Home Base

We just got back from a great trip out West that included Devil's Tower, Yellowstone, Jewel Cave, the Badlands...  Lots to say, too many pictures, but before I try to find time to sort it out and share any of it I just wanted to take a moment to appreciate the glories of returning home.

And being clean!  This was our first camping experience with the kids, and we really enjoyed it, but I'm amazed when on a trip like that how quickly you shift from ideas of what is "clean" to what is "clean enough."  I did manage to wash my hair after a week in a sink at a campground and it was wonderful, but nothing compared to getting into the shower when we arrived home in the middle of the night.

Being home is so nice.  Adventures are great, but I love being in my own bed.  In a perfect world we would have Star Trek transporter technology that would allow you to go anywhere for the day and return to your own bed at night.  (Or at least provide you that option when the air mattress in your tent gets flat.)

I already miss being with everyone all the time, though.  I've been swamped with repairs at work, and am back to seeing my kids just at the beginning and end of the day, and it's not anywhere near as good as being able to share every meal and every walk and every drive.  Aden's even off on another adventure with a friend to help tend a lighthouse on Rock Island for a week, so we're down to just two kids.

It's fun having the dog back.  He's REALLY happy we're home and to be with us again.

It's nice to have all my clothes options again instead of the same three shirts.  (Not that my wardrobe is interesting--it's mostly stuff I can afford to get glue on, but still....)

Mostly it's just good to feel grounded.  I'm fascinated by people who are able to function well while having to move all the time.  I know people who aren't in the same place for more than a couple of years and have to uproot, and I don't think I would handle that well.  I need a home base to return to.  I'm glad to be back.

Skill Sets

Having my family away for a week recently was weird.  I've been away from my husband and kids before, but it's rare to have a stretch of time that long where they are away from me.  I thought I would be productive having the house to myself.  But I wasn't.  I was uninspired and listless.  I found myself sleeping in while cuddling the dog, eating cereal, and binge watching things like Breaking Bad and Call the Midwife.  Which is essentially what I would do if I were sick.  So what was that about?

It got me thinking about skill sets.  We specialize in activities in our own little worlds, and develop expertise in trivial matters that most will never appreciate.

When I was in college I was a research assistant in a Music Cognition Lab.  Ohio State had one of the best such programs in the world at the time.  I had deep admiration and respect for my boss who I thought ran her lab smoothly and well, and I enjoyed my work.

Full House

The first house my husband and I owned together he picked without me.  We'd been house hunting unsuccessfully around Milwaukee for a couple of years, and it was getting too difficult for me emotionally to look at a house and mentally paint the walls new colors just to have someone else get their offer accepted on it first.  I was crushed every time, and we decided that Ian knew enough of what I wanted to look without me and choose wisely.  So when he picked out the blue and grey corner house a couple of blocks from the railroad tracks in Bay View, I didn't see it until the final walk through before the closing.  If I ever need proof I trust my husband, that's it.

I loved that house.  We put a lot of work into it.  A LOT of work.  It's the house all my babies came home to.  It's the last place my grandma got to come visit us here.  It's where I built my first instrument on my own after four years of violin making school.  It's where we buried our first pet bunny after she was killed by a cat.  It was within those walls that I experienced some of my greatest joys and suffered some of my hardest lessons.

But it didn't have closets.

While I was at work... (Babble)

Saturdays at the violin store tend to be particularly busy.  (Seriously, if you are making a list of recession-proof industries?  Put neighborhood violin store on it.  We don’t even advertise and I am swamped with work.)  This last Saturday went by in one long blur, because there were so many people to help and instruments to take in and send out, and I was a little dazed when I got home.

So dazed, in fact, that I wondered if I was seeing this right when I went upstairs and glanced into my daughters’ room:

Yes, that’s a tree.  With dusty, spray-painted plastic leaves.  It wasn’t there when I went to work.  Apparently one of our neighbors had a yard sale, and the kids pooled their own money to buy the tree.


I came downstairs and said to my husband, “Did you know there is a tree in the girls’ room?”

And yes, he did know.  I often find it interesting in what ways our parenting instincts diverge, but this one took me a minute to wrap my mind around.  Because if I had been home when the kids asked to buy a fake tree covered with dust I would have found a clear way to say, “No.”  The reason being that it’s awful, and unlike other awful things that can be removed from the house while the children are looking another direction (I’m still getting away with the line, “It must have been lost in the move….”) I can’t sneak out a tree without them noticing it’s gone.

Ian said from his point of view, the kids spent their own money on it, and it made them incredibly happy.  He liked seeing them that happy.  So how am I supposed to argue with that?  It’s hard to even be annoyed with that.

I did tell Aden that she lucked out that I wasn’t home that day, because I would not have approved the purchase of the tree.  I asked her where she planned to put it, because it couldn’t stay in the doorway.  I suggested the corner behind the door, but Aden didn’t like that because it would block access to the mirror.  I said we could remove their toy box and put the tree in that spot, but Aden didn’t like that either.

She eventually settled on her terrace as the new home for her tree, which sounds fine by me.  I had envisioned live plants out there, but I can deal with a fake tree on the terrace.  Unfortunately there has been some wind and rain since the tree went outside, and when I checked on it, it looked like this:

So there’s that.  (At least they didn’t bring home something that would pee on the carpet.  I’m scared that’s next.)

Home Sweet Homes (Babble)

We’ve just returned from two weeks of vacation.  Typically when Ian has his two weeks of Army training sometime in the summer I close up the store and take the kids to visit friends and relatives in other states.  This year got complicated because we were planning our trip around one set of dates, then that plan got scrapped for a new and improved set of dates, and then the Army decided rather last minute that never mind, not this summer.  (The Army is fun on so many levels.)  The upside to all that confusion was that, in the end, Ian got to come with us on our vacation.  It’s been a great couple of weeks.

The first part of our trip took us to the cottage, which by the end of the trip was our cottage.  I’m still trying to wrap my brain around that, but one of my cousins who is a lawyer wrote up the appropriate paperwork, and while Ian and I and my mother and uncles were all gathered on a Saturday evening we signed papers and wrote checks and now the place is officially ours.  Amazing.  But I have a whole separate post I’d like to write about our cottage adventure after I’ve had a minute to sort through our photos.  Today I want to express gratitude for the embarrassment of riches I have in terms of places I get to call ‘home.’

