Zen

I am open and raw.  I've just come home from a weekend meditation retreat; two days sitting in zazen and two days driving by myself.  Four days of aloneness.  Me.  Just me.  And it was good.  I do well with peace.  With silence.  It was nice to be responsible only for myself; to be pulled from my environment and put into one that was neat and tidy. 

At the retreat nobody left their towels on the floor.  Nobody pooped in the hallway.  Nobody burned noodles onto the bottom of a pan and left them languishing in the kitchen.  Nobody told me I was cruel to charge for my work. Nobody screamed at me. No life and death decisions had to be made.  Nobody died.  

And then I came home. The older kids were studying for finals and feeling the pressures of society and numbers and grades.  Middle had a cold. Little had a second degree sunburn on her shoulders. The Mister was packing for a business trip and feeling behind, nervous and stressed.   

There were dishes in the sink.  The laundry was piling up.  Dog fur bunnies mocked me as I walked through the house.  The tomatoes needed to be watered.  The chickens needed to be fed.  Four quail had died and another wasn't doing well.  An unexpected medical bill arrived in the mail.  A sixty hour work weekend loomed in the future.  I forgot to attend an online class.  

My mind began to spin.  Why are we working so hard?  Why can't we seem to catch up? Why can't we clean up?  Why does everything cost so much?  Why don't we make more money? Why does everybody else seem to have so much more than we do? Why are we failing? Failing! All this effort and for what?  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  We've fucked everything up -- our kids, our lives, our jobs, our house ... 

And then I remembered to breathe.  In and out.  In and out.  We are employed.  We have a roof over our heads. We have three amazing kids.  We have insurance should something go wrong.  We have food on the table. We have love. 

It doesn't matter that the floors are scratched, the furniture is mismatched and the house paint is fading.  It doesn't matter that the grass is overgrown.  It doesn't matter if someone gets a "C" rather than an "A".  It doesn't matter what school we go to or if we even go to school. It doesn't matter what our bank account says.  It doesn't matter what others think about us. It doesn't matter if we are fat or thin.  We are not numbers or letters.  We are not our clothes, our house, our jobs or our car.

It's all an illusion.  We are nothing but our thoughts.  I am a woman; a woman with a menagerie. A woman with a beautiful mess.  

Now I'm going to go to the kitchen.  I'm going to place my hands in front of me in a position of prayer and bow to the sink. Then, quite simply, I'm going to do the dishes.  

My name is Shalet and my practice is counting my breath.  Thank you Maezen. 

Namaste.   

You Can't Always Get What You Want

It's no secret I want a hobby farm.  Just five or ten or forty acres to fuel my dreams.  Only, at this point in our lives, we're not in a position to buy.  At least not yet.  However I've decided to be positive; to act "as if."

Now if we were to buy a farm we'd have to move.  And we'd either need to rent out our house or sell it.  Either way we'd have some cleaning and sprucing up to do.  So, acting as if we are going to move, I'm spring cleaning.

I started in the girls' room which was scary to say the least.  Cleaning that room resulted in a monumental pile of laundry.  And, thus, I began a laundry binge -- determined to clean every last bit in the house.

Now midway through my laundry fest my washing machine starting giving me a "sud" error message.  I'd just made a new batch of detergent using a new brand of soap.  I figured it was a little too sudsy and made a note to myself that I wouldn't use that soap in the future.  Then the machine took it one step further -- "F2".

According to Google the drain line was clogged.  I found a drill, an appropriately sized bit, took apart the front of the machine and cleaned the filter (which, by the way, was disgusting).  I put the whole thing back together, proudly dusted off my hands and continued to launder.

Of course things couldn't be that easy.  Next the dryer stopped drying.  Turns out I'd been a bit exuberant putting it back in place (after moving it to repair the washer) and the exhaust line was pinched off.  That little issue was fixed without too much trouble.

By this point most of our clothes were clean and I, in the laundry zone, moved on to other household items -- specifically the rugs in our house.  Bad idea.  Very bad idea.  

The rugs have (had) rubber mats on their undersides which came apart -- into tiny tiny pieces.  These pieces subsequently clogged the drain -- again.

