Turns out, I don’t do enough stuff that I like. I mean that I ACTUALLY like. I sweep my floors because I like the way a clean floor looks, but I don’t deeply enjoy sweeping. I like to feel organized and like NOT a pig, so I take care of our home. I cook because taking seven people out to eat all the time is insane. But making a giant mess in my kitchen and watching 6 other people eat for 5-10 minutes before undertaking the chore of cleaning up said mess so that I can wake up in the morning and do it a few more times isn’t my idea of fun. I have gathered that my purpose in this life isn’t necessarily to enjoy myself ALL the time or to always get to do stuff that I like…but I’m serious…I’m losing myself over here. So this year I have resolved to do the one thing that I enjoy that I never get to do enough. WRITE.

I’ll do anything before I’ll sit down and write. I’ll clean our moldy, dungeon of a basement before I’ll sit down and write. I’ll try a new recipe that seems too difficult and ends with a lot of wasted ingredients before I’ll sit and write. I’ll go clean the litter pan before I’ll JUST SIT DOWN AND WRITE!!! WHY? Why wont I just spend an hour a week doing this thing that I enjoy. I think I’m afraid of how much I like it. I think that if I do it too much I’ll stop liking it. Maybe if I do it too much people will start criticizing it and that wont feel good.  If I sit down and write for an hour a week I might actually get the hell out of my own way and GOD FORBID…have a hobby that I personally really enjoy. So, welcome. I’m done back burnering this thing. I’m 32 friggin years old. If I don’t start taking this hour now, it might never happen.

At the end of the day, I’m doing my family a favor by spending this time writing.  Chris has told me that if our home were on fire, he would grab my journals.  Within those flimsy, mishandled covers lies a treasure that this family would probably never miss until some distant holiday when we realized how great it would be to read about the time when Owen was 2 years old and he pooped in Joy’s litter pan cause someone was using the only bathroom in the house.  (And I’m sure we’ll marvel that we ever existed with only ONE bathroom!) We have already sat around the dinner table and laughed until we’ve cried as we’ve let the everyday moments of the past come to life anew from the pages of what someone else might consider a piece of trash, a used notebook.  I am learning that every act we perform is either a favor or a disservice to our future self.  When I take my socks off and throw them on the floor beside my hamper, it will most likely be ME who has to bend over and pick those socks up on laundry day and put them where they need to be.  Life sometimes feels like a giant math problem, and investing in myself and in my family will never put me in the red.

I’m choosing this day to change how I think about “sitting down to write”  I’m done imagining that it is a difficult thing that a woman with five kids doesn’t have time for.  I’m done treating it like something that has to be perfect before it can be shared…my cooking certainly isn’t perfect and I’m forced to share that on a daily basis.  I’m done believing that if I have a blog, it has to be like other peoples blogs and be really polished and edited and everything has to be spelled correctly.  I’m ready to accept that I don’t like writing because it is perfect and lovely.  I like writing because it is the opposite.  It is the clearest way I’ve ever known to document the frailty and mistakes and brevity and majesty and complexity of the little stuff.  When I jot down a quick note about Micah falling asleep with gum in his mouth and waking up with it in his armpit and being therefore taken by surprise by what looked like premature armpit hair, I’m doing future Autumn the biggest favor that anyone can.  She will laugh and she will share it with her children and her husband and we will all be reminded of what love is and what family is for.

