The Woman Worrier

 My son gave me his worry doll the other night and said he thought I might like to have it so I could tell my worries to it.  He made it in class.  Is it that obvious or was it the bag of frozen peas I stuffed in the Tupperware cabinet, only to discover them a day or two later because of leaky green juice that had dribbled onto the floor?  I will admit that I’m a worrier.  Always have been.  My Mom is the self proclaimed worry wart of the family, so I certainly had a terrific role model.  She mentioned to me at Thanksgiving, however, that one of my brothers is an incredible worrier…you’d never guess which one—the richest one.  I, on the other hand, am by no means rich, which is, of course, one of the reasons for my worrying.   I suppose money is all relative, but I can’t help but imagine that if I won the lottery, I wouldn’t change much in my life except for the fact that I might worry a whole lot less about the things that I could control with money.  Notice how I said “control.”  That, I believe, is the root of my worrying: my inability to control things.  So maybe I’m not so much of a worry wart as I am a control freak.  But if I were really a control freak, wouldn’t I be micromanaging my worries?  But maybe I am, and my son is right. I need to speak my worries to the doll and just let ‘em go…

What’s on Your Mind?

I thought I’d just try to record as many questions as I could from my kids today, which makes me realize what’s on their minds, what’s important to them, what issues we are currently dealing with, and why we’re all tired at the end of the day! 

Can I go into the playroom?

Can I have some cold cereal?

Can you make me an egg?

Do I have school today?

Are there any sweatpants for me in the laundry basket?

Where’s my belt?

What would happen if I didn’t put on my shoes?

What would happen if I didn’t brush my teeth?

Did you pack me a snack?

Can you help me with this puzzle?

What planet is this?

What would happen if you tried to land on Jupiter?  Would you just fall through its ball of gas?

Wouldn’t it be funny if we packed the grouchy lady up on a rocket and sent her to the moon?

Are there really such things as genies?

Can we listen to some music?

Did the mail come?

What’s an orphanage?
Why don’t some people have a mommy or a daddy?

Is Daddy’s car tire flat?

Can we buy some car yogurt with the cars on it?

Can we get some bananas?

Can we get a special treat?

What would happen if all the grocery stores ran out of food?

Where can I go pee?

Is there a bone inside my penis?

What would happen if you ate an apple seed?
Can you read me that story again?

Is this all we’re having?

Can I have something else to eat?

Can I be excused, please?

Why can’t we ride our big wheels?

Why can’t I cut my pants with these scissors?

Why can’t we play with Will?

How do you make a five?

Can you see the “V” I wrote on the window?

What’s our phone number?

Do I have music today?

Can you help me with this problem?
Why don’t we all have chores assigned to us?

Where are my books?

Can you empty the tub?
Can you help me brush my teeth?
Can you light a fire?

Can you read that poem again, about the burnt toast?

Can’t we read one more story?

Why can’t I sleep in your bed?

Can you sing me a lullaby?

Just for Today...

Maybe it’s the off-on again rain that’s fizzled throughout the day,

Or maybe it’s the stink of dank sneakers under the bench by the door,

Or maybe it’s the bowl of tomatoes, floating in a rusty stew on the porch,

Or maybe it’s the sour smell from the compost on the counter,

Or maybe it’s the fruit flies hovering in clouds here and there,

Or maybe it’s the rotting, yellowed fence, half fallen in the side yard,

Or maybe it’s the banking with crumbling and tumbling ties,

Or maybe it’s the unchopped rock maple clustered in the side yard,

Or maybe it’s the hemlocks out front that need hacking and trimming,

Or maybe it’s the perennials that need freeing from the rowdy weeds,

Or maybe it’s the patches of flashing that mark the place to be re-shingled,

Or maybe it’s the pantry light that worked for two days, two years ago,

Or maybe it’s the jaded-green floor, scraped and dulled from the sandbox,

Or maybe it’s the toilet that always sticks after flushing,

Or maybe it’s the reek of urine, soaked into the floorboards, heater, and porcelain rim,

Or maybe it’s the glitzy Italian wall sconces and hardware in the bathroom,

Or maybe it’s the cracked glass in my son’s bedroom window,

Or maybe it’s the mildew creeping along the kitchen window sill,

Or maybe it’s the basement window shield, torn and frayed,

Or maybe it’s the worn oriental rugs with mangy patches of mold,

Or maybe it’s the leak in the playroom wall where the wastepipe exits the foundation,