Because the second part of our trip was to the Sunny Detroit area, which is where I grew up.  About twenty people gathered at my parents’ home on what would have been my grandmother’s 93rd birthday.  People from Baby Kate, the youngest member of the family at 13 months, to the oldest members of the family (none of whom look a day over 39 I swear) were in attendance.  My mom cooked some of my gram’s best loved recipes, including her cheesecake, something called a blitz torte, and her famed orange jello.

The whole Saturday party was a bit of a whirlwind.  Lots of people and food and a lot of work for my mom who already had too much on her plate between my dad’s health issues and the closing of their art gallery (the contents of which she has somehow fit into the house which is a ninja level feat of organization).  But it went well, and it was nice to be with people who remember and miss my grandma.

Aside from the big party, the real event for me was just spending time in my childhood home.  I love to walk around my old neighborhood and see what things have changed (lots of house additions and gardens) and what things haven’t (the old section of sidewalk down the street with paw prints in it).  I always appreciate walking among trees that seem like old acquaintances, and watching my own children play in the same park where I spent every recess from kindergarten through sixth grade.  Hearing my kids clomping down the steps to the kitchen in the morning the way I must have done, and eating at the same table off the same plates is surprisingly moving to me.  Being in my childhood home is one giant reminder of ‘the more things change the more they stay the same.’  That house is still home.

But the cottage is also home.  It always felt like home, but now that it’s legally ours, it is truly and officially our second home.  So we traveled from Detroit (which I think of as ‘back home’) to the cottage (which is our ‘vacation home’) back to Milwaukee (which is simply ‘home’).  So in a way we were gone for two weeks without ever being away from home.  That’s peculiar and comforting all at once somehow.

I don’t know what it’s like to function without a place to call home.  I am fortunate, because I need that sense of place to accomplish anything.  I need to feel grounded and safe or I become agitated and fearful.  I remember when Ian and I broke off from the rest of my family during a trip in Italy to visit Cremona.  It’s the city where Stradivari lived and worked and it is still filled with violin shops.  (It’s also the place for which Mona is named.)  When we arrived in Cremona it was sunset, we didn’t know where we would stay, and I was anxious.  Everything looked dirty and sketchy as we walked from the train station looking for a hotel.  After we found a place to sleep and drop off our bags–a temporary home–we headed back out into the streets to explore the city and find some dinner.  It was like seeing Cremona with new eyes because I noticed for the first time it was full of fine shops, like a Rolex store.  But when I didn’t know where I was going to sleep I didn’t like the look of any of it.

I think the stress of actual homelessness would be damaging in ways I can’t even imagine.  When I read about teens forced to live on the streets, or people whose homes are destroyed in a disaster, or refugees in exile, my heart breaks for them.  Everyone should have at least one place to call home.  I have three, which seems beyond decadent.  As for my husband, he says wherever I am is his home.

I think a lot about what home is to my children.  I want them to have that sense of place where they are loved and safe; where they have a foundation they can take for granted so they are free to be creative in ways they might not be if they were searching for things that are currently a given.  My kids are at a stage where they love their home so much they insist they will never leave.  When I say things about ‘one day when you grow up and move on’ they all get very upset and insist they want to live with me forever.  They want to raise their own kids here.  That’s actually fine with me, but I tell them if they change their minds it won’t hurt my feelings.  It’s okay to build a new home.  They can always come back and visit this one.  Or the cottage.  They have many homes.  (And I’m glad.)

And now, for the worst segue ever, photos!  Among the things that changed yet stayed the same was the community pool six blocks from my old house.  They remodeled it, added cool new fancy wading pool things that pour water on people different ways, and made the changing rooms and snack area much nicer than when I was a kid.  But there is still the dreaded ‘Adult Swim’ for the last ten minutes of every hour where all the kids must leave the pool just long enough for their suits to dry out and make adjusting to the water annoying all over again.  However, my brother and I got to enjoy being adults in that pool for the first time in our lives, taunting our poor children waiting on the edge while we swam back and forth with no one in our way.  That was awesome.

(Quinn at the water’s edge.)

(Dumping buckets.  How fun is that?  Even my kids who don’t like getting splashed liked all of that.)

I also came downstairs one day to find my four-year-old son playing Scrabble with my dad.  Quinn understandably needed a little help and they did not keep score, but the whole thing was adorable.  Quinn reads at about a first grade level, so he’ll be beating his grandpa at a real game soon enough.

Our time in Detroit was too short, but it always is.  I did get in a dinner at a restaurant with my friends (which was a lot of catching up and laughing), some nice walks at night with my mom, and my dad showed me a folder he recently put together of old photos from his side of the family.  I don’t think I’d ever seen pictures of my great-grandparents on that side before.  I wish being able to pop over to my parents’ house was a simpler event.  It would be nice to play a game of Scrabble, share some dinner, then go tuck the kids into their own beds on time.  But our life is in Milwaukee, and that’s the trade off.

What a problem to have–too many places where we are happy and want to be.  Life is sweet in any of our homes.

It's Not the Crime, It's the Coverup (Babble)

My kids are very sweet.  They are polite, they play well together, and for the most part they are pretty easy.  For the most part.  But they are messy.  Hopelessly messy.

Now, truthfully, this probably just proves they are mine, because my mom could tell you stories of dishes left for weeks in my room and how seldom we ever saw my floor because it was covered in laundry and books and who knows what.  That’s fine.  I admit to my former slobbish ways.

But where’s the fun in parenting if you can’t enjoy a little hypocrisy learning from your past?  So I keep on my kids about picking up their rooms, at least enough that I can walk in there at night if I need to and not kill myself on something sharp.  Quinn’s room is just a giant dumping ground for toys most of the time, and although I don’t care too much I still occasionally pitch a fit and make them all help get everything off the floor.  But their rooms are their own space, and I only get upset when it’s getting downright dangerous.

The rest of the house, however, is another matter.  I don’t want to live in a pit. I can’t function when things get too messy in the space I use.  I can’t think in clutter.  I also don’t appreciate when my kids are careless and trash things that don’t belong to them.  They don’t mean to be disrespectful of our stuff, but they just don’t pay attention and it’s frustrating.

The family room where they watch T.V. and use their computer gets pretty bad.  They are not allowed to have food in there because it attracts ants, but we find plates and cups and crumbs in there anyway.  They know they are not supposed to leave a mess, but they knock over all the DVDs and don’t pick them back up.  They make projects while they watch their shows and leave scraps of paper and duct tape and crayons and scissors everywhere.  It looks terrible and drives us crazy.

