I've declared today "opposite day"!

"It's opposite day!" Or so my son informs me on occasion, when a response of mine doesn't meet his expectations. For example, "No, you may not watch cartoons right now." "Well, it's opposite day, mommy, so that means your telling me I can watch cartoons." Nice try, kiddo. Creative, and I admire your ingenuity but...no.

I'm stealing his idea, though.

Here's how it works. There's dust on just about every surface in my house. Clutter abounds (I think it's mating and multiplying as I type). There's dog slobber shining on my couch, and I'm watching my cat obsessively like her navel (do cats have navels? hmmmm....must look that up later...did I mention my adult ADD?).

Amidst all of this, I have my feet up and I'm drinking a beer, watching my son and our pup run back and forth across the screen that is my living room window. I'm not moving. I'm pleasantly typing away, considering a scrapbook project, enjoying the silence...before the Pokemon cartoons begin and my husband gets home and the chores begin. Of course, I suppose I have an excuse. I ran (slowly but diligently) a half marathon yesterday. So, right now, I feel as if I wrestled an angry polar bear, and lost. I can hardly bend over, and getting up out of my chair is not really something I'm looking forward to.

So what does all this have to do with "opposite day"? Well, what I'm doing is completely against my nature. See, I'm like a rabid terrier when it comes to being productive. I walk through the front door after a long day at work, take one glance at the state of the house, and begin tidying, vacuuming, doing dishes, washing clothes. I basically ruin my own night before I even have a chance to salvage it.

Right now, it's taking every bit of my inner strength to stay seated, enjoy an adult beverage, and watch the young ones chase each other in the front yard. In fact, I think I might even be shaking a bit, trying to keep my brain on lovely, relaxing things that have nothing to do with that dirty word "chores".

So as of today, I am deeming Monday "opposite day". It's a day I'm not particularly fond of anyway, so it can use all the help it can get. A make-over like this might just be what it needs. From this day forward, when I walk through the front door on Monday, I'm going to do exactly the opposite of what I would normally do. I'm going to leave my work bag by the door, unpacked. I'm going to settle myself on the couch or in my craft room and do what I want. I'm going to resist the very real, and compulsive urge to clean or organize something. And I'm going to notice the world around me, and appreciate it.

Period.

Happy Monday, people.  And happy "opposite day"!

For good measure...it's also Monday "literary fortune" day (hey, they say it takes 2 weeks to create a habit, and since I'm only doing this on Monday...that means it's likely to take me 14 Mondays to get this down).

I did my usual...walked into the "library" (which is also our family office, my craft room, and the place where everyone in the family, including the pets, drops "everything"....so it's basically always a mess), grabbed the first book that approached my hand (I think they call to me, but it could just be the stress talking), and let the book fall open. Today it's Richard Jones' poem "Moving Day" from his collection The Blessing. It's one of my favorite collections...a "go to" for me. The poem was interesting, though...especially as a "fortune". I'd post the entire text of the poem, but as I don't want to violate copyright laws...I will simply share the end (guess you'll have to buy the book to get the full meal deal).

It's an interesting one to interpret. As I'm not moving anytime soon, I might see within these lines a bit of advice...to seize the space we have - the parts of it that matter, the people and the simple beauty - and avoid the "as it always could have been" that we only see in retrospect. 

Ahhh...the wisdom of poetry. Never ceases to amaze me. It fills in the spaces that normal conversation cannot. It is the pause in the music, the unexpected breeze on a hot day. It sustains our souls and lingers like a broken heart. 

And with that...I say good night. 

Unexpected Kindnesses

There are those moments, when I truly wonder if what I'm saying is getting through to my son. Am I teaching him to be kind enough, brave enough? Am I teaching him how to be skeptical when necessary and caring when he should be?

I try to model it. Just the other day, I let a man in front of us at the check out. I had about 20 items, and he only had a container of potato salad. He was a large man, at least 6' 5", wearing an orange vest and a transit badge. But, he had a kind face, and I had nowhere special to be. So, I asked if he'd like to go ahead. His face lit up, and he thanked me profusely, several times, and then told me he hoped I had a wonderful day and that I'd just made his. Which made me think, have we really gotten to the point where people are shocked by kindness?

