and almost threw up. Ellie remembers it as the day she made mama cry.

Now I was there again, searching aisles and between displays, only now there was here, this moment, this unreal moment.

I imagine there could and will be someone who will find this their perfect moment to judge and criticise me as a terrible mother, undeserving of the beautiful children I have and seem to loose so easily. You are right. I suck.


How tiny a toddler becomes when they can't be found. This time I didn't wait as ling as I had the first time. I looked above the racks and calmly called out to the small handful of other shoppers. "I have lost my 2 year old girl. She is wearing all pink. Will you please look around and see if you can see her?" I didn't wait for responses as I moved through the store. I ran down the main aisle calling her name. I called to a clerk, "My daughter is missing, she is two, wearing pink. Call security and do that Adam thing." I couldn't remember "Code Adam", but I knew I wanted the doors locked until she was found.

I began running up and down the aisles calling for her, and in that moment time dragged to almost a stop. I suddenly was outside of myself, watching myself run, hearing the sound of my feet in time to the strange background music from the 70's that randomness had selected for this moment. And I could see the faces of other shoppers. As I called out, I began to realize that no one was looking at me. A woman continued to thumb through a stack of polo shirts. I called out to her, "please won't you help my find my little girl?" She ignored me.

Another woman ran at me and yelled, almost angry with intensity, "Tell security right now!" "I did!" I answered back, and then she firmly teamed with me saying "I'm looking!" as she walked briskly away. OK, one person to help. Better than none.

Now, as much as I was looking for Tessa, I was aware of all of the other bystanders who were NOT. Maybe I would have to ask each one myself. I didn't want to waste the time in doing so, but the number of racks and aisle was so daunting, I decided I must. I ran up to a man and, touching his arm, begged "please help me find my little girl!" He looked at me strangely.

I thought I heard a casual page over the intercom that a child was missing. I began to move in slow motion and thoughts of "no, this isn't real. I will go home and she will be there." began to pop into my head. Everything my eyes touched became almost sparkly, colors vivid, sharp edges sharper... and bright, very, very bright. As I looked in one direction, I pictured her being swept out the door in the other direction. I began to ricochet around in an ineffective running wander. Shaking began to take over, and the reality of how much time was passing made my head a storm of the kind of what-ifs that make you retch.

I ran down the main aisle now, not sure what to do next, and looking up, saw a man walking toward me. In his arms I saw his child, and it was only after I saw her pink clothes and her red, teary eyes, that I knew it was her. Her beautiful, huge blue eyes that I thought I might never see again, looking at me. The abruptness of having her safe, of the evils I had imagined not being true, hit me like a wall of water and I nearly collapsed. The man handed her to me and I chanted "Oh, thank you, oh thank you."

I had enough clarity for a moment to ask him where he had found her, but he stared at me with a confused look that I registered. He didn't understand me. My brain processed his dark face, striped shirt and worn boots and realized the Mexican man in front of me had not understood me. He had not understood me then, or when I had asked him to help me. Not my words at least. I imagine that the frantic calls of a mother translate to any language. I repeated my inquiry in Spanish, "Donde?" In the rack, hiding, he told me.

My arms gobbled her up. I held her to me and she began to cry and melt into my chest. She gripped my neck and we cried, as I murmured to her all my love and relief. I kissed her head and felt her skin, and filled the empty whole in my heart that had already tried to form there with the realness of her. I sat down on a display table and held her to me as the security guard and sales clerk converged on us with simple smiles and "I'm glad she is OK". There seemed a sudden intimacy in the moment that they excused themselves from as the swiftly went back to their work. A call went out over a walky talky somewhere with a crackled "cancel, the child has been located". Then in seconds we were alone. The entire department, perhaps the entire store, seemed empty. The intensity had cleared the whole department. I didn't even try not to cry, and I sat on the table long enough to stop shaking a bit. The woman, the one who had actually helped, ran up and sighed one of those oh-what-a-relief sighs. When her eyes met mine they instantly filled with tears, and I thanked her. In that moment I think I was thanking her for seeing my fear, answering my grief with understanding, and for mothering the moment. I braced myself for a lecture, but none came.

Later that day, waves would hit, again and again, of the taste of that fear-followed-by-relief filled moment, and the imaginings of where we would be now if it had ended the other way. I have not lost it, either. In the weeks since, I have held her and been grateful over and over again.

When I asked Tessa if she remembers that day, she tells me that pants fell down and she tried on her tippy-toes to hang them back up. I think she hid when she couldn't reach the hanger, thinking she would be in trouble. When I asked her if she remembers mama crying she simply says, "No, you was happy you got me for you."

Indeed, I am.

Mom's Toilet

"You can tell a woman by her toilet."