When the kids blatantly break rules like that, they get a boring lecture, they get warnings, sometimes they get yelled at, they have gotten grounded, they’ve had privileges taken away….  They always seem genuinely sorry, they cry, they feel bad, they apologize, they try to make it better, and then they forget all of that and do it again the next day.  It’s baffling, a little insulting, and definitely annoying.  But it’s life with kids, and they do enough things right that the few things they do wrong are just not that important.

Recently we moved their laptop from the family room to the dining room in the hopes that it might be an easier place to keep clean.  We were wrong.  There have been several problems with letting the kids congregate in the dining room, but the worst one was the paint.

The rules about using paint in our house are pretty straightforward.  Tell us when you are using paint, paint stays in the kitchen, put it away when you are done and a parent will even help wash out bushes.  But for some reason that is still unclear to me, Aden brought a set of special (read ‘non-washable’) paints left over from a craft project into the dining room.  Also unclear to me is why Mona opened them.  But she did, and permanent white paint went all over.

It was an accident.  It was a particularly stupid accident, but still, Mona didn’t mean to do it.  We’d have been upset but not crazy upset.

The problem is, Mona was so worried about the idea of our getting mad that she decided it was better to hide the evidence than admit to the crime.  She threw a towel over the paint on the floor and sort of wiped up the white paint on the black leather chairs with her hands and I guess sat over it.  Aden and Quinn were in the dining room too and either didn’t notice the problem or just ignored it.  I’m not sure.  I was at work, and Ian called me to describe his discovery which I didn’t see until I got home.

What a mess.  There were little splatters of white paint on the china cabinet, paint smeared on the seats of two chairs, on top of the table (which we are smart enough to keep a pad on, so that’s something), on the edges of the table, on the floor…. We explained to Mona that if it hadn’t all dried onto everything it would have been a lot easier to fix.  She felt terrible, and it is as pointless to yell at Mona as it was to yell at the pet bunnies we used to have before we had kids, which is to say, you feel like a monster doing it and it doesn’t accomplish anything.  So I explained gently that one, no more paint in the dining room, and two, next time there is a mess she needs to tell us right away.

*Sigh*

Anyway, I was able to pick all the paint splatters off the woodwork with dental tools that I happen to keep in my shop (for getting into some odd violin crevices), the chairs will never look quite the same but they don’t look bad.  The floor was the worst because the solvent I used to get up the paint also took up the finish, so I had to find the polyurethane and reseal a large swath of hardwood.

Mona really did want to make amends, though, which I appreciated, so while I worked on the floor I had Mona make blueberry pancake batter.  She was sad at first because she likes to cook with me, not alone, but she was proud of herself for following the recipe correctly, and I told her she was being helpful because I couldn’t do both things at once but with her help I didn’t have to.

(My sweet, contrite Mona)

So the dining room is back to normal.  Aden wrote up a list of rules about using the computer in the dining room without trashing the place, so we’ll see how long they follow it.  The rules don’t look any different from the ones Ian and I came up with originally, but maybe since it’s in her own handwriting now maybe it will be easier for Aden to remember.  Hard to say.  (Now we can just get them to put their bikes away before it rains….)

Summer! (Babble)

We seem to have skipped spring entirely here in Milwaukee, which is a shame because my favorite temperatures are the upper 60’s and lower 70’s and I think we got about two days of those.  We still haven’t put away our winter coats because that will jinx everything, but I am so excited that it’s not 40 degrees and I’m not hearing about frost warnings upstate that I don’t even care that we jumped straight to the 80’s.  We’re sweaty but happier.

So what does summer mean here?  Well, even though Leon’s is open and busy year round, summer is really the right season for frozen custard.

There’s a lot of good frozen custard around here, but Leon’s is our favorite.  We stopped there the other night after Mona’s traumatic day of getting blood drawn and that improved her mood.  It’s a drive-up, and there is no place to sit, so you end up eating in your car but that’s okay.  Leon’s has never screwed up our order despite the fact that it’s full of overly specific kid requests (one chocolate in a cup with chocolate sauce and lots of cherries, one cup with chocolate on the bottom and vanilla on top with caramel sauce and lots of cherries…. etc.).  Leon’s has never disappointed us.

This summer we are finally attempting to do something with the backyard.  Last year I was too busy trying to organize everything on the inside of the house after the move and before Ian came home from Iraq.  We had the new garage built and painted our ‘Welcome Home’ mural on it, but beyond setting up the play structure in our new space the backyard was fairly neglected.

But this year we are going to use it!  We lay down new sod where there used to be little rocks (the rocks looked pretty but were hard on small unshod feet), we finished moving a bunch of big rocks and logs that just got piled up last year, and we are awaiting the arrival of our new trampoline that I found on sale.

There is this spot in our yard that once upon a time held a hot tub:

But we are not hot tub people.  When I get in the one at the Y I always feel like I’m in a stew pot waiting for someone to add carrots.

Last summer we had the sandbox on that octagon, but we’ve moved it to a shadier spot on a different part of the deck where it works better.  We’re going to try the trampoline up there instead and see how that goes.  It’s at least an interesting way to see over the fence.

Tonight was so pleasant that we ate outside.  We’re still in the market for a decent table for the deck, but no matter:

I’m not sure why Quinn thought it would be a good idea to eat on the slide, but he sort of managed.  He slid down twice but didn’t lose his pineapple pizza.

We still have almost two more weeks of school to go, but we’re looking forward to free concerts in the park and parades and fireworks every weekend and ice cream trucks.  Our lives are like night and day compared to last year at this time.  A two month wait to have Ian home again seemed interminable, and there was so much more tension.  I’m looking forward to our first summer in this new house together as a complete family.  I think we’re off to a great start.

When Nothing Means Everything (Babble)

I love days like this.  There aren’t enough of them for me right now and I’m really excited.  I’m still in bed after sleeping in and you know what lies before me?  A whole day of nothing.  Nothing!  Like a big ball of bliss to kick around, there are no plans, no demands, just a whole lot of nothing.  It’s like the best present ever.  Like being handed a very special bouquet.

So much for us has to be tightly scheduled.  My kids can never seem to understand why my husband and I insist on getting things done at particular times, but we keep pointing to the clock and saying, “We only have an hour before we have to clear the table for dinner so you need to finish your homework now so we can get out of here in time for (insert violin or choir or swim lessons or a concert here).”  There is a lot to squeeze into an average day and we spend a lot of time badgering the kids into using the bathroom and putting on coats or hanging coats up or just getting a move on.


