Cleaning Dance Party

Sometimes the weirdest things make me happy.  Take, for instance, the act of Spring cleaning.  In my life, this joyous and highly anticipated event will require meticulous preparation, and it can only occur under very specific conditions:

1. In order to truly drive out the stench of winter and provide proper ventilation for the copious amounts of bleach that will be used, it must be warm enough for open windows. 
2. Special care must be taken to ensure my cleaning supply arsenal is complete.  Nothing is worse than getting to Spring Cleaning Phase Five: Hardwood Floor Dust Removal only to find that I've forgotten to purchase the Swiffer pads.  Oh, the humanity! 
3. I must be home alone.  All day.  This point is absolutely non-negotiable for the following reasons:
1. Spring cleaning has a very specific soundtrack in the form of a self-created playlist entitled Cleaning Dance Party (No, I'm not kidding), and it must be played at maximum volume. 
2. As the title of the playlist suggests, there will also be a dance party.  While I'm not at all ashamed of my sweet, sweet moves, the dance party is a party for ONE and that is because I do recognize the fact that the aforementioned moves may be slowly morphing from "sweet moves" into "mom moves."  I'm almost 35, so it was bound to happen sometime.   

Under these very specific conditions I will be able to transform my house into a better version of itself, and since it will again be a place that I am proud of, I might even invite you over for a visit that extends beyond the warm weather boundries of my porch.  Once inside, however, you'll probably notice a few items that seem out of place -- items that might make you think, "Wow, she really talks a big "Cleaning Dance Party" game, but it seems to me that she missed some spots..."  For instance, upon entering my dining room, you may encounter a scene that looks like this: 

"It's a booby trap, mom."

 

Or, perhaps you'll notice a neat line of purposefully placed toys in the middle of the floor, like this:

 

These sort of glitches in cleanliness and organization might make you think that I can talk the Cleaning Dance Party talk but can't walk the Cleaning Dance Party walk.  But you'd be wrong.  

 

The intention of the Cleaning Dance Party is to rid the house of grease, grime and dirt, but it is not designed to rid the house of its signs of life.  While in most rooms you will find sparkling surfaces and an air of spare de-clutterization, in the bathroom you'll probably find these two happy stickers hanging out just above the towel rack:

 

I don't really know why they are there, and I can't really explain why I clean around them.  I just do. And have for months and months. You might also find our toilet paper storage system (pictured below) a little unorthodox, but it is apparently the 4-year-old preferred method, and for some reason it makes me happy.  And, like I said before, sometimes the weirdest things make me happy. 

 



 



 



 



 

An Open Letter to My Porch on June 15th, 2013 at 7:30 p.m.

 

 Dear Porch,

Even though tonight you are under a thin covering of wintery mix, at approximately 7:30 pm on Saturday, June 15th, I hope to find you bathed in mottled sunlight and to feel your dusty, dry warmth under my bare feet.  Your floor will be littered with frisbees, bubble wands and baseball bats, and I'll be fresh from the shower, the skin on my nose stretched tight and tinted pink, my muscles sore from yard work.  Don't bother getting gussied up for our date, Porch, because I'll be wearing my most presentable pair of stretchy shorts and that one sporty t-shirt.  Remember?  It's that perfect specimen of cotton that has earned its softness from constant wardrobe rotation since 2004.  Yeah.  That one. 

When we notice that the iPod has been loaded on the dock and is playing the music that says summer, we will know we are no longer alone, Porch.  When Neil joins us, we'll notice a layer of sawdust adorning the sun-bleached hair on his work-tanned skin, and fresh grass clippings clinging to his shoes and the bottom of his jeans. He'll bring us two ice cold beers nestled in their koozies, and with the crack of the can our jaws will unclentch and our shoulders will relax.  It will cost nothing and mean everything all at the same time. 

Hope to see you then.

Much Love,

Erin

Favorite Things

Unless Oprah is going to invite me to be an audience member on her Favorite Things spectacular, then I don't really have much use for the items on her annual list.  (Dear Oprah: if your next Favorite Things episode is scheduled to include a studio filled with teachers, or, perhaps, a gaggle of working mothers who wish they had more time to blog, I retract that first statement entirely.  Let the record show that I still really want to attend, and I can personally guarantee you the best "woman in fetal position, hyperventilating with joy" camera shot in all of Favorite Things history.)

This year, since I'm feeling especially grateful that the world didn't end, I have decided to compile my own Favorite Things list.  Since my budget for my Favorite Things is slightly less than Oprah's, and because I don't have 10 assistants, a producer, and an editor, the items on my list will, instead, meet these rigorous demands:

1.  They cannot cost money.

2.  There can only be four.

3.  They have to make me so happy and filled with comfort (and joy) that I feel like I could just lie down right where I'm at and take an "all is right with the world" nap, which is the sort of sleep that one sinks into when all their bills are paid, their chores are done, and their loved ones are healthy, happy and otherwise occupied. When all it right with the world, a cozy nap is among the best and most satisfying of all the human experiences (according to me).   