Obviously so...because just tonight, my son walked out to my husband and I on the couch with two dollars in quarters. He reminded me that we needed to put money in his envelope for a field trip his class is taking on Friday. And then he informed us that he was going to get another two dollars, of his own money, because he wanted to pay for his friend. He continued on, telling us how his friend says he doesn't have a lot of money and that his dad needs to buy groceries. Holy cow! These guys are six! And they are already sorting through the problems of the world.

I immediately teared up. And my husband looked at me out of the side of his eyes. The empathy sort of took us by surprise. We told him how proud we were of his caring nature and that it was wonderful that he wanted to pay for his friend...that this is how we take care of the people who are close to us. It is just this sort of selfless friendship that the world needs more of. The kind that children can teach us, apparently better than anyone else.

So yes, I teach my son to be a good person through actions every day. But he reminds me through actions like this, that what I do does matter, and that simple kindnesses are amazingly important.

Bittersweet firsts

There's the first word, the first step, the first time he says, "I'll do it myself!" with an air of such determined independence that you're taken aback. The first skinned knee, the first solo bike ride (sans training wheels), the first day of school, the first lost tooth (see above).

A string of firsts that are amazing, bewildering, and uplifting. A string of firsts that also break your heart, just a tiny bit, because you know, there will never be another first word, or first step, or first lost tooth. And...it means he's growing up.

With every first, he moves just a few steps further into the real world, and just a few steps further away from the nest.

Ultimately, that's the goal, right? To help them find their wings, raise them in just the right way that they know when it's time to fly on their own, welcome them back when they need a rest.

But, it's hard.

Right now, I know about all the firsts...and most of them are positive...though of course there's the first fall, the first time he got grounded, the first time he said a naughty word, the first time another kid pushed him and made him cry. The first time I held him after surgery, the first bug bite, the first joke he made up by himself, the first time he was defeated on the wrestling mat.

There are hundreds still coming...the first broken bone, the first sleepover, the first crush, the first time behind the wheel, the first broken heart.

I collect all of his firsts in the back of my mind. They aren't the totality of his existence, after all, they are only firsts...but they are the stepping stones of his life. Some are solid and dry. Others are slippery and dangerous. Some are easy to find...and still others are almost too deep in the water to find. But, they are all there. Waiting. Waiting to be found and tried.

The beauty of independent, introverted children

I have a very independent little boy.

He's smart, stubborn, determined, and less affectionate, in some regards, than a lot of kids his age. Sometimes that's hard to swallow. In the drop-off zone in front of his school each morning, he might return my "I love you" if I say it with the request for the reply built in...my tone, drawing low like an admonition. But at other times, the words roll off his tongue like butter, smooth and unexpected.

With a child like mine, whose moments of affection are sporadic and sometimes rare, they remain a constant and sweet surprise. I almost prefer it to a steady stream of kisses and hugs, because his "moments" seem to come out of nowhere, at just the right time. And they seem to mean so much more because of it.

Once, on a stressful morning where nothing seemed to be going right, I rolled up to the school just as the bell was ringing for kids to go into the building. I was agitated, felt rushed, and certainly wasn't focusing on my relationship with my son. He grabbed his things, and slipped out of the backseat onto the sidewalk, an apple in one hand, his hair still disheveled by sleep, his shoe laces dragging, as usual. At a dead run, he turned, stopped ever so briefly, and blew me a kiss.

I was so taken aback, so surprised, that it didn't even occur to me to blow one back. I wouldn't have had time, anyway, as he'd already turned back around to disappear behind the chain link fence and enter the school.

As a toddler, he wasn't the child who constantly asked to be picked up and carried. No, he wanted his freedom as soon as he was mobile. I'm not sure if it was due to the rather unconventional and harried experience of his birth, but he seems to have been born this way.

From day one, he slept through the night. He didn't cling to me, he didn't look back and cry every time I left him at daycare (maybe for the first week, but that was more about his unwillingness to accept the "new" or to handle transitions with aplomb).