Or maybe it’s the screen door that screeches to be planed down,

Or maybe it’s the laundry machines with hinges mounted on the wrong sides,

Or maybe it’s the boxes of books that no one can get to in storage,

Or maybe it’s the antique tables and chairs jammed along the basement walls,

Or maybe it’s the pull down attic that could have been a second floor,

Or maybe it’s the wine color stain of our bedroom walls,

Or maybe it’s the pile of mending crammed onto the shelves,

Or maybe it’s the mattress, too saggy and small,

Or maybe it’s the car that needs new brakes,

Or maybe it’s the thin paycheck we’re struggling to stretch these days,

But it’s hard to ignore and focus on my kids. 

Bins and purge

 It's that time of year again when I decide to drag down another bin from the attic and purge through my children's wardrobes.  Clothes migrate from dresser to bin, bin to dresser, household to household. Somehow I don't mind doing this as much for my older son, now six, since I know his clothes will be stored away and reopened like a time capsule in a couple of years or so.  I don't really have to let go of them just yet.  But for my youngest, they are harder to part with, like letting go of a piece of him, knowing he'll never go back to that age.  I tuck his green dumptruck shirt in the hand-me-down bag for the neighbors and notice the tiny holes in it from the day we rode off on our bikes to go blackberry picking and kept getting tangled up in the thorns, forgetting to move our bikes out of the road because we were so excited at discovering another hidden cluster and wanted to be the first to get there.  "Well, maybe we can hang onto this shirt just a little bit longer," I tell myself, sliding it back in his drawer.

I-Phone

We finally took the plunge and got an I-Phone, more of a We-Phone, since we canceled our land line, at least that's the plan when we get home with new phone in hand.  It will actually save us money, in the long run.  We need to spend money to save money, I consoled myself.  I rarely venture to the mall, only as a last resort, but that's where we had to go, to the Apple store.   Walking in was dizzying, giddying, and twittering--so many  choices, glowing, beeping, flashing, and bouncing for attention.  I headed for the wall displays of laptops to try to steady myself from the heady excitement and flutter.  "Was it really going to happen this night?  Would I really walk away with my own, new, I-phone in hand, ready to use?  Did I belong here?" My frumpled expression quizzed me in the mirror.  My jeans were faded and worn, my sweater was baggy and pilled, my handwoven Peruvian purse drooped and twirled, it's strap was still too long, despite the knot I had tied in it. I grasped my old cell phone in my front jean's pocket.  It was free when we got it and still works just fine. This is crazy!   We can barely pay our bills, but we had decided that this was an essential.  I am now ready to sell my cameras, computers, and all the other stuff we seem to have that clutters up our house since we downsized two years ago, so I could stay at home with the kids, who were getting squirmier by the minute, that night.  I let my husband do the talking while I went out with the kids to the shopping cart/strollers like race cars, to see if we could rent one.  Five dollars!  I balked.  We were buying an I-Phone, after all.  Later we got a fist full of Chicklets for a quarter instead from the gumball machines by the bathrooms.  Good ol' gumball machines.  No need to upgrade these things.  Back to the Apple store where the saleslady was putting our We-phone into the crisp-cornered box.  Then one more stop to the ATT store to transfer our old phone number and contacts to new phone. Meanwhile, the kids spied another place to shove in quarters.  I relented.  Guilt-ridden, I watched as they "rode" the stationary mall rides and took a spin in a race car, bumped along in a bus, and launched to outerspace in a rocket.  My parents never would have paid for such extravagant  entertainment, but it was getting late, way past bedtime, and we were still waiting outside the ATT store now to transfer my contacts and finalize my new phone.  It was a night of splurge.  I didn't need to ride the rocket to feel spacey or dizzy.  The whole mall scene makes me squirmy, awkward, and dizzy.  I just want to get in and out as fast as I can, as if I don't want to be spied there.  I don't enjoy being a part of it---the great American past time of consumerism.   But we did our part to contribute to the American way, complete with a trip to Wendy's for dinner on the road.  Somehow consumerism didn't seem so bad when it included french fries and a chocolate shake on the side, and  a glossy new I-phone with a purple protective case to personalize our connection to the world.