Tag Archives: disorder

January 31, 2011 · 7:23 pm

Great Expectations

In the dark of predawn I lay in bed, tucked snugly beneath my downy comforter, sleet pinging against the windowpanes in soft yet fitful waves. Against all odds associated with parenthood, no one under the age of eight burst into the room to announce that the sky was falling. Translation: my husband and I had had the presence of mind to skip setting the kids’ alarm the night before, in anticipation of inclement weather almost certain to arrive by daybreak. So for a time, all was silent in this good house—except for the ticking of clocks and the tiny taps at the window.

As the not-so-surprising news of yet another school cancellation reached my ears in the wee hours that day, I was filled impossibly with hope. Hope that I would enjoy a morning devoid of the madness I had known all too well since September. Hope for a day abundant with hot cocoa, kindness and good cheer. Hope that I might finally summon the strength and ambition to take down the blasted Christmas tree. The one that has been standing very nearly straight in my living room for the past 63 days, mocking me as I addressed my cache of shamefully belated holiday cards.

The tree had to come down. It would come down. It was January 28^th for Pete’s sake. Besides, I was tired of its condescending glare, as if it were looking down its boughs at me, judging my every deficiency. Shaming my inadequate core.

Moreover, with my army of helpers that would likely be at my disposal ALL DAY (since no one wanted to frolic in the freezing rain), I banked on being able to pack up and stow away each and every jingle bell, snowman, Santa likeness and string of garland-y foolishness in the entire house. To reclaim my space. At least until Easter.

Needless to say, lots of people here agreed that it was high time. “Mom, you know we’re going to get arrested, don’t you?”

“Arrested? For what?!”

“Because January’s almost over and we don’t even have our Christmas tree down yet! We’ll all be thrown in jail!”

“Whaaaaat?! Who’s going to throw us in jail?”

“The Holiday Police.”

“The Holiday Who?!”

“The Holiday Police. They arrest people who don’t do stuff right—like taking Christmas trees down BEFORE Groundhog Day. Helloooooooooo.”

She had a point.

All I had to do was glance at the calendar and then at the muddled mess surrounding me. Remnants of the holiday season were everywhere. The Christmas lights were (and still are!) completely shrouded with ice and fused impossibly to the trees and shrubs outside. The stockings were still hung—and shockingly, still laden with beloved items that had been tragically forgotten since Santa’s celebrated arrival. Gifts of every size, shape and hideous stage of disarray lay like carnage throughout the house and under the aforementioned evergreen, gloriously bedecked with enough ornament-age for a forest. Legions upon legions of festive-looking dishes, alarmingly bare except for the smarmy trail of cashews and the red and green fleckage of holiday M&Ms, still rested upon my tabletops, whispering without end, “Cleeeean meeeee.” Santa’s cookie plate begged to be returned to the cupboard, the crèche longed to be back in the attic and quite frankly, the mistletoe was tired of hanging around.

What’s more, I noted that the kids had been swiping stuff from the tree for weeks—like the reindeer, now chummy with Barbie’s horses and sharing a corral, and the snowmen, warmly adopted by a family of Lego people. I even discovered a few sparkly ornaments dangling precariously from the rooftops of doll houses. Icicles maybe?

That said, it was way past time to begin the arduous process of un-decorating. Clearly, the snow day that had been bestowed upon us was a window of opportunity and perhaps the spark that would ignite my drive and determination to succeed in spite of myself. At least that was the plan.

But it was not to be. My great expectations for the day were shot by 10 am and my hopes for a tidier living room were all but dashed. For all intents and purposes, the thorny pine had become rooted there, a glaring reminder of my ineptitude as a putter-away-of-holiday-wares. Instead we frittered away the time, putting six puzzles together, littering the house with Barbie dolls and dresses, devouring books, stuffing ourselves with chocolate-chip pancakes and lounging in our pajamas till it was almost evening—at which time I sent my brood outdoors to play in the snow that had FINALLY begun to fall in big, feathery flakes. A consolation prize for my efforts.

Then again, maybe my reward was the delicious chunk of time I spent fishing for puzzle pieces with my kids, eavesdropping on their Barbie powwows, listening to the ice hit the windows—safe and sound in this good house.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (and where the Holiday Police are destined to arrive).