In terms of my job, Saturdays wipe me out.  I’m at the violin store alone and it’s our busiest day.  I’ve had as many as a dozen people at once in my little shop for hours at a time, and it’s exhausting keeping everything straight.  There are people exchanging rental violins and looking at instruments and bringing in bows to be rehaired.  Some Saturdays I don’t get to sit down at my bench to do repair work until well into the afternoon when there is finally a lull in the foot traffic.  By the time I get home I’m usually pretty dazed, and yesterday was no exception.

But today?  There is nothing on my plate.  (Except, possibly, waffles to eat that I hear Ian making downstairs.)  No school events, no book club, no concerts, no errands that must be done today, no Army related anything, no play dates, no travel, no visitors, no appointments.

I asked Quinn a couple of days ago when I was looking at the calendar and saw a big hole of nothing sitting on today what he wanted to do with it.  I told him I could take him to the zoo or the children’s museum or anywhere he liked.  He cuddled closer on my lap and said, “Nowhere.”  That surprised me a little, so I said, “Really, where is the one place you most want to go and I will take you there on Sunday” and he said, “Home.  I love being home.”  Can’t argue with that.  Home is my favorite place in the world, too.

And the bonus is that today is supposed to be warm.  Like, very warm.  Like, out of the 40’s and into the 70’s, just for today, and then it goes back to feeling like spring in Milwaukee again tomorrow.  People who live where it’s warm all the time don’t appreciate it in the same way.  Here, the moment the sun comes out and you can tolerate the air outside without a jacket, everyone goes outside.  People take it in and enjoy it for all it’s worth.  I lived in Mexico one summer in college, and every day was gorgeous, and it stopped registering after awhile.  No one ever said, “It’s beautiful out!  We must do something with it!” because it would be beautiful the next day too, and no one was interested.   When it’s beautiful here it almost seems like a crime not to get out and enjoy it, and no one takes it for granted.

I think I’m going to spend the morning working in our yard.  There are a lot of plants peeking up and too many dead leaves and sticks blocking their way.  We had an impressive hail storm last week that knocked a million tiny sticks all over our yard that need to be raked as well.  Being outside and neatening things up sounds great to me.  Normally there isn’t time.  There is talk of going out for a sundae at Leon’s Frozen Custard at some point.  We might grill something for dinner, which when we say that to the kids means they hear the word s’mores.  We might walk to Target for something.  We might not.

My life goes back into full tilt crazy tomorrow with getting the kids off to school, exercising, work, rushing home for dinner and then a rehearsal until 9:00, but today?  Ha!  If I do anything today it’s because I want to.  There’s not another hole like that on my calendar for a long, long, time.

Here’s wishing all of you nothing!  (And I mean that in the best possible way!)

UPDATE:  I’m sore from all the nothing I did today.  Got the whole yard raked (seven big bags worth), and that was really satisfying.  Of the kids, only Aden took real advantage of the weather by biking, making kites, pushing a neighbor’s baby in a stroller around the block, and all manner of general play.  Mona spent a few minutes on her scooter and the swing, but then retreated inside to make things out of paper and play on the computer.  Quinn, who has worn nothing but short sleeves and flip flops all winter, was decked out in a long sleeved turtleneck, heavy pants and socks.  He collected pine cones while I raked and then went back inside to draw.  They did all come outside to enjoy the latest bubble machine I picked up on a quick trip to Target today (I have a thing for bubble makers and this one was on sale!) and we grilled burgers and ate on the deck.  The day ended with s’mores and much needed baths.  Life is damn good sometimes.

Habits, Observations, and Walking the Dog (Babble)

It’s strange being untethered from the children and my normal responsibilities.  It doesn’t happen often, and when it does it’s like being in a foreign land where I can look at things from a different perspective.  I’m amazed when I talk to people without children what they don’t have to factor into their thoughts or plans.  When you go on an outing–any outing–as an adult in adult company, the concerns are figuring out where and when.  A trip to the museum means thinking about what you will see at the museum.  When you do all your outings with small children it doesn’t matter as much where or when.  "Where" will boil down to car seats and trips to the bathroom, and when is whenever you finally get there.

The last major trip I took to a museum I saw none of the museum.  It wound up making more sense letting the unencumbered adults go off and I stayed in the play area with all the kids.  I hated to miss out, but I know even if I had gotten into the areas with art to see I would have had to keep all my attention on the kids and making sure they didn’t wander off or touch anything. My kids are very good, and we have gone places and done things, but it’s work in a way that unless you’ve done it you don’t understand.

Anyway, before I leave Michigan I feel like jotting down the odds and ends of my thoughts during my time here, because soon I will be back in tot-land and drowning in violin repairs and it will all fade.  And not that most of these thoughts may be interesting to anyone, but they are mine and this blog is mine and what the heck?

First:  Habits.  I am fascinated by the fact that you can resume old habits that you didn’t even know you had when you return to an old place.  Staying in my parents’ house again is so crazy, because in the strangest ways it’s like I never left.  I know which light switches are installed upside down and always reach for them the right way.  I can’t help myself from scratching at the varnish on the upstairs railing.  I still instinctively veer away from the spot in the driveway where there used to be a big dip even though that was filled in years ago.  I know how long I can run the hot water in the upstairs sink before it gets too hot.  I am always nervous I will bump my head going into the basement. 

On the negative side, whatever progress I’ve made about being mindful of what I eat at home, the minute I’m in Detroit it goes out the window.  I just don’t care and I don’t know how to make myself care.  I want to eat at the favorite Chinese restaurant of my childhood and not stress about it.  I want to go out to breakfast with my mom and enjoy bacon and say yes to whipped cream.  I want to eat my mom’s cookies and have thick slices of bread with cherry preserves and share sandwiches and pastries with my dad and indulge in middle eastern food the likes of which I can’t find outside of Detroit.  I will recommit to better health habits when I get home, but frankly food/stress issues are just too much for me when I’m here.  Oh well.

Second:  Observations.  I never ever noticed until this year that the house across the street from my parents didn’t used to have a garage.  There was a gravel driveway on the right side, and I remember people parking in it all the time, but I just assumed it kept going behind the house and there was a garage there somewhere.  Nope.  The latest owners put in a new driveway and built a two car garage on the left side. 

But how did I walk past that house a gazillion times my whole life and never notice the absence of a garage?  I’m not saying the garage itself matters, I’m saying I think of myself as somewhat observant, and I missed that.  The neighborhood I grew up in is filled with interesting and elegant houses from the 1920’s and 30’s, prior to a time when a garage would have been included as a standard item, so that’s not insane at all.  But if you had asked me I would have told you every house in Pleasant Ridge, Michigan had a garage.