Chris is at class. Maxwell is crying. The kids are in the yard. The neighbor twins are out and there is unbridled volume coming from their general direction. Owen falls from the wood pile as I instruct children to clean up shards of broken plastic…in an effort to keep the yard some what safe. (Ironic?) I go to him, assess the damage. Scraped knees. I help him out of the wood pile and we walk toward the house to clean and kiss boo-boos. While holding Max in the sling and wetting a paper towel for Owen’s scrapes I hear the unmistakable “pain cry” from Micah, just outside the back porch. I immediately leave the recently wounded yet stable child to assess new injuries to a second child. Micah’s eyes are overflowing as he tries to tell me that he hit his head on the side walk. Sensing my confusion, he tearfully continues to reenact the running…the golf club straight out in front of him…the edge of the sidewalk that catches the golf club…the catapulting action that flipped him over the golf club, landing him on his head on the sidewalk. He is seated on the back porch now, applying Ice to his head while I make sure his pupils are dilating. Owen approaches, clearly jaded at how easily distracted I have become. I return to the former task of caring for his scuffed knees. Meanwhile the kitchen counters and table are covered with the days grocery booty…waiting for someone (whoever you are) to put it all where it belongs. Per the consistent request of the children, I had also previously started making a batch of powerballs or as the kids call it “bird food” (an oat, seed, peanut butter, honey, chocolate chip, ball shaped snack). Within minutes all the children have congregated around the bowl to help add ingredients. Micah sitting to my right, still applying ice to his head. Owen sitting on top of the table among some grocery bags and a banana peel. Iris holding a measuring cup, waiting for instruction. Flynn, casually distancing himself at the end of the table. A day of touring the county’s finest discount grocery stores for camping snacks for the upcoming weekend has left him exhausted and uninterested in sous chef duties. Sensing an opportunity to put all our energy in an organized and positive direction, I give orders from the handicapped paradise that is swaying back and forth with an arm load of 3 week old baby love. As we read the recipe, I alert the kids that we are doubling the quantity and ask them to tell me how much of each ingredient we will need accordingly. We are half way thru the recipe. Everyone taking turns. Scooping. Pouring. Measuring. I ask, “Micah, can you tell me how much honey the recipe says to use?” Micah is propping/icing his head with one hand, he is staring down at the recipe. Unenthusiastically he responds, “I can’t read it. It’s in Chinese.” It is actually hand written in my slanted print. With such ease he has quenched our worn spirits with a moment of much needed laughter. I am once again reminded that for every ten horrific parenting moments in a day, thankfully there is usually one that takes your breath away…or allows you to start breathing again. (Cause maybe you’re like me and you’ve been holding your breath in anticipation for the next “running with golf club” incident) And those moments help dissolve the prickly, threatening words exchanged in a grocery store bathroom while you tried to scare your kids into behaving. They disintegrate the inadequacy you feel when you’ve lost track of how long your 4 year old has been playing gameboy. These moments span the chasm that is full of all your failures and overwhelmed, ill advised parenting catastrophes. It is in these precious, candid, spiritual snippets of life that we need to remain. Lingering in the reality that we DONT want to escape, believing that these are what are flavoring this cooking experiment and the rest is just to keep us appreciative and grasping at the flavorful entree that awaits. Like when healthy food tastes good and the kids are surprised. Yeah, there are lentils and kale and whole wheat pasta involved, but they aren’t making up the savory undertones of the stew. Understanding that when things taste bad, it’s only because they are waiting to get good. Really, REALLY, good. But maybe one ingredient is missing, like timing or a right attitude or a soft heart. And being brave enough to taste it all, even while the recipe is still in its infancy and there are lessons to be learned about what flavors to never combine and what ones work well together. And also keeping the sobering understanding that at any moment a child helper could over salt the whole pot or add an eggs worth of shells and you’re still going to pretend it’s delicious…cause it’s what’s for dinner.  It’s reality.

Chris is doing his marathon evening of classes (5:00-9:30) while the kids and I do bath night and laundry and nothing too especially spectacular, but this being our third one of these Tuesday nights this semester, I realize I’m beginning to really enjoy them. The kids are all a little easier on me in this the 8th month of what feels like a perpetual pregnancy…sensing that with dad away in the evening, I might be a bit more fragile than usual. Iris runs a bath for Owen and reads him a book. Micah brushes his teeth and puts himself to bed. Flynn comes in my room while I hang up laundry and chats with me…keeping me company. After retelling me what he most recently read in his Calvin and Hobbes comics, he asks if I want to see the injury he sustained earlier today while whittling a small block of cedar wood. “Yeah. Lemme see that”…realizing that when he told me about it earlier, he had already cleaned and bandaged it and therefore I never actually saw how bad the wound was. He holds out his finger. I said “You cleaned it? Right?” Both of us observing the dried blood around the small wound, he says “I did. But maybe I should clean it again.”
“Yeah. Go wash it. It’s gonna be fine.” Not immediately acting on my advice, Flynn drifts onto the next topic. “Mom, have you ever had a huge blister?”
“I can’t recall one lately, but I’m sure I have.”
“Like, did you ever have a blister from a burn.”
“Oh. Definitely.”
He stops bouncing on my bed long enough to reminisce…
“I remember once I had a big blister on my hand from the wood stove and this kinda weird kid in my first grade class said to me ‘Hey, could I get a little peek at your infection?'”
We both start laughing…mostly because of the weird, small voice that Flynn used to impersonate the boy…but also because at the ripe young age of a first grader, there is no awkwardness yet in expressing a compulsive interest in someone else’s “infection”. May he take that compulsion into some medical profession and be the very best in his field!