Last year, when I took him to the North Olympic Kids' Marathon, I came ready to run along with him. That sea of children, many with accompanying parents, lined up at the starting gate. I looked down at him and asked if he wanted me to run with him (because of his nature, I never assume he'll want me or need me to do things with him and I don't press myself on him). He looked up at me, smiled (happy I was there to support him), and said, "I got this, mommy. I don't need you to run with me."

So I let him run, and I waited, camera poised, to get a picture as soon as he came into view on the return lap. As soon as he saw me waving, he waved back, smiled, and yelled, "I did it! All by myself!"

So, yes, I guess I could be sad that my child doesn't "need" me all the time. But, since I don't base my identity on him, that sadness is also sweet. He's not an extension of me. He's his own little person. We are separate beings held forever close by blood. He's a lot like me. Introverted, and inwardly affectionate. He loves me. He loves his family. He loves his pets. He cares for his friends. But, he keeps his circle small, and he reserves his reservoir of affection. He comes by it honestly, as do I. A long line of "you know I love you...you know I'm proud of you..." folks who show what they feel in their eyes rather than saying it.

It's not optimal. I know I should be more verbal about my feelings for others (it drives my husband crazy, as he's a much more openly affectionate person than I am), and I try show my affection through words and actions as often as I can. Encouraging him to offer a more outward show of his love for others. But, in the long run, he is who he is.

And that's okay with me.

The things that matter in a relationship...

...are often the things that drive us the most crazy or the things that we typically do not consciously notice. These might range from the socks that are incessantly in the middle of the floor, or the mole just above our loved one's ear. The way they take their coffee. The manner in which they sit in a chair. Their snoring or their temper or their nervous tics.

Holding On 

(original poetry)

My weak fingers bend
back in the wrong hands,
but curve comfortably
at a natural angle
in the crook of your elbow.

It is the difference between
force and choice.
My skin seeks the warmth
of yours, rough and calloused,
a promise of hard work
and commitment.

There is no pretense
in the arch of your bicep,
only a silent request
that I hold on
loosely below it,
my fingertips grazing
the softest part of
your inner arm,
all of the thoughts
without words
pulsing just below
the most translucent places.

Embracing a messy life

They leave little messes all over the house. They're there when I get home from work; they're there when I wake up in the morning. I notice them with a growl and a sigh as I step over them to get to the coffee maker, or move things on the couch so I can sit down and enjoy my first cup. When I walk into my son's dark bedroom to wake him up, I trip over them. They pile on my office floor. And strewn across the dining room table at any given time, there they sit, making me crazy. Those little clutter piles, shoes, books, drawings, bags, stacks of mail, all the contents of my husband's pockets...they annoy me to no end. But try as I might, pushing my family to the level of order that I require just doesn't work.

Oh, they try. Sometimes. But, they forget. Not because they don't value a clean home (they appreciate that more than they know) and not because they take for granted that mom will take care of it because she's a neat-freak like that (although I do think they assume that occasionally). No. They just don't need it to be as tidy as I do. When their stuff is in a pile by the door, it's easily accessible and won't need to be found in the morning when they need it. That pile of odds and ends and change from my husband's pockets? We'll it's going right back in, so why would he put it away?

I'm not saying no one should clean up their stuff. I couldn't breathe if everyone just gave up putting their things in the proper places. And I'm pretty sure they'd all be concerned if I up and stopped the record player that is my litany of requests to "put it where it belongs....and if you can't find a home for it, you'll have to get rid of it." My son has become a genius at finding "homes" for things. For, in his little mind, nothing is meant to be thrown away. Every little scrap of paper, tiny plastic toy, and t-shirt that no longer fits is dear to his heart. And he comes by his "packrat" mentality honestly. My husband is nearly as bad.

And then there's me. I'd just as soon put it in a bag and drag it to the thrift store as put it away -- one. more. time.