And I would have been very wrong!  There are two houses on just this one street that still don’t have garages.  Once I started looking I was amazed at how many houses there are that only have a little drive along the side of the house and that’s it.  My dad thinks I’m being silly with my new garage obsession, but I’m mostly intrigued with seeing what I thought I knew in a different way.  Also, on the two longest streets to the west of us, I used to have a paper route, and I still only tend to look at the houses I delivered to.  I spent so many years only focusing on the houses where I had customers that it’s hard for me to see the houses between.  I made myself look at each house on this trip just to really see them.  (And I still remember every house that gave me grief or didn’t pay me.  What kind of person rips off a 13 year old paper girl?)

Lastly:  Walking the dog.  Specifically this dog:

I love this dog.  Which surprises me because I’m not really much of a dog person.  I like them, but I as an adult I’ve never wanted one.  Too much work, too much hair, too much mess, too much poop, too much added responsibility.  No thanks.  But Barrett and Kristie left their dog Inari behind while they went to Washington D.C. for the week, and I’ve been walking her.  I like to get out and walk but don’t do it often because at home it lacks purpose.  When I can I walk to work, but for me just walking without a destination feels like a waste of time. 

But walking a dog has purpose, and it’s fun.  I’ve liked having an excuse to go out every day regardless of the weather.  I don’t mind a walk in the rain, but wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to.  Walking the dog is great.  I also just love having the dog around.  She’s curled up in my bed as I’m typing which is very sweet.  (I think she’s planning to spend the night at my side which is rather flattering.)  She is thrilled when I come in the door, she is beside herself when I offer to take her out, and she makes the house feel welcoming.  She is cute and quiet and gentle.  If I could find a dog with as endearing a disposition that didn’t make my husband sneeze I might get one.  I can’t believe I’m even considering that, but my children will be thrilled if it happens.  That is the power of a truly adorable dog.  I think when my kids stop greeting me at the door with wild enthusiasm I may start scoping out canines at the humane society.

And how is my dad doing?  Okay.  Remarkable, actually, considering that anyone recovering from a broken arm and gastro-intestinal surgery would probably still be feeling the effects even if they weren’t in their 80’s.  The worst part of chemo so far was having to listen to The Price is Right blaring in the background, but I read a book aloud to my dad and we were able to block out the TV. 

My dad has stage 4 colon cancer and chemo is his only option, assuming he can tolerate it.  We are facing a lot of uncertainty, but for now we have a course of action to follow and we have hope.  It’s been a lot of work getting dad to all his appointments and dealing with so many medical issues, but we’ve also had time to play Scrabble, talk about the world, and laugh.  It’s a week I won’t forget and I am lucky to have been here.  My brother, Barrett, told me before he left at the beginning of the week that the past month and a half that he’s been here caring for dad he wouldn’t trade for anything.  I know how he feels.  It’s a strange transition to go from dependent child to feeling protective and responsible for your own parent.  I hope my own children know nothing of that for themselves for a long, long time.

(Minor UPDATE:  The dog did sleep next to me all night.  Maybe she sensed I needed a close up snuggle.  If I didn’t love my brother and his girlfriend so much I would steal this dog.)

Being A Daughter, Missing My Kids (Babble)

Hospitals are strange places.  They are environments entirely about providing care to vulnerable people, with little in those environments that succeed in making those people feel comfortable.  Health care workers are people just like anyone else, so most of them are attentive and kind and a few are brusk and dismissive.  But it seems to me the whole experience of being stuck in a hospital room could be improved if we could just get some clever design people on the problem.

Spending days in the hospital in Detroit with my dad has been both sweet and disheartening.  I’ve had time to observe what things here work well and what things could be better.  It’s amazing how far a gentle word from a nurse can go, and frustrating to see how much can (and does) go wrong when people don’t communicate.  My dad right now has me and my brother and my mom, as well as friends who happen to be doctors popping in from time to time to check on everything, and all of us advocate for him, double check what we’re told, and are working to keep my dad’s spirits up.  I can’t imagine what the hospital experience is like for people who must endure it alone.

In terms of my dad’s condition, everything seems to be one step forward and another step back.  Recovering from surgery is more difficult since he also has a broken arm.  Certain elements are in conflict.  One minute we’re being told he needs to start walking, and the next they discover something which requires he keep still.  Nothing is simple.  All of it is painful and confusing.

But I am here.  I am my dad’s daughter, and although I’m not a doctor I can prop his hand on a pillow when it gets too swollen and scratch his back when he sits up and write emails as he dictates messages to people.  It was more upsetting dealing with the fact of my dad being in the hospital from afar because helplessness is stressful.  If I can make my dad smile I don’t feel as helpless, and it’s easier to make him smile from his bedside.  I’ve been playing my viola which my dad has enjoyed.  (The staff asked if we could please leave the door open so they can hear it in the hall, which is flattering, so I had a larger audience than I had anticipated, but the only listener who truly matters right now is my dad.)

It’s interesting being once again firmly a member of my original family.  Ian is home with the kids managing our life in Milwaukee where I am the mom, and I am back where I grew up being a daughter and a sister.  It’s a strange shift, but not an unwelcome one.  My brother and I are trying to tend to my mom as much as dad.  We’re making sure she gets time to sleep in and finish some work while we’re at the hospital, and in the evenings together before we go to bed we laugh.  It’s good to hear my mom laugh.

I miss my kids, though.  I know they are fine, and I’m sure they miss me once in awhile, too, but as much as I like the break from being responsible for their needs for a little bit, I miss the snuggles and the hugs and the little voices and the unexpected cute moments.  The only other time I’ve been away from them this long was when I took a trip to Alaska a year and a half ago.  I hadn’t realized how much I’ve liked Mona’s recent habit of seeking me out for a quick snuggle before she goes to sleep until it was missing.  She finds me wherever I am in the house after she’s brushed her teeth and put on her pajamas and says, “I thought you’d like some company.”  And we hug and cuddle before I tell her she needs to climb in bed.  I miss Aden showing me how far she’s gotten in the book she’s reading.  I miss Quinn looking at me like he can’t believe his good fortune that I’m there.  But I’m not there.  And I won’t be for several days yet.

But this is part of being in a family.  Love comes with responsibilities.  My children are safe and warm and fine at home with their dad and they can survive without me for awhile.  My dad and my mom and my brothers need me now.  I want my children to know they can trust me when I say I will do everything I can to be there for them, and this is part of the proof.  I’ve made that same promise to the family I grew up with, and my children can see me following through.  Love needs to be stronger than our individual comforts and desires.  It means doing the right thing even if it takes me away from my kids from on occasion.