But no fear!  I can fix it! I intrepidly removed the front of the washer, pulled out the filter, cleaned it and put the whole thing back together.

Only the washer still wasn't draining. Ugh.  I got back in there and cleaned the drain tube in front of the filter with a chop stick.  The clog broke free and a HUGE FLOOD of dirty smelly water spilled out onto my laundry room floor.  Yippee!

I mopped up the floor using every single towel in the house.  While mopping I discovered a slimy mess of now wet dog food under the washer.  That got cleaned too.  I pulled out the washer and dryer and cleaned behind them.  Then I discovered a hole in the dryer hose and repaired that.  Finally I put everything back together.

Then I washed the grungy dirty towels. Halfway through the wash cycle the filter clogged again.  And, yet again, I pulled the whole thing apart.  This time using sheets to catch the water because there were no more towels.  Of course it was more of those evil rubber pieces.  

As I type I am hoping my laundry adventures are complete.  The towels are still in the wash and appear to be completing their cycle.  I've purchased new rugs.

I've learned a few things along the way:

1) Sometimes it's better to spend a little money (i.e. I should've simply bought new rugs).

2) New rugs cost much less than a new washing machine.  Thankfully, hopefully, a new machine won't be needed.

3) "... you can't always get what you want, if you try sometimes well you might find, you get what you need."  In other words -- though a sparkly clean laundry room wasn't on my to do list, nor were lessons in washing machine repair, I got both.  Win-win.

4) And, finally, once the Rolling Stones are stuck in your head good luck kicking them out.

xo.

Love Yourself and Carry On

A confession:  Today I did dishes and laundry.  I vacuumed.  I had coffee with friends. I weeded and raked leaves.  I hung a window on the chicken coop and built the girls a new perch.  I went to my son's lacrosse game.  I took an hour and a half break when my ear was acting up.  I shuffled kids to and from school. I made $2.63 (money found in the wash).

Today was my day off.  My weekend.  My time to decompress. It's 10:00 pm and I'm settling in with a cup of tea.  I feel guilty as there are things left to do.  Before I go to bed I'll switch the laundry and dust the book shelf.  Then I'll lay in bed trying to decide whether or not I should pop up, just for a moment, to give the toilet a quick scrub.

Only here's the thing.  If you were to come to my house you'd look around, smile politely and think "does this woman *ever* clean?"  You'd likely wonder what I do all day.

You see my efforts are just enough to keep this place from completely falling apart. Nothing more. Nothing less. I am one woman.  One woman with three kids, a husband, two dogs, two cats, two cockatiels and seven chickens. The odds are *not* in my favor.

Tomorrow will be the same.  There will be new laundry.  New dishes.  New weeds to pull.  People will want to be fed and driven around.  There will be shoes in the living room, dirty underwear in the bathroom and dishes upstairs.  If I'm *really* lucky someone might even pee on the floor. Friday I'll return to work and all that was done will be undone.

I will work, come home and begin again. Should the kids be helping me?  Absolutely!  Is it like pulling teeth to make that happen?  Oh yes.  Yes indeed.  Does Mr. Peculiar help?  Sometimes.  Though he feels his time off should be just that -- time off.   And yet someone has to get stuff done.

My point? Judge not lest ye be judged.

I've been chatting with lots of moms.  Many of us are in the same boat -- working and trying, as best we can, to maintain a household.  We are not lazy.  Rather quite the opposite.  But we are all decidedly human and can not accomplish Herculean feats.  So let's be kind and understanding and forgiving; both of ourselves and others.

It's easy enough to clean a corner, take a picture and throw it up on a blog.  I'm as guilty as anyone for editing out the clutter. I just want you to know that behind most pretty pictures lies disarray.  Embrace it for what it is - a beautiful mess. Love it, love yourself and carry on.

xo.

Wondering and Worrying.

Today was the first day of school (for two of the three).  High school, for some reason, starts tomorrow.  At any rate this morning the girls were shepherded off to their respective schools.  I was left with a teen aged boy and my emotions. Believe you me the emotions ran the gamut; wistfulness and nostalgia coupled with anger and jealously.  I do believe the Boy will happily answer the school bell tomorrow; running as fast as he can from my perimenopausal self.