6 Comments

Filed under We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as children, disorder, family, humor, kids, love, parenting, snow days

January 18, 2011 · 11:59 am

Hang ’em High

Anyone who has frequented my home knows a thing or two about me. Firstly, I expect guests to stand in front of my refrigerator and ogle the multitude of photos that grace its shiny surface—because, of course, that is the very best way to become acquainted with the odd ducks who live here. That’s code for: I will be offended if said mammoth-sized shrine-to-the-family-snapshot is dismissed as a clever ruse for disguising a hideous-looking refrigerator. Never mind that that is completely true.

Secondly, the shameful coating of dust with which my furniture is often festooned doesn’t particularly bother me; although the abomination of clutter contained within my household makes me want to launch things into the yard while shrieking wholly cathartic strings of vileness regarding the aforementioned items. Not surprisingly, I’ve done just that on occasion—to the horror of many.

Thirdly, it is plain to see that I have a debilitating obsession with projects—the remnants of which lay like carnage throughout my humble abode. Heaps of I’m-planning-to-do-this and stacks of I-aspire-to-do-that patiently await me, punctuated, of course, by a deluge of I’m-in-the-middle-of-these-eleventy-seven-things that promise to exasperate me in some form or fashion before I am through. Never mind the swell of boxes that routinely topples to the floor in my dining room, mocking my inability to fulfill a promise I made to my progenies centuries ago—one that would involve actually opening the stupid boxes and conducting the certain-to-be-dazzling science experiments contained within. To be a good parent if only for the time it takes to mix and stir tiny pools of repulsiveness in a plastic cup or the ever-practical, authentic-looking petri dish provided for my convenience.

As one might expect, I re-stack the boxes when they fall and carefully place the nuggets of newly acquired science project-y whateverness atop the growing mound, vowing to follow through one day soon. If nothing else, I am well-intended.

Only recently have I come to the realization that my dear projects (even the ones within which I am completely immersed) are decidedly part of the problem (i.e. projects = clutter = the bane of my existence). Indeed, it seems I am surrounded by that which seeks to suck the joy from my world, one clump of hobby-related nonsense at a time.

Fortunately for me, however, my desire to act upon several of my New Year’s resolutions has resulted in a nesting-like flurry of activity. Translation: In the past 19 days I have finished more projects, organized more hopelessly disordered spaces and disposed of more schlock than I previously considered humanly possible. That said, one bay of my garage currently houses a dilapidated monstrosity-of-a-couch, a three-ton cabinet, a nonfunctional television set, boxes upon boxes of obsolescence I don’t even remember purchasing and a wheelbarrow teeming with artwork that my charges (gasp!) no longer deem worthy of praise. It’s like a colossal staging area for an operation to rid my world of dead weight. Naturally, I will see to it that the more purposeful items find suitable homes—which will undoubtedly gladden my heart, not only because providing for others gives me a healthy dose of the warm fuzzies, but because it is likely I will then be able to wedge at least one vehicle in our garage. Life is good.

Moreover, since the gods are clearly smiling upon me of late, I somehow convinced my better half to join me in my maddening quest for order. More specifically, I commissioned him to move large and unwieldy objects, to lug heavy boxes hither and yon and to offer suggestions as to what to do with the vast array of mystery items I harvested from forgotten corners and whatnot. Of course, his duties also included hanging massive quantities of pictures—as the man possesses an uncanny knack for doing so coupled with the fact that I possess a comparative dearth of picture-hanging abilities.

At any rate, he willingly and expertly contributed to the aforementioned picture-hanging event/circus, impressing me even further with his strange and wonderful capacity for manipulating fractions in his head and wielding the big and scary tape measure thingie like only a real fix-it guy could. What’s more, he feigned patience and understanding whenever I demanded that a certain wall hanging be repositioned an inch to the left or a smidgen to the right. Or when I argued vehemently that this piece or that piece would truly sing if only it could be nudged a bit higher, a tad lower, or perhaps “…moved over there by the lamp, instead.”

Spackling compound became his fast friend.

Indeed, I am making considerable progress on my New Year’s resolutions—thanks to my able-bodied assistant and his beloved can of Spackle.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (issuing orders to hang ‘em high…or low, maybe).