Here in the hospital, I’m enjoying time with people I seldom get to spend so many hours with.  I like filling in the spaces on a crossword puzzle for my dad since he can’t use his own hand, and helping my brother find the right word for an email he’s working on, and getting to sit quietly and have lunch with just my mom.  Despite the scary circumstances and the assault on my father’s dignity, time in the hospital is not gloomy.  We’re taking each challenge as it comes and finding humor and beauty where we can.

I apologize if this post is more disjointed than most.  Time in the hospital is strange.  It’s like waiting in line.  There is a lot of time, but just enough constant interruption that you can’t get anything done.  Most of these sentences were written many hours apart.  We sit.  We entertain dad until he needs to rest.  We stop everything for pulmonary specialists and surgeons and people checking blood sugar and blood pressure and fluids and oxygen….  Sometimes we go with dad as they wheel him in his bed downstairs for more tests and we wait there for a long time.  Lots of time and no time at all.  Being in the hospital is the temporal equivalent of “Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink.”

And now I’m just homesick and I miss my kids, so here is a mess of photos I just downloaded onto my computer and want to post purely for my own amusement.  In the spirit of this weirdly cobbled together post, enjoy:

Mona’s favorite Christmas gift this year was a potholder kit.  We now have many potholders.

We recently made applesauce.  Quinn liked to stir and add apples to the pot.  Mona and Aden did a bunch of peeling.  There were peels everywhere, but the applesauce tasted great.

A neighbor gave us a gingerbread house kit.  I was impressed how well the kids worked together on a single house.

These were habitats Mona was supposed to make for some reason for some other kid’s presentation at school.  I still haven’t figured out what the whole story was there, because I don’t believe (the way Mona tells it) that the teacher announced the night before it was due that she was supposed to build three habitat displays for some other kid’s report, but she got her sister to help and they were busy all evening with paper and scissors and tape.

And this was the last picture I took of my kids before I hopped in the car to go to Detroit.

Love those little faces.  Time to finish that crossword puzzle with my dad.

Major Guest Blogger (Babble)

I am so fortunate to have spent over half my life with my husband, Ian.  I’ve written about him before in an introduction, a post about how we met, and another about our wedding.  He followed how we were doing here at home by reading this blog while he was stationed in Iraq for the past year, and now that he’s home he’s agreed to do guest post.  So here we go:

Er…uh…(shuffle feet)…is this thing on?
The first thing to know is that coming home is not one transition. It’s
about a dozen, and arriving home is actually one of the last ones. There
are the transitions from doing the job to turning in equipment and
preparing to leave, the transition to a transient existence during
movement back to the United States, the transition from the
Expeditionary Army with loaded weapons and real missions to the the
Garrison Army with funny black berets and lousy food and off-post
WalMarts, the transition back to a bureaucratic world of budgets and
important papers and Veterans Administration benefits, and finally the
transition from a unit -a temporary family- back to the world of
individuals and the real family I chose.

And then, finally, the transition to a lonely observer in a family that
seems weirdly familiar but pecks at each other in all new ways. The kids’
awe at my return lasted almost to the exit gate of the Army base. Then I
was no longer a novelty but a familiar friend-of-the-family for about an
hour. Then I was not-quite-Dad (perhaps Dad-but-like-he’s-sick) for a
couple days, present but not terribly useful, which I encouraged. Now
we’ve moved to somewhat-lazy-Dad-who-passes-the-buck-to-Mom-a-lot.
Finally, next week when school starts, the clouds will part and
independent, strong Dad will finally return and shine down upon the
Earth.

And most of those phases are deliberate. To prevent frustration. To
kids, a big man frustrated is frightening…and I play for the full
dramatic effect (yes, it’s one of my many flaws). It’s like being the
slowest kid in class all over again, the frustration of watching
everyone else in the house breeze along knowing things you are fighting
to just learn, and the kids don’t need that. The Army likes to assign
you a mentor and time for a transition. The family tries, but a
six-year-old just isn’t a great mentor about the new laundry system.
Older kids – lots of new rules and behaviors that I don’t know. How can
I control or discipline the kids fairly when I don’t know the rules?
When do they go to bed? What’s the routine? What do they eat? What
aren’t they allowed to eat? Who leaves the doors unlocked? Who sneaks
out the unlocked doors? Who showers and who bathes? Where are their
clothes? Where are their toothbrushes? Where are their shoes? Why don’t
they wear socks? Do they have socks? Where are their socks? Why doesn’t
Aden put her bike away? Who are their friends now? Who is allowed to
cross the street? Who do I need to watch most…and why?

New house – Kory knows where everything’s right place is, but I’m not
psychic and so forever looking in the wrong place for silly everyday
stuff like trash bags and towels. It took a week to find my old wallet
with my hardware store card. My old car keys -with my grocery store card
on it- are still missing (and I still miss them). Which new key opens
which door? What are the little tricks to each old door in the house?
Where does the floor squeak at night? Where are the light switches in
each room?

Why is there a drawer of weird light bulbs in the dining room china
cabinet? And which bulbs are for which lights? Why are they all
incandescent – what happened to my compact fluorescents? Why are there
two mysterious ‘utility’ drawers in the kitchen, with identical tools in
them? Why is Kory mopping the kitchen all the time? Am I supposed to do
that, too? What dishes aren’t dishwasher safe, and how can I tell? How
the hell do you program the washing machine? Am I supposed to be mowing
the lawn now? What maps and equipment belong in each car? How do you
open the garage door?

Who are all these new friends and neighbors? Who does Kory really like,
and who are we merely polite to? Who does Kory owe favors to? Who’s
garage door opener is that on the kitchen counter?

And we haven’t even touched on upcoming school, swimming safety and swim
lessons, meals and cooking, handling household bills, dentists, work,
car repairs, energy conservation, hobbies, holiday planning, exercise,
the weird list of projects (Why does she want me to move that pile of
rocks? They look heavy) and a thousand other important issues.
And over all of those thousand details is the most frustrating one for
everyone else at home: I simply don’t know what their priorities or
schedules are. Should I be mowing the lawn or feeding the kids lunch?
Should I be writing this blog post, or picking up the dratted crab
apples, or cleaning the kitchen, or moving those heavy rocks? I can do
them all, but which should be first? It takes weeks to learn the
*context* to everything again.