September, for me, is a season of renewal.  Time to take stock. Time to reassess, reevaluate and reorganize.  The ideal start to a school year would be one with tidy rooms, desks at the ready, laundry clean and put away.  The perfect place for the spark of knowledge to catch fire.  Alas my kids' rooms are fodder for a fire but not one of knowledge.

The perfect example?  My son. This morning I was informed, in no uncertain terms, he needed a new backpack.  NEEDED.  And I nearly complied -- answering his demand unfettered.  Fortunately my brain clicked in.  Hey? Didn't I just buy him a BRAND NEW backpack six-months ago?  Why yes.  Yes I did.

He did not remember said backpack.  He did not remember me buying it for him.  He did not remember using it. Low and behold, after an archeological expedition upstairs, the backpack was located and remembered.

And that was the proverbial straw.  I have been ignoring the kids' rooms for the entire summer.  I begged and pleaded to no avail.  I launched thinly veiled threats.  Finally, exasperated, I went with benign neglect.  Silly me.  I had the assumption that when said rooms got too bad the kids would give in and clean (at least a little).  Well that "too bad" threshold has not yet been met.  But Mama's has.

Plus there are things up there, up in the deep dark upstairs, that we need.  Backpacks and graphing calculators to name a few. And silverware and plates. And charging cords.  And my bras and sweaters and tee shirts (oh the joys of being the same size as Middle).

It's one thing to let the rooms be messy.  It's another thing to buy an entirely new dining set and/or wardrobe.  Thus the better part of my day was spent cleaning Middle's room.  It's still not done.  After that I will tackle the Boy's room and Little's nook.  The calculator is still MIA though I found three charging cords, quite a bit of silverware and most of my clothing.

There are bags and bags of items destined for the Goodwill and bags and bags of items in the garbage.

It makes me sad to see so many things, things purchased with hard earned money and/or lovingly handcrafted, dumped on the floor.  Stomped on.  Treated with so little respect. It makes me question my role as a parent.

Have I really done such a poor job raising these people?  The big bad "real world" is lurking out there and I've done nothing to prepare them for the battle.  For God's sake they don't even know how to pick a towel up off the floor let alone wash it and put it away.  What are they going to do when they have to earn an income and clean and house and feed?

My parents tell me not to worry.  They say I've got good kids even if they don't clean.  But it's not only about cleanliness and sanitation.  It's about life skills.  It's about respect and appreciation.

Appreciation for the sacrifice.  Appreciation for the hard work to a) buy all these things on the floor and b) clean up these things.  It's about being able to postpone gratification and toil at something that might not be ideal (i.e. cleaning a room or working at a job).

Ask these children to do the simplest of chores and they melt to the floor as if I've told them to strangle a puppy.

In short we are raising a bunch of slackers with little or no preparation for real life.  And yet they are fed and clothed and coddled.  And they have the gall to continuously ask for, no, demand things.  And are absolutely and completely flabbergasted when we don't comply.

Where did we go wrong?  Clearly this household would benefit from a full-time and strong-willed manager rather than the two exhausted ones at the helm.  In retrospect I wish I would have stayed home rather than work.  Perhaps then I'd be able to follow through.  To impose real and meaningful consequences for inappropriate actions (or inactions).

I am so jealous of those who are able to stay home.  And yet, ironically, they are also jealous of me.  Oh the joys of the feminist movement. That puts us at an impasse.  And so here I sit; wondering and worrying, questioning and second guessing.  That, folks, is a day in the life.

xo.

My dear sweet precious children

My dear sweet precious children.  Before you were born I had such dreams, such fantasies of what our life would be like.  Reading and snuggling, long walks while holding hands.  Hugs and kisses and joy and laughter.  If only I had known how limited my imagination was!  You, my lovelies, take me to such heights.

This morning for instance.  I came home after working all night with one thought on my mind.  Coffee.  But you, oh you precious souls, you knew I needed more.  Craved more.  Demanded more.