So, without further ado, I present to you My Four Favorite Things of 2012...

  

4.  Let's start with something that only a select few will be able to fully appreciate: Meat in a jar. Canning meat has been a tradition in my family for many generations.  I've watched the process; I've ingested the meat in its various, delicious forms (including as the integral ingredient in beef and noodles served over homemade mashed potatoes, a meal that I imagine will someday be included on a list entitled Foods That Have Made Me Who I Am Today).  I speak of canned beef today, however, because this year I was the lucky recipient of the two free jars that were the most sought after gift in my family's White Elephant gift exchange.  It was the luck of the draw, coupled with the graciousness of family members who could (and probably should) have stolen it from me as is dictated in section 3, article 2 of The Rules of White Elephant.  But, like two star-crossed lovers, the meat's destiny and mine somehow remained intertwined. And you are just going to have to trust me when I tell you how delicious it is...because I'm not sharing it.  

3.  Because this is my child's first year of preschool, I have only just been introduced to the joy a mother feels when her child brings home a homemade Christmas ornament.  Oh.My.God.  I placed them in the most prominent places on the tree, found myself staring at them when no one was looking, and have taken more protective measures in the wrapping and packing away of each of them than any piece of glitter-laden construction paper probably deserves.  So, suck it, antique glass ornaments.  I'm using all the extra bubble wrap for Glitter Santa and his tongue depressor reindeer.  

2.  At 7:00 a.m. the morning after this year's first snowfall, as I was trying to get my son out the door and to the babysitter's house on time, my husband promised that he would take Owen sledding that day... AFTER WORK on a WEEKDAY.  In an effort to ease my dreadful anticipation of his bundle up, freeze, and sled promise, I spent the day planning ways to kill Neil.  On my way home from work that day, I called him (probably to voice my displeasure), and when he answered his voice sounded so happy that it made me want to throttle him. "We're already sledding," he said.  "We're having fun, so you'll probably beat us home."  This is probably the part where I was supposed to feel guilty for the murderous thoughts, but all I could feel was joy, gratitude and love.  In making Owen the happiest kid in the world, Neil had unknowingly made me the happiest mom.  He left work early to sled.  He bought the new boots, did the bundle up, and was freezing his happy ass off in the name of father/son fun, and that, my friends, is priceless. 

1.  Showcasing his father's passionate dedication to the task at hand and his stellar taste in music, and featuring some sweet, sweet moves that he surely got from him mom, Owen did this:  

In 2012 all was right with the world.  Now let's all go take a nap.  

Feeling Important

 

I was nesting when the last presidential election took place.  I was a brand new mom and wary of navigating the world with a one month old baby in tow (there were germs out there, after all!), so in those early weeks Owen and I stuck close to home.  On election day, however, I bundled up my bundle of joy, slipped on my most presentable pair of stretchy pants, packed up the diaper bag, and we braved the elements in the name of democracy. 

 

Since I cast my ballot at the library across the street from my house, ours was a journey of about 37 steps, but it was still an important moment for me.  I realized that I was not only capable of taking my child out into the big, scary world, but that I enjoyed including him in one of our country's most important processes.  The outing was nothing more than a squinty, brightness-blur to my newborn, but I felt a real sense of accomplishment and proudly placed my "I voted" sticker on his stroller.  For me, the first few weeks of motherhood were hazy and filled with emotional turbulence, but the simple act of taking my child to vote somehow made me feel like a good mom.  It felt important. 

 

I don't enjoy politics.  I'm uncomfortable with conflict, and even watching people debate makes my stomach feel nervous and yucky.  But having a child has made me care about the world in a different way, and that's probably because it's no longer my world.  It's his.  And I want his world to be the best world, so that's why I vote.  And that's also why I will make sure my son continues to accompany me to the polls for as long as he'll let me take him.  For now, I'll reward him for his trouble with a free sticker, but hopefully, when he's older, he'll find that the act of voting is its own reward. 

 



Four years ago, the stroller got the sticker. 
This year, the remote controlled truck will wear it with pride. 

Art Imitating Life

A few months ago Owen drew his first real person.  His eyes lit up with accomplishment when he realized that he could, in fact, draw pictures that actually look like something.  Though I'm not really the sentimental type, I saved his first drawing (pictured below) because there was something about his kind, unassuming smile that I liked.  Something sort of familiar...  