And finally, don’t forget that once I do learn everything, our family
might renegotiate it a bit. So there’s mild tension brewing. Much more
than you’d expect from normally dull issues like: Where should the
vacuum cleaner be stored? What meals should we plan? Can the treadmill
block this window in this room? Can these toys move to that room? When
should our exercise times be? We’re discussing change to The Way Things
Should Be to several family members…but I have definite opinions too.
So that’s what Transition Back To American Life is like – after many
changes even before coming home, it’s a balance between the frustration
of learning a thousand things you think you should already know, the
frustration of relearning the context of your spouse and family’s
priorities, and the frustration of learning it all -despite the best
efforts of my fabulous family and friends- mostly alone. But as I
approach the end of the transition, I have these amazing kids who can
read and draw and ride bikes and swim and want me to go with them, and a
spouse who still claims to like me enough to let me continue sleeping
with her…but she’ll like me even more once I get those heavy rocks
moved. So get to it, Hercules.

Kory has been amazing, giving me plenty of time to get adjusted. Trying
to get the family on more regular sleep cycles. Feeding everyone.
Keeping the household clean and running while I lumber along trying to
learn how. Telling me it’s okay to back off and rest. She understands
that it’s hard to learn. It’s hard for everyone else, too, to adjust to
this familiar man suddenly in the house.

Being in Iraq, and the transition to/from home life is neither easier
nor harder than being a parent. They are different, and most comparisons
are false. For example, the Army makes sure soldiers get plenty of
regular sleep, food, exercise, and other ways to counter stress (better
than parents), but very few parents get blown up by roadside bombs or
mortared in their bunks (better than the Army). Sure, I lost weight in
Iraq, and did good work fighting corruption…but I was also under a lot
of stress and in cramped quarters with other stressed out people, and we
had terrible food and lived in an atmosphere among the Iraqis of
complete uncertainty and hopelessness. It wasn’t harder than waking up a
2-year-old in midwinter to bundle him up and pick up older kids at
school at 5 below zero, but it wasn’t easier either.

Housework Reconsidered (Babble)

I’ve never considered myself to be someone interested in housework.  Anyone who ever saw my room as a teenager could testify to that.  But my mom keeps a beautiful home, and so did my grandmother.  My whole life I’ve observed how they both knew how to keep their homes neat and welcoming.  Despite the time and energy it took to help run a small business, pursue a serious art career, and raise three children, my mom was probably most famous among my friends for always keeping the cookie jar in our home stocked with homemade goodies.  My grandma’s house was always almost comically free of dust and her basement was better organized and less cluttered than most people’s main rooms.  I wondered for a long time if I got some different combination of genes that kept the development of those skills from sparking my interest.

When we bought our first home my mom gave me a giant book by Cheryl Mendelson called “Home Comforts” which is a gigantic housekeeping tome with almost 900 pages that covers everything from what to stock in your pantry to how to organize your laundry schedule to how to wash a floor.  It’s a nice book, but at the time as I flipped through it, I mostly felt inadequate.  Besides, I generally associated housework with wasted time.  Repetitive chores using up hours of my life that could be used for more important and lasting things just did not take priority, and according to this book I would probably do it all wrong anyway.

But now I have the right house and I get it.  I finally get it.  I have never owned or collected things that made sense for the space I was living in.  I acquired things that would work in the place I one day hoped to be.  I am finally in that place.


Housework everywhere else was frustrating because there was never a place for everything.  There were always things being shifted from one spot to another, but there was never a final spot for everything to rest.  That’s stressful, and there is no way to keep things organized like that.  Ideally I should have only kept objects with us that worked in the various places we occupied, but it wasn’t possible.  Violin makers collect a lot of wood and tools and books over a long period, and my husband put up with a bench and a band saw at one end of our bedroom in our second apartment in Pennsylvania.  I’ve never really had a decent practice space, even in the other house, because wherever I wanted to play viola was borrowed space and I had to put everything away when I was done.  When you share too small a space with other people, their possessions are almost offensive.  Ian’s meager collection of books bothered me anytime I was short on shelving, and that’s just beyond unreasonable.

But now we have enough space for our things and it makes all the difference.  I have some empty shelves and drawers since the move which is like a miracle has happened.  There is a ton of storage space left for the kids to grow into.  I have a music room.  It’s not a giant room, but I don’t need a giant room.  I need a space where there is enough elbow room to teach, a spot to sit, and room for a keyboard.  Because I have a dedicated music room I can hang all our instruments up.  I have practiced more often since moving into this house than I did probably in the past two years in the last one because the ease of just pulling my viola and bow off the wall and playing for a few minutes here and a few minutes there is wonderful.  Getting everything out of the case used to take up all the time I had to practice with most days, so I didn’t bother unless I had to.  Practicing is fun again.

(Our music room!  See the violins and violas hung up on the wall in the back corner?  Super handy.)

When everything is organized it’s much easier to take care of and keep nice.  The funny thing about finally being relieved of all the clutter is that looking for things isn’t very dramatic.  When I lost my camera I spent more time digging through the minivan looking for it than I did in the house.  In the old house there would have been many searches through piles of stuff several times over.  Now I stand in the dining room briefly and think, “Well, it’s not here.”  Because when all the surfaces are clear and you know that this drawer is just light bulbs and that one is just extension cords, there just isn’t anywhere worth looking.  I hadn’t realized how nicely organized things were until I did that search because I literally went through every room in the house like that.  It was peculiar and satisfying at the same time.  I like that things are neat and I enjoy keeping them that way now.

A big help with clutter is the fact that Quinn has his own room and a huge closet (his closet is crazy–we could literally fit a twin size bed in there if we chose) that he doesn’t use yet.  He has always shared a room with his sisters and isn’t comfortable sleeping in his own room, so in the meantime it’s toy central.  Most of the toys live in that one room that I don’t have to walk through or look in and it’s amazing.  My kids used to play in a family room at the top of the stairs in the old house, and keeping a path clear so we could get down to the bathroom in the dark without killing ourselves was a constant battle and one I resented.  It’s still obvious when you walk into our house that we have kids, but now the living room holds a dollhouse, a train set, a box of legos, and a pachinko machine, all of which can be used and then put away without making our house look like a daycare center.  The struggle against the tide of toys used to wear me out and make me really grumpy.  There is room for kid space and grown-up space alike in this house, and that is sanity saving.

The next thing that makes a difference is having such a pretty house.  It has been so beautifully preserved with its original woodwork from the 1920’s not covered in gloopy paint or the stained glass ripped out and sold at some point.  The house is full of pretty details and it’s a privilege to live here.  I don’t want it to fall to rack and ruin under my watch.

