Just to be clear, my house on a Monday morning (or pretty much any morning) has a layer of detritus, not evenly spread across the floor, but still… strewn about. Strewn is such a nice word for the reality, which is displeasing mess.
The cubby is an oasis. The counter still has piles (not such heaping ones at the moment, though) and the cooking project from last night the kids begged they be able to make and promised in return to clean up is about three-quarters cleaned. That’s to say the risotto that’s left is in the fridge, the counter’s wiped but not clean and the pot is soaking. I truly think all of this, from where we’ve been, counts as progress. And I’m mindful of the fact that like anything that involves forming new habits, change is more like ch-ch-ch-changes, a process, sometimes painstakingly faltering in nature.
I’ve begun a week—eight days, but who’s counting, really just me—solo parenting begrudgingly. I want the dear husband to do what he’s doing (mainly, working); I want to feel that I can manage on my own for a chunk of time. It’s been a pretty rocky patch though on the four ages and stages plus working front, so what I actually feel is overloaded. There are only so many cranky moods one person can engage with before getting cranky herself. I do speak from experience on this one.
On the it-looks-good front, I baked birthday snack cupcakes (pink frosting) for school, Martha Stewart recipe (and this, of course, always makes a person feel that much more… perfect, doing something Martha Stewart). I dried more apples (goal: create a little stockpile). I took Arella to the Y so her mama, getting over the stomach bug, could rest. Later, Addy came over. With heroic effort that nearly brought me to tears, I managed to rouse the elder teen. I let the younger teen make his risotto with vegetables I roasted.
On the other hand, I really felt flooded by how much there was to do, how hard it is to get anyone to just pitch in, and then there were lunches to make, Saskia’s hair to wash and brush, and, well, it wasn’t possible to take a really deep breath. And I hadn’t yet met the weekday mornings.
Braid! Clean Hair!
Remy, tired from skiing for two days straight, wanted to watch something not-Superbowl and somehow Lucien found a free Netflix movie that Rem found intriguing and wasn’t inappropriate for Saskia (don’t think that is a huge factor, it is not, I confess). The movie was Ski Patrol. It was all eighties’ hair and really stupid humor and cheesy plot. It was even more about how many precarious, wild runs down the mountain could you show in 90 minutes. The romance, such as it was, was wholly unconvincing, but fortunately, that wasn’t the point. I think the point was how many precarious, wild runs down the mountain you could show in 90 minutes. Remy can’t wait to show his papa the film. I saw enough not to need to see it again, but I was grateful to its ability to make three kids laugh and to cap the day—Sunday was Saskia’s birthday, happy 1-2-3-4—off sweetly enough.
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In thinking about my cubby and my wish for a more orderly house (something my elder teen questions daily) and my interest in how visually creative people think and work, I’m sitting with my fascination and slowly tossing junk out of my house. Meantime, my new favorite creative person’s workspace is Lotta Anderson’s of Lotta Jansdotter, whose stationary I have long adored.
