5.5.2017

I was reading an eye candy of a book yesterday. The genre was my kind of escapism: a primer of sorts on eco-conscious minimalism and simplicity, written by a mother of two in her early thirties who lives in New York City.

It is a gorgeous book. Her tidy teensy apartment has no plastic, no disposables, no junk.

In one of the pictures, there are two beautiful white bowls of berries (one of blueberries, one of strawberries) placed on a linen towel. The caption reads, "I find that keeping bowls of fruit out on the kitchen table means they actually get devoured instead of shriveling up in the fridge."

It was such a pretty picture.

So yesterday, instead of slicing half a pound of strawberries into minuscule pieces and creating a glaze to go on top of shortcake, which is my usual route, I decided to cut two pounds into slices and put them in our painted strawberry enamel bowl to generously share with my family. The strawberries were not purchased at the farmer's market, they were not carried home in a cloth bag, and they were not de-leaved with a wooden-handled artisan knife. But they were placed, in a bowl, out in the open. I felt a kinship with the younger, suaver, trendier author.

Halfway through our meal, I asked the other side of the table to pass down the strawberries. "There are no more strawberries," they said. Three of us still had not gotten any. 

It is when you need a mid-meal shopping trip that you realize the shortcomings and dystopianism of minimalism in a family of fourteen.

I should also mention that there is a blatant oxymoronish tint to it all, too.

Ethan was not surprised. After all, two pounds of strawberries divided between thirteen eating people is less than generous. And he was also not surprised that, on our second grocery trip of the day, we picked up more strawberries.

"You know," he said, in response to my exasperation, "if you were discerning about which teensy corners of our house to photo and crop and embellish and post online, you could have people believing you were a mother of two in your early thirties in New York City."

No. No. I never could.

I should have paid more attention to what the author said. "I find that keeping bowls of fruit out on the kitchen table means they actually get devoured instead of shriveling up in the fridge." That is exactly what happened. Set on the other side of the table, that is exactly what happened. My side of the table never saw those strawberries.

This is exactly why I do not keep bowls of fruit out on the kitchen table.

Lesson learned, I think. And here is the lesson: mother-of-twelve trying to re-enact mother-of-two's tale of eco-conscious minimalistic simplicity is perhaps enacting quite another genre: FICTION. And bad fiction, at that. Hungry, exasperated, frustrated bad fiction.

In other news, photos from the past few months. Not cropped, not embellished, not eco-friendly. I just don't have the time, and also I'm hungry.

River, Eve, and Grandma Allison on Easter

Trying to gather the masses for a family picture the day of River's baptism (February)

Ah. There we all are. All grandparents and children accounted for!

Gwendolyn, our Outdoor Cat AHEM, with Maverick.

Gwendolyn, our Outdoor Cat AHEM, again.

River

Wherein I Sympathize with the Pressure Cooker

Last week, it was the washing machine that smelled like vomit. We took it apart and scraped out the mold and bleached the parts and put it back together.

A snowy jaunt through the school lot near us

Yesterday, it was the pressure cooker exploding black beans all over my kitchen ceiling.

So tonight, when Ethan was away at the prayer meeting and our upstairs obstinate, finicky toilet overflowed all over the bathroom floor with two inches of water, causing four boys to come racing downstairs with a huge explanation of exactly who was in the bathroom and exactly what did NOT happen, causing me to holler, "Just tell me what DID happen!!! What are you even TALKING about???" and then racing upstairs to decode their explanation and then plunging the toilet and then racing downstairs to get on my shoes and then racing outside to unlock the shed and then racing back in for the chicken-closing-up flashlight which was misplaced and then racing around for ANY flashlight and meanwhile hollering EVERYONE JUST STAY IN YOUR ROOMS AND MAKE THEM PERFECT!!! and then racing back out to the shed and then clumsily climbing over tools and beach accessories to reach the shop vac and then racing back in (slower, this time, with the shop vac) and then racing upstairs (slower still) and then vacuuming up the water and throwing sopping towels in the tub and then switching the laundry over so as to make room in the washing machine for said sopping towels...

Well. The shreds of paper left over from snowflake-making that I did not initiate, and the random crayons, markers, and drawing books strewn ALL OVER may have just been my undoing. I threatened to lock up anything that...moved.

But just then...

My four oldest girls came downstairs with a sheet of colored paper, folded neatly and tied daintily with some baker's twine.

"This is for you," they said.