Now, I don’t want to make it sound like everyplace we lived before was unpresentable, because everyplace else was fine in its own way.  I have never lived anywhere in a manner that I wouldn’t have been comfortable with people seeing.  I could keep things neat enough, but in terms of charm, most of that we had to bring to the places we lived by what we put in them and how we used the space at hand.  Our last house was nice, but people usually commented on the things we did with it rather than on the house itself.  The new house is simply a beautiful house.  People have liked what we’ve done with it, but everyone’s initial reaction when they come here is to admire the architecture and the layout and the details.  It’s interesting and lovely without us having to do anything.  I’ve also never lived anywhere that anyone envied.  That’s an odd adjustment, but that’s also a different post.

The point is, this house not only needs to be cared for in a way that requires an understanding of good housekeeping skills, but it’s fun to do.  Making sure the woodwork gleams is fulfilling in its own way, and doesn’t feel like wasted time.  Also, you can see things differently in this house.  The rooms are bigger and you can see things from farther back and at longer angles than I’m used to.  Dust is much easier to spot in this house on the dark woodwork.  I remember my former neighbor when she lived here saying something to me about dusting and I thought to myself, “Who dusts?”  Well, Ian and his allergies are thankful that this house does in fact need regular dusting to look right and I don’t really mind doing it.

Technology helps a lot, too, in terms of embracing certain housekeeping chores.  I’ve finally arrived at state of the art 1950’s technology and have a dishwasher.  How did I live with three kids and no dishwasher?  Between that and the garbage disposal I feel like I’ve been released from some kind of dishwashing prison.  I scrape the plates into the sink and put them in the dishwasher.  I know most of you just read that sentence and are not impressed because you do it all the time, but seriously, I scrape the plates into the sink and put them in the dishwasher!  I push a button like Jane Jetson and walk away and the dishes get clean!  I read to the kids before bed and at some point randomly stop and say, “Guess what?  Right now I’m doing the dishes!” and they cheer and we go back to reading.  Or playing.  Or doing any number of things I couldn’t do with them before because I was chained to the sink scrubbing plates and forks.  I used to wonder how much better it could really be, since you’d still have to handle all the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher so I wasn’t sure how it would save much time, but it does does does it really does.  And the garbage disposal is good because I grew up with one and never got out of the habit of peeling potatoes into the sink, etc.  Now it’s okay.  Washing dishes is not frustrating anymore and I love to unload the dishwasher.  Maybe the thrill will wear off at some point, but right now it’s magical.

Plus there are ingenious old features in this house that help.  We have a laundry chute.  What we used to have instead was piles of dirty laundry.  Now everyone gets undressed and puts things down the chute, so the floors and tops of dressers are easier to keep clear.  Aden likes to help do laundry because the new washer plays a little music at each step, so a couple of times a week I’ll ask her to switch the laundry and bring the clean things up, and it makes a difference to have someone pitch in.

Now let’s talk floors.  I tried really hard to keep my husband’s needs in mind while setting up this house without him here, and part of that was getting rid of window treatments that trap dust, and getting rid of any carpeting.  We have one big rug in the living room, one decent sized rug in the family room, one that you can’t see under all the toys in the girls’ room, and the rest is hardwood floors.  I did splurge for a Dyson vacuum after the responses to my post about dealing with styrofoam so I can keep those rugs as clean as possible, and the rest of the floors I sweep a lot.  But the most dramatic floor change for me is in the kitchen.  I love my new kitchen.  I used to HATE my old kitchen because I could never find anything and there was no counter space and nothing fit in there properly.  The new kitchen is so much easier to use I can’t even do it justice with my words.

(Counter space!  And a breakfast nook!  And the spice rack area on the wall used to be an old ironing board cupboard.)

Anyway, my old kitchen floor looked like this:

And my new kitchen floor looks like this:

Aesthetically the first floor didn’t do anything for me, and the second one amuses me and I’ve never seen another floor like it which is kind of cool.  But here’s the important difference:  The second floor is FLAT.  Flat is wonderful.  The first floor was some kind of heavy duty tile that’s only redeeming feature was that it was the color of dirt.  Which was handy because there was no good way to clean that floor short of getting down on your hands and knees with a toothbrush or something.  It had grooves, and waves, and stippling, and my little swiffer mop was powerless against it.  When the kids spilled orange juice it ran down a crazy path in the grooves and left sticky spots that remained until I could find the time to get down and carefully scrub along all the crevices, which was never.  Trying to clean that floor after every meal or art project the kids did over it was a housekeeping nightmare, because even if you don’t mind clutter, you have to make some attempt to keep a kitchen clean, and it was a Sisyphean task.  But did I mention the new floor is flat?  Sweeping up and running the little swiffer mop over it is so easy it’s almost fun. 

A friend recently looked at me in surprise when I said something about my new routine and said, “You mop every night?” and I didn’t want to freak her out by admitting I sometimes do it after every meal just because it’s so easy.  (It’s not like I’m really mopping–I just squeeze a button to wet the floor and push the pad thing around any spots that look gross for a second.)  There was no satisfaction in it at the old house.  Now it’s simple enough I don’t mind.

Now, the book I mentioned at the beginning of this overly long post is truly insane because most of the things it lists as weekly chores I’m lucky to get to every six months (she wants us to clean and sterilize the garbage cans every week!  And when she cleans the fridge she unplugs it and pulls it away from the walls and scrubs everything and that’s just not happening), but it’s interesting.  No one wants to hear that the best way to clean the floor is on your hands and knees, but it’s true.  It’s a fun read now, even though the main thing I’ve learned is not to invite the author into my home because I will never meet her standards, but would I like it if my home operated the way she suggests and the pantry was always stocked properly and there were always clean sheets on the bed?  Sure!  It’s like a housekeeping fairy tale and one that I’m enjoying reading through.

I am not ready for anyone’s white glove test, and like any household there are always projects that need to be tackled and things to be organized, but for the first time in my life I feel like I’m capable of keeping house nicely.  Things aren’t perfect, but the house is usually in a presentable state at any given time because I can keep things tidy.  It’s not a waste of time because overall it saves me time to not be searching forever for what I need or trying to clear space to get something done.  Clean spaces are like invitations to do something interesting, like pull out a board game or create something or (Aden’s favorite) invent a new cookie.  I never thought it was hip to be messy, I was just never in control of an environment that I could manage before.  I’m not even claiming keeping house will hold my interest now that my husband is back and I want to spend time with him instead, but my attitude toward the whole idea of it has changed.  It only took 40 years, but I may finally be following in the housekeeping footsteps of some of the women I admire most.  (There’s even occasionally something good in the cookie jar.)