That's not to say that I don't create my own clutter. Because I surely do. I think they annoyance comes, though, from knowing that I'm the only one who's is really bothered by it...and therefore, I'll be the one left to pick it up...or request that it be picked up by someone else. There is actually a chore in our house called "clutter patrol"...and it has to happen on a regular basis. Mostly because the little messes drive me crazy and make it seem as if the house is actually dirty, which it isn't.

Oh sure...I could really become a Nazi about the whole thing. I could rant and rave and groan and buy bins and label them and neurotically require everyone to put everything away in it's properly marked spot. But I know that will be an impressive failure. Why? Because even now, the dirty socks sit right beside the laundry bin...on the floor. The back pack is 3 feet from the hook where it should be hanging. The "properly marked spots" already exist. It's just that no body seems to care about them. Maybe if I made it a game and gave away prizes...or if I added a monetary incentive...or if I threatened someone with an early death...I could get them to put their stuff away...every time.

That got me thinking...why do I try so hard to keep it all together? What exactly is the point? Especially when, no matter what I do, even if I can control my own messy life and keep some semblance of outward order, I most certainly can't control anyone else's.

It's not that I'm planning to stop asking everyone to put their things away. Someone has to do it, after all. But, I can let the little messes stop bothering me so much. I can look away sometimes. Even better, I could learn to embrace them.

After all, every little mess is a reminder that someone I love lives here. Really lives here. They leave their mark all over this house, and in all honesty, if those little messes weren't here, my house would lack personality. The clutter in our house is evidence that we are here, inhabiting this space, making it our own. I'd much rather have their little messes than not have them and instead have a home that looks like the airbrushed perfection on the cover of Better Homes & Gardens.

That isn't my life anyway. My life is a blissful, glorious little mess, full of love, and laughter,a nd activity...and we have the clutter to prove it.

Mornings and "snuggle time"

I'm. Not. A. Morning. Person.

I can't stress that enough.

But...there is something about being awake before the buzz of the day sets in. Before the animals begin requesting to go out or be fed (they all seem to like to sleep in as long as possible these days). And before my son or husband wake.

It's quiet. All I can hear is the dog snoring at my feet and the cat snoring beside me on the couch. Maybe the tapping of a few claws on the laminate flooring as another cat makes her way from here to there. A lone meow. The humming of the appliances. The soothing waterfall of the fish tank's filter.

When I wake, there is a routine. There has to be, since my brain must be on autopilot for me to function. I turn on the "less bright" kitchen light, make my coffee, and then shuffle my way to the couch to write by the soft glow of two living room lamps.

I usually have about half an hour of uninterrupted quiet. Which, in any family household, is a blessing and a miracle.

When my son wakes up, I fight the urge to continue writing and remind myself to be present in the moment with him...to suck in every second that he seeks to snuggle with me in the pre-dawn. We've been doing this for a long time. It became a tradition several years back when I was trying to come up with ways to spend quality time with my son during our very busy days. I was feeling like a disconnected parent, doing nothing but directing and dictating, just making it through from morning to evening without killing anyone. So, "snuggle time" became a positive way to begin our day. Fifteen solid minutes of one-on-one closeness.

We don't always talk. Sometimes he tells me about the dreams he had (good or bad). Sometimes we just plan out or discuss the coming day. And it usually ends with him begging for "just one more minute". Sometimes, it irritates me...because my mind is already abuzz with all the dozens of things that must be accomplished in the next hour for us to get out the door on time. "No...we have to get going, or we'll be late."

But, quite honestly, I should cherish that extra minute every single time. There are a lot of things I cannot say yes to. "No, you may not have candy for breakfast." "No, you may not wear shorts to school in the middle of winter." Those things are parenting common sense. But, saying, "No, you may not have one more minute of my time...no more of my attention or awareness...it is now time for me to get dressed and make the lunches and put on my make-up and do my hair and run breathless out the front door while dragging you by your unwilling little arm and ranting about how late we are going to be," seems ludicrous.

So, this morning...and every morning that I can possibly remind myself...I will say yes. "Yes, you may have one more minute of my squeezing and physical contact that you may no longer want in just a few years."

One more minute is the least I can give. If nothing else positive happens today, at least I can say that we had this time. And I'm grateful for it.