Of Cleaning for Others

Here is my sad confession of the day:  My motto for cleaning my home today (which is showing the aftermath of a Mommy who was sick for a weekend on the tail of a couple of snow days) was, "Clean as if someone were coming."

I have come to realize that I often tell myself and others that I just haven't had the time to clean.  Truth be told, however, that if I am told in the morning we will have guests that evening, I can have a clean house by the deadline - lights dimmed, candles lit even (sometimes to hide a little dirt, but that's just between us).  If we were having weekend guests, the house might even shine and, while it would take some sweat, it would be entirely feasible.

So, why is it not feasible when it's just us?  Just the Rowland clan lounging around?   Part of this is because a full-scale, whirlwind whisking of clutter requires a lack of attention to the small things - and by small things, I mean the ones that say "Mommy" and tend to prefer an interactive care-taker, no matter how much they love Dora the Explorer. 

The other part is . . . I'm good at excuses.  The ones that sound like, "You deserve a break," or "Philip will help you when he gets home."  I throw those out the window when I'm up against the ropes, but on a calm day, the sirens of sloth and self-indulgence sing to me.  And their melody is lovely.

So today, after the munchkins were snuggled in for their naps, I drowned out the voices with the tunes of The House FM and got to work on the kitchen.  I saw portions of my counter top which have been hidden since December (as evidenced by the Christmas-themed sugar cookies which finally found the trash can).   I actually feel like I can do something useful in my kitchen and I have the space to do it (ok, I felt that way . . . and then I made dinner . . . so hopefully by the time I get to bed, I'll be able to feel that way again).

Thus, my goal is that by this weekend, our home will be ready for our imaginary house-guests - who will definitely appreciate shining counter tops, organized bedrooms and fluffy towels.  They are so welcome.

Of Valentines (of course)

Growing up, Valentine's Day was always a favorite day for me.  While other girls groaned and spoke of boycotts, wearing black or quickly finding a poor sap who would adore her for a day, I looked forward to that one morning a year when I would hurry downstairs for breakfast to see what my Valentine, my first Valentine, my Daddy, had left for me (and my siblings, of course). 

Baskets for Easter, stockings for Christmas, - these were my Mom's domain (oh, I'm sorry, I mean these were taken care of by some furball and a fat guy) - and she did a great job, but there was just something about that Valentine's Day gift from Daddy - whether it be the pure white teddy bear with red bows by her ears, or the tiny African Violet growing in a miniature flower pot, suspended over a clear prism filled with water - that just lit my heart.  Perhaps it was that on a day all about love, I was being spoken to in my love language.  Maybe it was that this seemed the one day of the year when we were given something that was selected solely by our father - a card just from him and a small trinket that said, "I'm thinking of you on this day dedicated to that most pure of emotions."

Whatever it was, it made me love Valentine's Day.  Single for all the 21 years before I met my husband, I would still wander the halls of school, my hair curled (back before it began doing it on its own, this actually required work), donning a skirt and red sweater, my favorite shoes, heart blissfully singing.  I was loved. 

And beyond my own feelings of belonging, I was learning that Valentine's Day wasn't reserved for that one special someone who I had yet to meet - it was a day for everyone - everyone who is loved by anyone - a daughter, friend, sister, aunt, cousin or grandparent. 

Thus, while I thoroughly enjoyed spending this evening curled up by the fireplace (which was turned off - yes we have a fake fire controlled by a switch - due to the extremity of the heat) with my media naranja, dipping raw meat and bell peppers into a fondue pot filled with heated oil, I also enjoyed making my daughter a lunch of heart-shaped peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and sliced strawberries (which, of course, also resembled hearts) and dressing myself and my children in our V-Day best to deliver chocolate to a much-loved sister-in-law.

And since I couldn't visit each of you personally, go grab the nearest piece of sugary goodness, indulge and know I'm wishing you a Happy Valentine's Day.  You are loved.

(And of course, who wouldn't have a great day with this little cupid fluttering [and by fluttering I mean wiggling] about our home?)

Of Camping Out in the Living Room

When I was little, playing a game in the "tent" in the middle of a winter afternoon would typically entail a deck of cards under a blanket spread nicely over our card table (and, if we were getting ultra fancy, we'd throw in another couple of sheets and some folding chairs and even make sure the 13-inch T.V. and nearby V.C.R. were incorporated into the tent interior - no, we weren't exactly Little House on the Prairie, but it was the basement-edition of rustic to us).  Those were the days.  The days of, "Remember when?"

When my daughter says she wants to play a game in the tent, she literally means her tent.  The one purchased for her by Gram & Grandy, the one that requires construction by Daddy because tent poles are slightly outside of her realm of capability at this point (but so are blankets and folding chairs for that matter - at least if she's going to make anything useful out of them) - the tent that comes with the pop-up climbing tunnel and fold-back flaps.  And the game?  Rather than a round of war (hoping for the Walter Ace, of course), she'll just take the iPad, tuned to Mommy's taste of music while she plays electronic Memory.  Yes, my friends, times have changed.