What I needed was an obstacle course. And you, sweet things,  gave it to me. The coffee pot tucked away -- so far out of reach behind dried rice, soy sauce, peanut butter, crusty tortillas and that unidentifiable sticky substance. How did you know that what I wanted most in the world was to come home to a filthy kitchen?  I do believe every dish had been pulled from the shelves.  The aftermath a congealed crusty sticky mess.  There's nothing like several loads of dishes to get the blood flowing after a long night's work!

And then the living room.  The pillows and blankets tossed carelessly on the floor.  Even more dishes (who knew we had so many) piled on the table.  Fur and feathers swirling about. My favorite sweater no longer in the drier but on the floor and stomped on to boot.

No.  I didn't really want to sit down and relax.  I had no interest in putting my feet up.  Perhaps reading or knitting. No, What I really wanted, secretly, deep down was to clean the living room.  I mean what  better follow-up to the kitchen?  Oh how you spoil me!   I feel all warm inside and something is bubbling up from within.  This *must* be love.

And when you wake, hours from now, after sleeping the whole night through.  When you wake and complain of fatigue and tiredness oh how I will sympathize.  After all I know what it feels like to be tired.

And when you list your daily demands, telling me the places I need to take you and the things I need to buy for you I'm sure I'll hup right to it.   After all we need more clothing to hide the floor and more makeup to disguise the bathroom counters.  And who is more deserving than you?

So thank you, dear sweet children, for all these gifts today.  My only hope is that your children are as generous as you.

xo.

Messy Rooms and Cell Phones; How Can One Possibly Be Related to the Other?

Today I cleaned my girls' room for the umpteenth time.  They simply cannot seem to do it themselves (now I know this not to be true they are perfectly capable children who refuse to conform to my insidious standards).  

But that is neither here nor there. Today I cleaned it.  I spent hours picking up trash that was not mine, folding clothes that did not belong to me and vacuuming dust bunnies I did not create.  I cleaned the girls' room; but not entirely.  I'm giving them an after school chore list.  A little treat to make their day. 

You see Middle wants a cell phone.  Like really bad.  Like everybody else has one and how can I be so cruel as to not provide her with one of life's most basic necessities.  

Only I don't see it that way.  A cell phone is not a right it's a privilege; a privilege to be earned.  And earn it she must.  We've told her time and time again -- you can get a cell phone.  All you have to do is clean your room and keep it clean for a month.  One month.  That's it.  

Has she done that?  Oh no.  She doesn't understand why we would ask such a thing of her.  Why do I care if her room is clean?  It's her room after all.  

Hmmm -- let's see.  So she can find the clothes she owns but claims she doesn't have.  So she can find her homework when it's due.  So she can live a life void of salmonella and E. Coli and other duplicitous organisms.  So she can exit the building in case of a fire or other emergency.  The list goes on and on. 

But the basic gist of the matter is a clean room is proof that she cares; that she respects herself and her material possessions.  After all why in the world would I a) purchase a cell phone and b) sign up for a long term commitment for an object that is going to be tossed on the floor and stomped on?  Or washed on accident?  Or left behind in school cafeteria?  Why indeed.  

A cell phone is a privilege.  One for those mature enough to handle the responsibility.  And if said maturity never appears?  Oh well.  I grew up without a cell phone (and still don't have one today).  I turned out okay.  

Do you think me horrifically mean?  

xo.   

Dear Women in my Book Club

Dear Women in my Book Club,

I am very excited to have you over tomorrow night. I want to let you know that my house will be cleanish. Emphasis on the "ish". I will do my best to ensure there is toilet paper on the holder in the bathroom. I also hope to have soap *and* a guest towel present. It is highly likely these items will be confiscated and/or dumped on the floor by the little people who live here. If this occurs I apologize. I have threatened bodily harm. Clearly my bark has no bite.

My carpets have been vacuumed. I can tell the difference. You? Not so much. The upside is that if you spill an entire glass of red wine on the floor --no problem. The dog will lick it up. And the stain? It'll go nicely with the others.

Feel free to wear fancy shoes with spiky heels. You are more than welcome to walk across my wood floor in said shoes and add to the surface's "rustic appeal". You may elect not to wear shoes. This is also fine. However I can not be held responsible for the yellow fur that will gravitate towards you like a magnet seeking it's mate. Along those same lines -- black is not the best color choice for your evening ensemble. Beige is always good. I can send you a fur sample in advance if you'd like to coordinate.