For some reason, the first guy that Owen drew reminds me of the tall guy in the center of this picture: 

And he also sort of reminds me of the tiny guy in this picture: 

Who just recently became the big kid in this picture:

And something about those smiles makes me so happy I did this exactly seven years ago:

Lesson Learned

Recently we unearthed an old essay written by the one and only Neil Coulter circa 1995. We're talking about senior year of high school Neil Coulter. It would be fair to say that 1995 Neil was suffering from a bad case of senioritis and operating under a heavy dose of teen angst. It would also be safe to assume that he wrote the glorious geographical analysis of China, pictured below, in under five minutes. I would guess he started and finished this assignment during the five minute passing period between classes. How would I know such a thing? Well, I teach high school kids. And even if I've never assigned an essay about China, I have, in fact, read this sort of essay many, many times before. And I know the type of kid who writes this sort of drivel; He's the kid who cares about his grade just enough to turn something in, but pays no regard to the quality of his work. It's the type of essay that has hand-writing that gets progressively worse as time runs short. It has no beginning, no ending, and no real facts or support; it's a filled up sheet of paper and a hopeful attempt at squeezing out a couple of measly assignment points. As a seasoned veteran, I'm never shocked when I receive an essay of such poor quality. What I will forever be surprised about, though, is that I ended up happily married to one of "those kids." Before I get too far into this, let's all take a moment to bask in the glory that is "CHINA" by Neil Coulter:  

So, now you're thinking, "Wow! I'm sure glad I don't work in one of "dirty" China's "several" rice fields. That wouldn't be very "glamorous" at all!"  Or maybe you're wondering what happened with Neil's friend Jacob's "very nice" Chinese girlfriend.  You know, the one who spent all that time teaching Neil how to speak and write in Chinese.  If she would have stuck around a little longer maybe Neil could have learned and shared even more riveting facts about Chinese culture!

Yes, making jokes at 1995 Neil's expense is very entertaining, but it's time to set the record straight.  This essay deserves the failing grade that it received.  Actually, in my professional opinion, it probably deserves a 0/20 points instead of a 5/20 (which, if you look closely, was originally a 7/20 before the teacher thought better of it).  It's nothing but a big, fat, unsupported generalization topped off with a lie that only a smart-aleck of Neil's magnitude could pull off.  That's right, folks.  I know the aforementioned Jacob, and I can confirm that his nice Chinese girlfriend never existed.  And, for the record, a plus sign sandwiched between two backwards parentheses does not a Chinese symbol make.  I would be willing to bet, however, that during the last feverish minute of this essay's composition, Jacob sat down next to Neil and that the last paragraph resulted in a good laugh from both parties involved.

So, how does 1995 Neil stack up to 2012 Neil?  Well, 2012 Neil cares a great deal about the quality of his work and he works harder than any other person I know.  Does that mean that if given the chance to warp back to 1995 that he would produce the A+ version of this essay that he is most certainly capable of?  Probably not.  2012 Neil will still do anything, and I mean anything, to illicit a laugh from the people he loves.   I'm guessing that the laughter and subsequent story that came from the last paragraph of his essay is still worth the 5/20 for Neil.  And, even though this essay (and the handful just like it that show up on my desk every year) makes the teacher in me shake my head, sigh heavily, and lament wasted opportunity, I'd be lying if I said that I didn't laugh until I cried when I read this slacker-tastic masterpiece.  Of course, it's easy to find the humor in it because I know Neil turned out all right in the end, but when I'm reading similar essays submitted by my own students, it's not quite as hilarious.  In fact, it's often infuriating, especially when it's from the kid who I KNOW has the capacity to do well.  It's at this point in the grading process, when my frustration level has prompted me to consider another line of work, that I have to stop and consider my options.  

Option #1 - Give this kid the zero he deserves and prove to him that his teacher isn't quite as stupid as he believed her to be.

Option #2 - Consider the student's situation.  Does he have someone at home making sure he's doing well?  Are there worries in this kid's life that are more pressing than a silly essay for English class?  

Let me let you in on a little secret.  If your teacher chooses option #1, it means that you've been a real jerk.  Consistently. Irrevocably. However, if she chooses option #2, it means that somewhere along the line you've given her a glimpse of your potential.  It means that she recognizes that just because some kids aren't good at being students, it doesn't mean they're not good at being people.  This teacher will still give you the F you deserve, but instead of 0/20 she will give you a 7/20...Then she'll remember that you blatantly lied about your ability to speak and write in Chinese, and she'll change the 7 to a 5.  Because you deserve something.  Because it's complicated to be a teenager.  Just like it's sometimes complicated to be a teacher.  

Pretendo!