5 Comments

Filed under Captain Quirk, Refrigerator Art

Tagged as disorder, family, hoarding, home, humor, parenting, projects

January 2, 2011 · 5:00 am

January: A Fine Time for Resolving to Do Something about Those…Um, Flaws

Jettison. If I accomplish but one thing in the coming year, I pray to God that it involves discarding that which I no longer need, want or will ever use. Otherwise my humble abode will be featured on A&E’s Hoarders in the very near future. I’ll be the crazy lady in the corner, babbling incoherently while clutching a dilapidated pot holder or some such foolishness. My husband will be the nut case hermetically sealed to a bucket full of antiquated tools—mumbling something about the very real possibility of fixing our antiquated schlock. And thanks to the wonder of DNA, our children will be the ones refusing to part with their dear playthings: good ol’ Headless Barbie and her charming beau, One-legged Ken. Furthermore, our closets, basement, refrigerator and beloved garage (i.e. the Home for Wayward Toys) could use major purging as well.

Attend. When it comes to parenthood, I would do well in 2011 to talk less and to listen more. What better way to acquire vitally important information from my increasingly private-ish progenies? For instance: Evidently fourth-graders “…don’t need help with their tangles anymore, Mom,” and apparently the aforementioned smallish beings are also perfectly capable of choosing their own library books, lunch menu items, friends and (gasp!) love interests. However, it’s rumored they still benefit from occasional (read: very nearly constant) reminders to flush toilets and whatnot.

Nurture. In my mind, success as a parent is defined in a great multitude of ways, but among those I value most are these: to cultivate within my children an enduring love of books, a willingness to stretch not only their muscles but their minds, a desire to explore the unfamiliar, to embrace change and to reach out to those who are less fortunate in this world. If 2011 includes steps that take me the least bit closer to achieving those goals, I will consider the year a glowing success. Moreover, if, during that same time frame, I happen to stir within my heathens a compelling sense of duty as it relates to the aforementioned flushing-of-the-loo, all the better.

Unearth. It’s a brand new year and an ideal time to rummage around this chaotic place in the name of recovering that which was tragically lost in the field—like my sanity, fortitude and inspiring tolerance of kid-related tomfoolery. With any luck, I could also awaken from the depths of dormancy my ability to bring order to my world (i.e. just once I’d like to find my stupid cell phone without having to wander aimlessly or—Heaven forbid—dial my stupid self).

Actually finish something. Here’s hoping 2011 will inspire me to “…open up a can of getting-it-done,” like that do-it-yourself ad so cleverly suggests to people like me who probably rifle through their pantries in search of said can. I’d also like to finish a stinking movie, a book, a household project that may or may not claim my sanity, a slew of yet-to-be-signed-and-mailed holiday cards—before the actual holiday, an email with a string of coherent sentences and/or a slightly brilliant 140-character tweet.

Read. That’s right. I’d like to think that the coming year will hold for me more time to read…between the lines, people’s minds, my dog’s pitifully vague I-have-to-pee signals and books, of course. Justin Halpern, David Sedaris and Sloane Crosley mostly—because I simply can’t get enough of their irreverent brand of humor. In fact, if I happen to meet an untimely demise in the next 365 days, for the love of God, please see to it that SOMEONE tosses the collective works of the abovementioned in with me before anyone lights any damned oven.

Yearn. As is the case with embarking upon any new year, I yearn to be healthier and happier in 2011, more spontaneous and unfettered. To get more sleep and to eat more vegetables. To spend less time with my gadgets and more time with my family. To be a better cook and citizen. A better friend and confidant. A better soul mate and lover. A better daughter and eradicator-of-dust-and-disorder in this circus called home. A better scheduler-of-events, listener-of-troubles and giver-of-love-and-guidance. A better mom in so many ways.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (resolving to make January the start of something good).

1 Comment

Filed under Home for Wayward Toys, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as children, disorder, family, humor, kids, New Year's Resolutions, parenting, postaweek2011

December 14, 2010 · 6:45 pm

In the Eye of the Beholder

Contrary to what I’ve alluded to in the past, my kids are not monsters. And although I might have actually used that term on occasion to describe them, they’re not the unruly beasts I’ve made them out to be. They don’t howl at the moon, froth at the mouth or frantically paw the refrigerator when I forget to feed them.

Nor do they growl, unless provoked.