My mom said it when I was 15 as part of her cleanliness-is-next-to-Godliness speech. I knew what she meant, but in my mind's eye, all I could see was WOMAN=TOILET. I vowed in my head that I would never be defined by my toilet.

When I got married I went through a while of housewife hell, thinking that as a part-time employed, full-time student, I should have somehow received the miraculous gift of home organization along with the shinny ring and the new last name. When it didn't come, I became frantic. I began down a path that 14 years later I am still trying to veer off of. Some days I find myself on the frontage road way too close to that old, well worn road. I see the tread marks of heals and tennis shoes, and if I look close I think I can see my mother's foot prints there.

So I have decided to do house work on a system I have developed in my overcrowded head called "The Joy Factor System". I rank jobs, not by how long they take, what areas of the house they include, and not by who will notice. I rank them by how much lasting joy they bring. A level1 job like sweeping my kitchen floor might last a few hours, thus giving me only an hour or so of job satisfaction, while a level five, say, finally sorting out that last box from our move six years ago... well that has a bliss factor that is endless. I mean, I doubt one of my kids will likely pack that silly box back up for me to sort out again in a week, they are too busy in the kitchen at their daily "spill crunchy food" convention. I have decided to aim for 3's, 4's and 5's. I am letting the dishes go some days so that I can do the mending before the kids outgrow their torn school uniforms. And heck, with more school uniforms in the drawers, that is one more day I can squeak by without doing laundry!

I don't iron on Tuesdays or bathe the kids on Saturday nights. My sheets are neither matching, nor wrinkle free. I have never spent a whole day baking bread. I do sweep a lot, but mostly because I love my Filipino broom. And sometimes, for a brief, shining moment in time, my laundry is all done, joy factor level 1.

My toilet happens to be clean, but when I look down into the bowl I don't see the reflection of my own face.

Hello, five.

Your mess is better than my mess!

A friend stood in my room and glanced around while I rummaged for something in a laundry basket. "Excuse the mess" I dutifully said.

"Actually, it makes me feel better." was her only reply.

I began to ponder that. Why do we need to see someone else's mess to feel better about our own? Is there some primal need to level the playing field to the least common laundry pile? Then I wondered if there were possibly a gender component to this particular balancing act. Do men need to see their fellow fellows be brought down to feel better? Would a man care about a mess like a woman does, or would he more likely compare the size of the brown patches in his lawn to those of his neighbors? Are we keeping down with the Jones'?

I once read that the reason that people love celebrity gossip magazines is that we love to see celebs acting human; getting a speeding ticket, eating fast food too fast, losing their tempers... and not for the reason one would think. We want to see them botch up because if they do, then they are just like us, and if they are just like us, then that means we are just like them. When they screw up, somehow we rise to attain celebrity status.

Perhaps my messy bedroom is another story. I know how my friend feels because I have felt it every time I am in a house messier than mine. Somehow we feel better about ourselves when we see that everyone around us isn't perfect. Maybe we don't want friends that are perfect, because we won't feel like we are evolved enough to hang with someone who has it all figured out when we know we are a week behind on our laundry and our kids are on day two in their tidy widies.

But maybe there is a celebrity factor after all. Maybe, when we see her overflowing trash can we are able to tell ourselves, "Well, I think she's great, even though her kitchen is a train wreck in a tunnel. And if she can still be great despite her mess, maybe I am, too." I prefer this reasoning to the simpler and more mean spirited, "I'm better than you." explanation.

So maybe when we feel that spark of self confidence drift through us at the glimpse of an unmade bed, it is a silent compliment to our friends. If I feel better when I see your mess, it just means I (wanna be) like you!

A room of one's own

I always knew that mothering little ones would take up my time. I never quite understood what that really meant til they got here; it means no time alone in my head. Even if they are all asleep I am somehow thinking of them, aware of them the way you are aware of a faint headache even if it isn't demanding your attention. Wait, poor metaphor, I really don't think of them as a headache.

It started the moment that little stick that I peed on showed the purple line in the right window, and it hasn't stopped. Well, now they are too big to shove back in so that I can have an hour or so a day to myself, which for a while I tried to be okay with (besides, if I tried shoving them back in they would all start fighting over who got to sit where). So no complaints, after all, I signed on for this, right? I will get some time to my self in 18 years..., (no wait we had another one) so that's 18 more, (no wait...). Every mom probably learns that she needs time to herself at some point, and about four minutes later realizes that the only way she is going to get that is to hide in the garage.

I need a room of my own, a space that is mine that I can pile my thoughts into like the garage. I think at first I will just be opening the door and throwing them in. Maybe later I will try to sort them all out.

So here I am.