I blame Owen's babysitter for his current Super Mario Brothers obsession.  The moment she bought a Wii and introduced him to Mario and Princess Peach, he was hooked.  At this point I'd estimate that 90% of our conversations are Mario related, and 100% of our pretend play scenarios begin with the declaration, "I'm Luigi, you're Princess Peach, and Bowser just captured you..." 

Because the Coulter family lives in the technological stone age (no smart phones, no smart TVs, not even Netflix), purchasing a new gaming systems to satisfy what is probably a three-year-old's passing fancy isn't in the foreseeable future.  So you can imagine my delight when I found a dusty Super Nintendo neatly tucked away in my parents' basement.  Overjoyed, we ran home and Neil plugged that sucker into our not-so-smart-TV.  Like a true Super Nintendo veteran, he blew into the Mario game cartridge, placed it in position, crossed his fingers, and flipped the switch to the on position.  When Mario and Yoshi made their debut on our dumb TV's screen, the look on Owen's face was that of I-cannot-believe-Mario-is-at-MY-house-right-now amazement. He exclaimed, "Daddy! The Pretendo works!" and Neil was an instant hero because, as it turns out, three-year-olds don't really know the difference between a brand new Wii and a 20 year old Super Nintendo.  

For me, however, the best part of this story was Owen's inadvertent invention of the word Pretendo.  While it is a fitting description for the ancient gaming system that will serve as a pretend Wii for the next few years, the term Pretendo has come to stand for much more than that.  The word itself was accidentally invented by a child during a moment of pure, unadulterated joy.  There is magic in a moment like that, for a child and for his parents, so it's not surprising that a word created out of such magic would take on a life of its own. Pretendo goes beyond the device for which it is named; In our house, the word Pretendo, when used properly, has the power to grant wishes.  Yes, you heard me right.  It grants wishes. 

To understand Pretendo you must first have the ability to go beyond just "making do" and actually find happiness with what you have right now.  "Making do" implies that what you have right now not only could, but should be better.  It's saying, "I guess we'll just have to...[heavy sigh]... make do until we can get what we really want."  Well, I'm here to tell you that "making do" is nothing but a tedious waste of everyone's time.  With that said, please understand that I am notorious for my impatience; I want what I want and I want it right now, and thanks to my son and his lovely way with words, I have finally realized how to make that happen.  Pretendo!  It. Grants. Wishes.  Allow me to illustrate.

There are times when your son's only wish is to have a Wii.  And sometimes, no matter how hard you wish, you simply cannot justify the expense, so you must go out and do the leg work required to make his wish come true.  Sure, the act of Pretendoing is much more labor intensive than a "make-do" shoulder shrug, but here is the good news: It doesn't matter how old you are or what you're wishing for, if you're smart, creative, and determined, Pretendo will work for you, too!  Don't believe me?  Here's proof of the Pretendo promise:

Like many other young(ish) couples, extravagance is not in our budget.  Luckily for me, I have a husband whose creativity is enhanced by forced frugality.  When I told Neil that all I wanted for Valentine's Day was a bathroom that didn't make me want to die when I walked into it, he used his considerable carpentry skills, a gallon of discounted paint, and a rickety picket fence that was taking up space in our basement, and he made me a "brand new" bathroom.  I'm ecstatic with my there-is-nothing-new-about-it bathroom.  Pretendo!  Wish granted.


When I mentioned that instead of remodeling it might be easier to just set fire to our disgusting kitchen, Neil bought a couple of gallons of paint, I turned an old tablecloth into a curtain, and Pretendo!  "New" kitchen.

  

World's Dumbest Kitchen...

Behold!  The power of Pretendo!

When I hinted that I'd like Owen to have a playhouse, Neil used a couple of pallets and some fence pickets and Pretendoed one out of thin air!

Pretendoing in Action

Viola!  Pretendoed

Yes, I will admit that the power of Pretendo is especially strong with Neil, but the plain fact remains that no matter who you are, if you combine some elbow grease, a little ingenuity, and a healthy appreciation for simplicity, it can take you a long, long way.  I realize that the ease with which we use this magic won't last forever.  For Owen, Mario and Luigi will eventually take a backseat to another fad, and as he gets older and his tastes become more expensive, it won't be as easy to please (and/or trick) him.  The best I can hope for is that his dad and I can instill in him an appreciation for the simple things in life so he'll be able to truly understand the promise of the Pretendo philosphy.

Around here, we don't have granite counter tops, fancy smartphones, mass-produced plastic playhouses, or state of the art gaming systems, but we have harnessed the power of Pretendo.  We are willing and thankful to work with what we have right now, which sometimes isn't a lot but is always so much more than enough.  We manufacture our own happiness and make our own luck at the corner of Locust Street and Avenue B.  Pretendo!  Every single wish granted.