But apparently I know not of which I speak. Evidently some high and mighty prude who has seen my act begs to differ regarding the matter of my having or not having fiendish little children. Further, she’d likely argue the point if given the opportunity. Vehemently, I might add. All I’d have to do is invite Her Haughtiness to return to that happy place where she witnessed (i.e. heard, but could only imagine the scene that unfolded behind the flimsy partition that separated us) the mayhem with which I had to deal just four days before Christmas, crammed and jammed impossibly inside a restroom stall which was clearly ill-equipped to accommodate a mom and two cranky six-year-olds itching for Happy Meals.

I have no doubt the woman in question would be more than willing to sprinkle me with her wealth of sagacity, to dazzle me with her bells and whistles regarding behavior management and child rearing, to enlighten me with a report of everything I’ve done wrong as a parent thus far in my thankless journey—to spell it out for me on the terracotta tiles with French fries: YOUR PARENTING SKILLS SUCK AND YOU’D BE BETTER OFF RAISING CHICKENS, YOU DUMB CLUCK!

She might have a legitimate point. But probably not enough fries to say so.

Everyone knows that McDonald’s isn’t the ideal place to change clothes. Nor is it wise to instruct ungainly children to do so there—demanding from them a degree of perfection that is at best, unachievable. But there I was—parading my little waifs through the joint like some transient-sorry-excuse-for-a-mother, en route to the bathroom to supervise (oh-so-incompetently) the changing-out-of-pajamas-and-into-real-clothes gig. Make that abundantly muddied PJs. “I fell down on the playground today, but I didn’t get hurt, Mom—the mud was FUN!”

“Lovely. Just lovely,” I thought. “We now appear even MORE pathetic than I previously considered conceivable.”

Granted, it had been Pajama Day at school and it made perfect sense for my kids to be dressed as such (as well as still jacked from all the sugar they had consumed during the pre-holiday festivities). But no one else knew that. Most of the patrons I passed probably pegged me as someone who lives in squalor and who makes a habit of hauling her brood there to wash up and whatnot. In reality, however, we were simply using the loo as a staging area for a meltdown, which qualified as a performance of a lifetime as I recall. Prude Lady could testify to that at least.

Incessantly, it seemed, we bickered about who would get to stand where, who would go first, who would hold coats and bags and sneakers, who would get to flush (and when said flushing would take place), what did or didn’t happen during the Polar Express movie and whether or not a certain someone blew a kiss to a boy earlier in the day (“…because that’s not allowed, Mom; only hugs are okay!”).

Ostensibly, this meddlesome witch witnessed the entire routine, likely pressing her ear to the wall so as not to miss a single syllable. As expected, the debate continued within that tiny theater and escalated until it became a pushing and shoving match, spiraling out of control with each combatant furiously shrieking “YOU!!” while shoving a finger in the other’s face.

“She LICKED my finger, Mom!”

“She called me ‘YOU’ first!”

And so the battle raged. Throughout the ordeal, I was painfully aware of a disapproving audience hovering just inches away, and I felt the familiar sting of humiliation and frustration. All the while I snapped and snarled through clenched teeth, “Get your sleeve off the stinking floor!” “Don’t drop that into the toilet!” “Stop hitting your sister!” “Hurry up already with those pajamas and keep your socks ON YOUR FEET!” “Your father’s waiting, you know!”

How could I possibly explain myself, justify my children’s behavior or even show my face once I stepped outside the stall that had become my personal shield from the world? Miss Holier-Than-Thou would be waiting there for me, wagging her finger. Demanding answers. Chiding. Judging.

“Little monsters,” she’d also likely spit.

Oddly enough though, she had few (albeit barbed) words for me when I finally braved it. “GOOD LUCK!” she huffed condescendingly, as I hoisted my heathens to the sink to wash—their anger all but diffused and differences long since forgotten.

I couldn’t help but think she doesn’t get it. She only saw a tiny slice of my day and a mere shadow of the relationship I share with my children. She thinks my kids hate each other and that I must completely loathe my lot in life as their mom. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder, but it’s important to take time to view the picture in its entirety. Snapshots don’t always tell the whole story.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

1 Comment

Filed under "S" is for Shame, Holiday Hokum, Kid-Speak, Normal is Relative, Ode to Embarrassment, The Natives are Decidedly Restless, Vat of Complete Irreverence, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as Christmas, disorder, dysfunction, family, frustration, guilt, humor, judgmental people, kids, love, madness, McDonald's, Mommie Dearest, moms, parenting, prudes, sibling squabbles, tactless children, tirades

December 11, 2010 · 12:38 pm

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Please believe me, oh great giver-of-gifts, I know you love my children dearly and that you’d do almost anything to make them happy this Christmas. You’re a kind and generous soul. And make no mistake about it; I’ve recognized (with the help of countless reminders) how hard my heathens have tried to be good and grateful and well-mannered these past 351 days. But in the interest of preserving what remains of my sanity, would you please give some consideration to the following bit of information?