The kids 1 hour lunch break from cyber school is in full swing.  I am slapping together some PB&J’s while the kids cut loose in the back yard.  Unfortunately, our yard has slowly…as we’ve overpopulated it, become a “standing room only” kinda inner city yard over the past eight years.  Fortunately though, we have the biggest, most sprawling (only) silver maple tree in the neighborhood and it has served as the home to the most fanciful dreams come true.  Picture “Neverland”, but within a 25x50ish foot chain link fenced area…and no grass.  Just dusty earth and tree roots.  Minimal parental interruption.  Not a lot of rules.  Access to tools.  Pocket knives.  A fire ring.  Some tires.  Chris had just that weekend hung three new swings from the glorious branches of the mother tree.  As lunch time came upon us, every swing was occupied.  I enter the yard, stepping over a piece of firewood with a plank across it that was clearly used as a seesaw and then abandoned.  All swings have slowed to an appropriate PBJ interception speed.  While passing out sandwiches my eye catches site, thru some yard debris, of a fresh golden delicious apple.  On the ground.  With one bite missing from it.  I immediately begin to channel my late father…and every other parent who has ever incurred the grocery bill that a family of six can produce.  “Is this serious?  Come on guys.  Whose apple is this?  Whose perfectly good apple is this laying on the ground with one bite taken out of it and a nice amount of dirt and sawdust on it?”  Micah looks guilty.  “You know Micah, you’ll be the guy tomorrow who’s askin around about an apple and I will have to say No.  The last apple was wasted in the yard yesterday…” Were my peripheral prepped for what was about to come…maybe I would have taken a step forward, but once a mother is ranting about a interhousehold moral dilemma…its hard to get her tunnel vision to focus anywhere but the issue at hand.  Apparently, the moment Micah speechlessly fessed up, the other three children deactivated their listening ears and resumed yard life.  Iris had loaded herself onto the swing to my far right.  Naturally, two large pieces of firewood served as a heightened launch pad, to achieve more air.  As I spouted at Micah about economics and the “children in the world who don’t get to pick a piece of fresh fruit from a bowl on their kitchen counter…” I never even saw her coming.  SLAMMED!  from the back, right side with the full weight of my eight year old daughter, swinging carelessly thru the air.  The impact knocked the words right out of my mouth as I stumbled forward in shock.  We make eye contact.  Her face says, “Oh my dear God, she was really not happy and then I swung right into her and now she seems even less happy.” All I could say while looking deep into her wide, stunned eyeballs was…”Really?”  A full 3 seconds of complete and utter yard silence follows.  And then the uncontrolled laughter of a crazy woman.  I couldn’t help it.  I began to laugh so hard I had to sit down on a nearby log to stop from falling over and the tears streamed down my face.  The complete loss of the words that were coming out of my face, the blow that silenced the possessed protector of abused fruit…it was all too much I suppose.  I hadn’t laughed that hard in ages.  Once the kids realized I was not injured but was rather experiencing the kind of insane and boisterous release that a pent up stay at home mother needs to have occasionally, they all eased into a hearty laugh themselves.  Sometimes I think that life has a way of building up to a point of eruption.  Maybe that eruption leads to years of therapy or a date night with your husband or something else you deeply need.  But maybe its just gonna look like you sitting on a log in your yard crying a good happy, fed up cry while four children swing and play and throw balls past your head.    That laugh was more beneficial than my children listening contently thru any number of my righteous rants.  I hope they eventually figure out that taking a bite of an apple and throwing it down is among their worst ideas ever, but until then, I need to keep laughing.

While I was loading the dishwasher this morning, the kids were enjoying their “ease into the day” episode of Curious George.  Flynn was thumbing through the latest issue of Kids National Geographic.  He stands up from the couch and approaches me in the kitchen with a sense of urgency.  “Mom, you need to see this.”  He hands me the magazine.  I see clearly the full color photo of the concern at hand.  Bright orange and white stripes.  Shining scales.  And two heads.  Two Headed Milk Snake.  I read the paragraph.  Found in Florida.  The article states that it hatched there and the next sentence is  “Why?”  Seriously.  Like one snake with one head isnt bad enough…lets one up it.  But not a whole snake.  Lets just one up this creepy thing a single head.  The worst part of any snake.  The rest of it is just like a slippery rope, and sometimes its like a really pretty slippery rope (tolerable-ish).  But the head is where the bum out is.  Teeth, venom…weird eyes. “WHY?!”  I guess the odds are 10,000 to 1 of a two headed snake hatching.  When discovered, he was placed in captivity because the one body has two brains, making survival difficult for the poor little guy. (why we are protecting this thing I’m sure I dont understand…) Each head trying to flee in separate directions from predators.  Each head having its own bright ideas about where to find food.  I imagined there could perhaps not be a more hellish existence.  Or a more terrifying animal.  Not only is it creepy and two headed, but those two heads are essentially always at odds.  Always just a little pissed off to begin with.  Anyway, I sensed the seriousness Flynn was trying to convey.  I just said “Wow.  Thats really creepy.”  His eyes are slightly widened, “Yeh.  Very.”  He pulls the magazine back toward himself and begins to walk away.  My thoughts are still very much on the photo I just saw.  I say in his direction, “Could you imagine running into that thing outside?”  He spins around, holding his arms out in a posture of distress as he exclaims, “Yeh, and they found it in Florida! Where Grammy and Bumpa live!”  His fearful wonderment has clearly turned to pure stress.  His bed head seems a little big for his lean body as his head bobbles in an expressive nature.  I have to laugh.  With New Smyrna Beach ranked the shark attack capital of the world (thanks Shark Week) and the recent hatching of a certain doubly blessed Milk Snake, its lookin like Florida is dropping to the bottom of Flynn’s list of vacation destinations.  I know he’s at least bringing his entire knife collection this year.