Dear Mama,
We are

Sorry for all The wrong Things we did today.

Heres a little something from all of us listed below.

We hope you like them!

Lily - $1

Mimi - ¢30

Edee - ¢2 and stickers

Salem - makeing herself look good

Love,

Lily Miriam Eden and Salem Love you

And fffffffffffffttttttttttt, just like that, all the pressure was released. We called the boys downstairs and opened the carton of chocolate chip cookie ice cream.

It was (sort of) fun learning how to take apart the washing machine. I needed a new pressure cooker anyway, if only because the gasket on mine smelt of burnt beans from over a month ago and because none of the recipes dealt with *my* kind of thrifted cooker. And the bathroom floor is now considerably cleaner than it has been in a very long time.

So I suppose all clouds do have a silver lining. Or at least a dingy gray.

Oh, bother

I was talking to a friend a while back who was sure she would never learn any of the handicrafts. "Sure you will!" I consoled. "You're just too young. I didn't start crocheting until after college. And I never seriously knitted until I was 30. And sewing? Sewing is a breeze when you have a decent machine!"

I gravely misspoke.

Sewing shirts, and baby pants, and small children's nonessentials is a breeze. An enjoyable, refreshing breeze.

Other things are a major pain in the neck.

Take the curtains for the boys' room. No, don't. They're finally done and they're going to hang in that room until we move.

But those things have been a real booger to put together. Part of it is the fact that I decided to do lined curtains, and part of it is that the two fabrics I decided to use have different stretch to them, and part is that I decided to do two panels per window (meaning each panel needs to match the others in width and length, and supposedly this should be more than just in theory), and part of it (I just figured out, having finally finished the last panel) is that I'm working at a desk that is too tall to use as a sewing table.

My shoulders and back do not thank me.

But in the end, it was the sight of the ironing board in the living room for the eighteenth??? day on end that finally pushed me over the edge. The ironing board was only there because I was too lazy to constantly move it back (save for company coming) when I knew I'd need it to finish those ridiculous curtain panels.

So they're finished. The first two are decent and have been hanging in the boys' room for a couple of weeks. The panels for the second window are ... indecent ... and will be strategically hung to hide their many flaws.

These were a true test of persistence or, to put it more to the point, in putting an end to procrastination. I felt hot just thinking about them, the kind of hot you get after a page of math or five minutes of piano practice.

And to my friend, who may never learn handicrafts? You may be a wiser, happier person for it!

Confession

I hate dyeing eggs.

I really, truly do.

I only mention this lest you think that trying to coordinate 6 kids' egg-decorating while 2 others are napping is not all it's cracked up to be.

You're right.

Although there was a lot of cracked, come to think of it.

It's messy. It's whiny. It's time-consuming.

And there are never enough eggs. And always too many.

The only upside to having dyed eggs today? It's a whole year before we have to do it again ((big sigh of relief)).

Practice Nicely Toothpaste Waiting

I actually said that to my children tonight.

One of them had come downstairs complaining that we needed to buy more toothpaste so that they wouldn't have to share a toothpaste tube.

Ethan heard me and called in from the other room: "OK -- What are you doing that is distracting you?"

What was I doing?

Trying to communicate. Speaking not English my language first.

"Practice nicely toothpaste waiting"??? It frustrates me that THOSE were the words that came out of my mouth when I was fully focused on answering my child's request. What I meant was that this was a chance ... a golden opportunity, if you will (and she didn't) ... to practice patience and longsuffering, to show humility and deference to siblings.

I'm not sure that all of that - or even any of it - was conveyed.

Instead, images of Yoda singing from the Trinity Psalter (I do love it but there are similarities in the wording) came to mind. You could even put it to the tune of "Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah": "Practice nicely toothpaste waiting ... la la la la la la la."

I should have stuck with my normal dismissive "Mmm-hmmm" and kept my mind on the dishes.

Distracted mothering has its place.

Grow Old Along with Me

Lately, there have been more and more reminders that I am, in fact, getting older.

One of the more recent ones came last week when I was childless at the drugstore. I picked up a package of zinc lozenges, a clearanced baby saline mist, and some off-brand chocolate.

It just hit me that even my shopping list sounds ... mature. I should have gone ahead and thrown in some corn removers.

But the reminder of my age came in the checkout line, where I waited behind a man who was apparently a friend of the female cashier. "Yeah, we just got back from our vacation. How did you know we even left?"