1) For the record, I don’t need any lizards or llamas, bats or birds, real live chicks or even eggs that will hatch. Nor do I have any desire whatsoever for an ant farm and an accompanying anteater (“…in case it breaks open and ants are crawling EVERYWHERE, Mom!”). Furthermore, I have absolutely no use for a potbellied pig or a goat for that matter. Are we perfectly clear on that? NO POTBELLIED PIG. NO GOAT. Period. Also, please ignore all future requests—maddeningly incessant as they might be—for another cat. Seriously. Perish the thought.

2) Additionally, please take note: it is totally unnecessary to spoil my charges by spending $54 (EACH!) on flimsy pajamas that happen to match those worn by the very dolls they begged for last year. That’s simply ludicrous. Get a grip, Santa. Give Mrs. Claus a new nightie or something instead.

3) Moreover, bear in mind that I have yet to summon the strength necessary to parent those who thirst for danger. More specifically, those who would willfully and gleefully ride a skateboard, a motorcycle or roller skates down an impossibly sheer slope. Blindfolded. On fire. During an earthquake. I have enough trouble tolerating the wretched scooters they so adore. Perhaps by next year I will have purged from memory my own horrific skateboarding disaster (i.e. the face plant I made one summer afternoon on a gravelly patch of pavement at an inordinately high rate of speed). But who could forget eight stitches? They were purple. And stubbly. And infinitely intriguing to all my friends who wanted to touch the freakish goatee I had seemingly sprouted from my chin. That being said, please refrain from delivering any of the aforementioned instruments of evil.

4) Bratz, begone! I trust this emphatic petition is self-explanatory, oh Jolly One. Barbies, by contrast, are perfectly acceptable in this household. Besides, I find it largely disturbing that many among our sprawling Barbie community have lost heads and limbs for whatever reason. Intactness would be a welcome change.

5) Also, if you must darken my door with all-that-makes-noise (I mean music), I beg of you that each sinful device (read: trumpet-kazoo-recorder-drum-keyboard-microphone-guitar-tambourine-maraca-like piece of idiocy) be suitably equipped with soundproofing, some sort of on/off switch or at the very least a volume control thingy. Thank you, in advance.

6) Also, kindly be advised that my humble abode lacks the space necessary to house the grand and glorious, five-story kitty hotel that my kids have been whining about since the middle of summer. Honestly, it is outlandishly opulent, highly impractical and offensively massive. If you so much as think about bestowing such a monstrosity upon us, I will have no choice but to forego the cookies next year. You can count on broccoli instead, you silly little elfin man.

7) What’s more, I would be immeasurably displeased to discover a pile of pretend dog poop in anyone’s stocking, never mind those repugnant Walter the Farting Dog creatures. Egads!

8) Furthermore, Santa, read my lips: NO MORE SILLY@$$ ELECTRONIC GADGETRY. I am appallingly inept when it comes to programming any and all gizmos of a technological nature. I hereby resign from said post effective today.

9) And for the love of God, NO MORE WATER BALLOONS, GLITTER GLUE OR BATHTUB TOYS. They are the bane of my existence. Enough said.

10) And sweet Jesus, please, please, please don’t bless us with another puppy this Christmas—at least not one that routinely gnaws on furniture, pees indiscriminately, consumes chew toys, destroys leashes (four and counting), eats holes in the carpet, nibbles on Frisbees, plastic Army men and Barbie stilettos, considers deer droppings a delicacy and is entirely bent on causing bodily harm during jaunts in the great outdoors—via our garrote-like tether coupled with a frenzied demeanor and the pirouette dance I have grown to know and loathe. I simply cannot handle another floppy-eared bundle of joy. Not now. Not ever.

11) I would, however, be thrilled to receive an indestructible dog leash dipped in Kevlar, perhaps, and maybe a ridiculously huge cardboard box. Empty, of course. The one you so graciously left for my brood three years ago was far and away the most fabulous item under the tree. It was the gift that kept on giving—till early spring, as I recall.

Sincerely,

Planet Mom

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.