Of Life with Daddy

Their clothes are either too small or mis-matched (or both).

Emmett has been seen around the house wearing either shorts or nothing on his legs at all (in winter).

They're not eating what Mommy would have fixed for them at the times at which I would have done so.

They are watching inordinate amounts of television.

But what this Momma, now bed-ridden (from Strep, as it turns out) for two days, sees is this:

Micaiah is being encouraged to put her toys away when she's done with them (something I, admittedly, forget to ask of her).

They are well-fed (with fruits and veggies, even).

Daddy is playing "Memory" with Micaiah, perhaps more than he would like, but it never shows. All she sees is his shared excitement when she, indeed, finds the other rabbit.

Little boy is almost getting spoiled with smount of time he gets to spend in his Daddy's arms.

My husband knows how to take care of his family (even if it doesn't always look the same as when Mommy does it).

Of Bedtime Buddies

Please excuse my absence yesterday. Suffering a strong case of tonsilitis, I headed to bed before the kids, even, and did not emerge from the bedroom until lunch-time today (and by "lunch-time" I mean the time at which Philip and Micaiah ate, as I wasn't quite ready). Meanwhile, Philip did an amazing job of playing stay-at-home mom. I even had the joy of hearing, "How do you do this every day?"

In other news, Micaiah has added a new toy to the bedtime routine: Philip's old Beanie Baby in the form of . . . A cat? No. An adorable teddy bear? No.

A dragon.

That's my non-girly girl. Makes a momma proud.

Thus, before lights out, the current commands are: "Say, 'I love you, Buzz; I love you, Dragon.'" And, thus, we do. Because that's the kind of parents we are.

Of Stepping Stones

Emmett is moving his mobilization routine out of the crib and has begun hinting at a desire to be more active as he plays on the floor.  Today I even saw him inch his little knee along (though I would hardly call it an actual crawl, it was the closest yet).  I get both excited and nervous at the thought of my little mover and shaker literally moving and shaking.  On the one hand, crawling is a big milestone and those are always exciting.  On the other hand, I'm not precisely looking forward to actually having to keep up pace with two little ones scurrying about.  I still like being able to set my baby down and knowing where to find him later.  I suppose either way it's not up to me.  And this little boy will be moving along before we realize what hit us.


Today's Bonus Feature:  Our daughter has quite the funny bone.  This is the joke she made up all by herself yesterday:

"Knock, knock."
"Who's there?"
"It's me, Micaiah!"

I like her a lot.

Of Questioning

I have just finished Chapter One of the book I have been staring at for the past three weeks, too scared to open.  Do you know the feeling?  You know something will be nourishing to your soul, but you're almost terrified of how it will change you.  Or, knowing the depth, you wait for just the right moment, because somehow it doesn't feel right diving into the deep-end of living an emptier, fuller life in God while your daughter cries about spilled milk and Elmo is on the T.V.  And, as this is where you live right now, it almost feels like no moment is the "right moment."  Maybe it's just me.

Only one chapter in - an introductory chapter really - and already seeds of growth have been planted.  The most noticeable seed begins with one idea - one that is not even an over-riding theme for the book, let alone the chapter, but clings to the soil of my mind nevertheless.  

The thought is this: it is sheer arrogance which leads us to believe that had God only chosen to write the story our way - the way that omits suffering, senseless death and pain - life - my life, the lives of those to follow after me - would have turned out better.  We tend to believe, in our questions of, "Why, God?" that our version would have had a happy ending.  

And what on earth, or below, causes us to think that we - who did nothing to create one hair on our heads or cell in our bodies, who cannot, for the life of us, quit doing that one thing that we always vow we won't do again, who spend our days judging, gossiping, criticizing and wallowing in bitterness or resentment, only to hide it all from the world behind a smiling facade - could possibly understand what "good" is or what a "happily ever after" truly looks like.  

And there is God in Heaven, the Creator of our beings, of all that is beautiful on this Earth, all-knowing, all-powerful, all-good, filled with Truth, orchestrating the most lovely of all symphonies and we have the audacity to question Him?

All of the above chastisement sounds strong and convicting, but when I consider the context - a context of pain I have never known, a pain which cripples me with fear when I contemplate its coming day - when the unthinkable happens and our very souls are torn to shreds, what other response is there, if not a questioning at the rightness of it all?

The answer this book offers is gratefulness.  A recognition of the overwhelming gifts with which God has blessed us which always seem to fade in the darkness of our pain, yet, when brought to focus, shed light on all around us.

My prayer is that I may make this thanksgiving such a part of me that I will not even consider another option, when the faith-shaking day arrives, but to fall on my knees in gratitude for what He has given, rather than what has been taken away.

Till this soil, Lord.  Grow this seed.  May this field of my heart produce a fruit that is pleasing to You.