"Well," said the cashier. "I saw your mom last week. She said you guys were on your way. How was it?"

The man shifted his weight, leaning back on his heels and rocking up to his toes. "It was all right, I guess. But you know what the coolest part was?"

"What's that?" she asked.

"Check out these shoes I got!" Then he picked one leg up and rested it on the counter, so she could see his sneakers with the neon green soles. "Aren't these sweet?"

"I bet you paid a pretty penny for those babies," she said.

"Oh, yeah. These were $150. Best souvenir I got from the trip!"

I was dumbfounded. I mean, first of all, I'm a customer with zinc lozenges, nose spray, and off-brand chocolate, for crying out loud. Isn't it obvious I'm desperate? And here you are yamming it up about your vacation with your dirty shoe on the counter?

And also ... really? I was completely derailed by his shoe-and-tell. People my age don't show off their shoes. What do people my age show? Well, as little as possible, really.

And that's what got me. Here I had been, subconsciously equating myself with the guy ahead of me. "Hmm, a vacation, that sounds wonderful," I was thinking.

And then, like a fist in the face, the fact that he and I were NOT the same age struck me with the slap of his shoe on the counter. I snapped out of my vacationland dream to start doing some math. How old was this guy ahead of me, truly? Judging by his vocabulary, footwear, and lack of consideration for the elder behind him, I'd guess a good fifteen years. I am fifteen years older than a man???

And what on earth was he buying at a drugstore, anyway? Gum?

I'm also guessing his vacation had little to do with potty stops, wet carseats, or the fifth time through Hank the Cowdog on audio.

***sigh***

And I shouldn't have to add (but I will because some of you are no doubt too young to understand), the chocolate was little comfort. If my age can proffer any wisdom, take this: never scrimp on chocolate. And young man? $150 would have bought a lot of chocolate (and also some denture cleaner).

It'll Grow Back

Mom asked what my haircut looked like. This is it, Mom.

And my, what huge hands I have.

I went in just for more layers. She said, "No, your face is long, not wide. If you wear it in a ponytail all the time anyway, why not go for short?" I acquiesced with her reasoning but decided during the final rinse that I would go back to the original plan. Only I'm polite, and I waited for a break in her monologue to back out of the shearing.

The "break" came after her first cut. Which was quite a bit above my shoulders.

And I have to say, I think I was right. My face is decidedly wide. My new strategy is to stand next to Conan O'Brien in pictures, and then it won't look so wide.

I think what most irritates me is that it is SUCH an, "I'm in my thirties and have eight kids" cut. Because, you know, I am in my thirties and I do have eight kids, but we don't need to broadcast that from the top of my head.

And is that an optical illusion, or is one of my eyes looking up in the corner while the other is looking straight to the side? Because if they are really doing that, then I think I may have developed a talent (???) that could serve me well with these children...

Things I Wish I Didn't Have to Say

STOOOOOOOPPPPP!

  

(This is how seriously I am taken around here.)

Things I Should Not Have to Say:

1. Please stop blowing your nose on the bulletin. (Said to my 8-yr. old during the evening worship service. His defense? "I didn't want to get up to get a tissue. That would be a distraction." And all the crinkling while you snot all over the preacher your father's outline is not?)
2. Do not stick rabbit food up your nose. (Said to the 2-yr. old after he had been sneezing for two days. We thought he had a cold. He kept saying, "Bunny rabbit hurt my nose." An especially explosive sneeze proved he was [sort of] right.)
3. Do not spray Febreze air freshener in your eyes. (Said to the same 2-yr. old who had to be taken to the Walmart bathroom to have his very red and very swollen face thoroughly rinsed and scrubbed.)
4. Do not squirt alcohol swimmer's ear drops up your baby sister's nose. (Said to a 5-yr. old after we had to call Poison Control and make an emergency run to Walmart for some saline to re-irrigate baby's nostrils.)
5. I don't have time to cut your toenails. Put some socks on. (The 8-yr. old. And, come to think of it, one of the 5-yr. olds.)
6. When I say, "Tighten your seatbelt," I do not mean for you to tighten it so much that you are crying because you can't breathe. (The 6-yr. old.)
7. Do not lick the dog. (ALL of them. Seriously.)
8. Do not lick the shopping cart.
9. Do not lick the van.
10. Really? You're still licking????

"How long will you say these things, and the words of your mouth be a great wind?"

(Job 8:2, Bildad to Job, taken greatly out of context yet somehow fitting...)

Anyone else?