If you are offended by dogs, cats, cockatiels, poultry or fish you may not want to attend. I will do my best to keep the pets at bay. They are only dangerous in their excessive exuberance. Actually I lied. Do not stick your fingers in the cichlid tank. That would not be wise.

If you have allergies you may want to take a benadryl (or two) before arrival. I hear it mixes nicely with alcohol. I'm happy to drive you home but you must be willing to ignore the condition of my car. Smashed up goldfish crackers are the height of vehicular fashion. No. Really.

Before your arrival I will light a few candles. I'll also have a cobbler in the oven and coffee brewing. This, hopefully, will mask any untoward smells that might, perhaps, linger in this house.

There is a strong chance you will find fingerprints on the walls and paint on the floor. You might notice our coat closet door has been *ahem* bashed in. Twice. Once by a fist and once by a skateboard. Someday we might fix this. Then again we might not.

I do not recall the last time my windows have been washed. It may have been years. Fortunately it will be dark outside eliminating the necessity to look outward. Plus one can always open the door if need be.

Just for you I am clearing the kitchen table. We will have a place to sit and to chat. I must also tell you that once upon a time we had a full set of wine glasses. This is no longer the case. I now own a motley crew of glassware and you may find yourself drinking from a jelly jar. Trust me -- the beverage tastes the same.

As you will see we are not fancy folk. Rather we strive to live in an environment that is welcoming and comfortable. We want you to put your feet up. To lounge and to sprawl. To giggle and to make a little mess. We want you to feel at home.

See you tomorrow!

XOXO,

Shalet

If...Then

For a long time now I’ve held the theory that if I keep my house clean then all other aspects of my life will fall into place. If my house is clean then I’ll have time for creativity; time to write, time to finish that story I’ve been working on, time for photography, time for knitting. If my house is clean then I’ll have time to learn the piano or Spanish or both. If my house is clean then I’ll have time to exercise. If my house is clean then I’ll be happy, fulfilled and rich beyond my wildest dreams (or something along those lines). But, I’ve never had the opportunity to prove this theory. My house is never clean. At least not all at once. When the kitchen is clean the bedroom is dirty. If I tackle the living room then kid’s rooms get out of control. And, really, what do I expect? I live with three kids, three dogs, two cats, two tanks of fish and a husband. My house will never be clean.

And there’s another component to cleaning. The more you clean the more cleaning there is to do. It’s something akin to Laura Numeroff’s If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. If you do the dishes you’ll notice the window sill is dirty. You’ll get some Pledge to clean the sill. While cleaning the sill you’ll decide to clean all the window sill’s in your house. You’ll start in the living room. Walking to the living room you’ll bump into a basket of laundry. You’ll remember you are out of towels and need to wash some. You go to the bedroom for dirty towels. In the bedroom you notice the carpet is filthy. You decide to vacuum. While vacuuming you notice the floorboards are dusty. You go to the laundry room for Pledge. While in the laundry room you remember you need to wash a load of towels ... etc, etc.

So, what to do? Why not marry chores and artistic desire? Housework and creativity are, after all, are not mutually exclusive. I’ve pledged (ha, ha, get it? pledge?) to write daily. And I like to have my own photographs accompanying my blog. But, in order to take these photographs, I need a space to shoot. Therefore I must clean. Today’s photograph is the perfect example (inspiration by the way from the lovely Maya at Springtree Road). It was shot on the butcher block in the kitchen which was, until recently, covered in junk; mail, recycling and dirty dishes. I cleaned off the butcher block and took my photos. While downloading them onto the computer I decided I might as well get a load of dishes done. I put on some music and tackled the the rest of the kitchen; all the while thinking about what to write today. And now, my kitchen is clean, photos taken and blog complete.

But wait. I’m not finished. There’s a photo I want to take for Shutter Sisters - an image inspired by a favorite song. I chose Tank Park Salute by Billy Bragg. I need to put a light on at the top of the stairs and photograph it. Only, first, I need to clean the stairs...