Fix It

Jonah brought me a toy brush. “Can you fix my hair?”

“Sure,” I said. I swiped the brush across his head a few times. “There you go.”

“Did you fix it?”

“Yep.”

He touched his head. “You fixed it! It’s not broken!”

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Just Like Brother

When I was little, I never knew what to do with Barbie dolls. I had a few, because my friends had them, but I rarely played with them. My brother and I spent much more time with his trucks and Micro Machines.

It surprised me when Anna and Sarah began to show a strong preference for all things girly. They love dresses and bows and pink hair curlers, all of which I loathed as a child. This makes Grammie very happy.

Naiah is only thirteen months old, but we already know she’s my clone. My parents have flashbacks when they hold her. She pretends everything plastic is a car. She plays with balls and action figures, and follows Jonah around the yard.

Yesterday afternoon, she watched him intently while he played tee-ball. We had to pull her away from the tee again and again, so she wouldn’t get clobbered by his swing.

Today, she went outside with her sisters, while Jonah took a nap. And what did she do?

She grabbed a plastic ball, toddled and crawled over to the tee, balanced the ball on top, picked up the bat (three inches longer than she is), stood up, and hit the ball with the bat.

That’s my girl.

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Good-Bye. Hello.

Well, my parents started the trip back to Ojai tonight. They’ll stay overnight somewhere, a few hours from here, and get home in the afternoon tomorrow. I’m sadder than usual about their departure. It was fun introducing them to everyone at the church plant and the mother church.

So I have this clean house.

It seems like an enormous opportunity to start some new habits and routines, to make it beautiful and keep order.

I’ve been shining my sink every night. My counters are bare and bright every morning. I put things away. I think I like it. I could live like this.

So now I just need to keep ignoring that stupid voice in my head that says it’s all doomed to explode any minute. I really am improving. Just not as quickly as I’d like.

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At Breakfast

Me: Jonah, do you want me to cut your eggs up?

Jonah: No, just down.

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Eavesdropping

Spoiler Warning: Pirates of the Caribbean, Dead Man’s Chest

I was pushing Naiah and Jonah on the swings at the park today, when two boys took the swings next to us. The younger brother, Nathan, looked like he was around eight years old. The elder brother looked about ten or eleven.

I couldn’t help but overhear. . .

Nathan: Hey, you know that ship that sank?

Big Brother: The Titanic?

Nathan: Yeah, that one. Do you think you’d be one of those people who’d stay on the ship, so other people could live?

Big Brother: Yeah, I’d do that. And you know how Jack Sparrow went down with The Black Pearl, so his friends got away from the Kraken?

Nathan: Yeah.

Big Brother: Would you do that to save people?

Nathan: You mean like if my family was on board?

Big Brother: Yeah.

Nathan: Yeah, I’d die if my family could get saved.

Big Brother: Me too. If Davy Jones asked me, I’d be like, “Yeah, I’m ready to die!”

Nathan: Yeah, me too.

Big Brother: I’d be like, “I’m not afraid of dying.”

Nathan: Me too.

Big Brother: Nathan, who’s always protecting you?

Nathan: God.

Big Brother: Yeah. Do you believe in miracles?

Nathan: Yeah.

Big Brother: I’m not scared of dying.

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Found

It just gets weirder. The day before yesterday, I could not see a way in heck to make a dent in the towering mess that had overtaken my house. But yesterday, for no apparent reason, it suddenly made sense. Over the course of the day, I put the whole house to rights. I wish I could predict the days when I’ll be able to think like a normal person, so I could plan to have company then.

I’m also realizing what an intolerable perfectionist I am. Even though the house went from war to peace in a day, I wasn’t satisfied. There are still clothes in the laundry room. The desk is messy. And the bookshelves aren’t arranged. I really need to get over myself.

So I’m back to reading FlyLady, shining my sink, and taking baby steps. Hopefully I’ll get into a sustainable groove that I can practice and improve upon, and eventually look like an organized person on the outside, even if I’m still me on the inside.

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Grammie? It’s Grammie.

Papa and Grammie brought Anna and Sarah home yesterday. They’re staying the weekend with us now, and heading back down to Ojai on Monday.

After breakfast, Jonah brought his toy cell phone to Grammie. “It’s for you!” he said. “It’s Grammie.”

“Oh,” said Grammie. And she proceeded to have a very convincing conversation with herself on the phone. “Okay, bye!” she said. She gave the phone back to Jonah.

He looked disappointed. “She’s gone?”

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Lost

I am NOT an organizer.

Just when I begin to see a glimmer of hope that, perhaps, finally, my one ounce of order is beginning to grow, the house explodes.

And so it is today.

It began last week, with a desire to get rid of the mounds of clothes lying about, mostly in the laundry room. So I hauled every last shirt, sock, and pillow case into the living room to sort them. I succeeded in weeding out two big bags full of miscellaneous clothes to donate.

Over the course of the week, my carefully sorted piles began to migrate and mingle, as Jonah and Jason and Naiah and I wandered among them and searched for things now and then. Some of them were put away. Some of them had no place to go. Some of them are sitting in stacks in front of my dresser, which is full. I honestly have no idea what to do with them. So they sit.

On Saturday, I overhauled the nursery room at church. I tossed about 3/4 of the junk, leaving only some cardboard blocks, the kitchen and its paraphernalia, and a few books and trucks. Then I scrubbed everything down with soap and water. It was gorgeous.

Something inside me said, “See? You can do this! You just needed a little boost of confidence.”

So I went straight home and overhauled Jonah’s room in the same way. Another success!

After that, I targeted the upstairs, which will be the girls’ new bedroom.

Everything that did not belong was thrown down the stairs or trashed. I swept, mopped, vacuumed, dismantled the t.v. stand and shelves, cleaned out closets, and arranged the bed and other furniture.

It was all quite satisfying, until I saw the downstairs, which was even more chaotic and impassable than before.

To top it off, Jason kindly decided to clear out the mudroom (the entryway, which had been acting as a temporary storage room since the move). Clearing out the mudroom meant redistributing its contents throughout the living room, dining room, and shed, which, of course, caused even more mess, because now there are boxes and stacks of books, fabric, videos, and paper on every conceivable surface, waiting to be shelved or tucked away in some nonexistent drawer.

And, oh, yes, while I was trying to finish my bedroom, my son took leave to dump heaping scoops of powdered laundry detergent all over the laundry room floor, which I had just mopped. And so he is now confined to his room, where he can undo everything I accomplished there.

I’m utterly lost. I’m staring at rooms scattered with clothes, sheets, books, mail, bathroom products, and toys, and I am completely at a loss as to what to do with them all.

And I find myself asking the same question I’ve been asking since I first began to try to keep a house. Why do my attempts at cleaning inevitably create an insurmountable mess? What is WRONG with me? I can read Greek and Spanish and a little Hebrew! I passed accounting with Dr. Bonagofski! Why am I too stupid to clean my house?!

I’m going to flounder in the laundry room now.

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Sixth Sense

“I do have friends, but they’re dead.”

— Jonah, confused two-year-old. . . We hope.

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Self Image

“Pretty!”

–Naiah, looking at herself in the mirror

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