Ten Confessions on a Tuesday Morning1. My house is not tidy. Yeah. Big surprise there, huh? Especially considering how many times I've written that I'd far rather play with the kids than clean. Let me state for the record, however, that my house is
clean. Just not neat-as-a-pin tidy.
2. Sometimes I yell. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. I lose my patience. I can be grumpy, cross and easily frustrated. "Stop yelling at your brother!" I yelled yesterday. "No. More. Yelling!"
Oops.
3. I hate to play Candyland. Please don't tell. Littlest fine gent
loooooooooves Candyland. It would break his little heart and send him careening into years of therapy as an adult if he discovers that his beloved Mama would rather hang upside-down by her earlobes than play Candyland.
Our old board was used one day as a diving board for stuffed dogs, and ripped down the middle. It still worked as long as we held the pieces together while we played, but someone (any guesses?) finally threw it away. What in heaven's name was going through my mind at Target the day I said to myself, "Heeeeeey. Levi's never played Candyland! I'll bet he'd
looooooove to play!"
4. It was me. Mom,
I broke the bird thingie in the yard, the one made by Grandpa Ed. I was eight. Nine, maybe.
Then I lied about it when you asked me.
Then I didn't say anything even though my sister got a spanking. I know I've already confessed it, but it's still one of my most vivid childhood memories, that awful feeling in my stomach when I told a thing that was not true, mingled with relief at not getting caught.
5. There are mealworms in my bathroom. In a jar of oatmeal, a science experiment. A science experiment with a lid. They're contained and harmless. But still, beetle larvae in the bathroom is a bit of a startling discovery when one is expecting towels or toilet paper, so I've decided to warn all potential guests. And a corollary....
6. I don't much care for bugs. We have mealworms in the bathroom cabinet, pupating cinnabar moths in a butterfly enclosure in the sewing room, the beginnings of a mounted insect collection, an upcoming study of the praying mantis, the creepiest-looking bug alive, that includes live praying mantises, and I've promised a fine young gent some crickets for his bug habitat. Given my druthers, bugs would stay outside where we can appreciate them from a distance. But I've got a fine young gent who begs to bring potato bugs inside and keep them for pets. He names them and he doesn't mind letting their tiny little legs crawl all over his palm. He's fascinated by spiders and catches them in jars for observation. I am resolved to let him explore his interests, and nothing can kill an interest more quickly than Mom getting all squeamish and shuddery and saying, "Ew!"
Plus this young gent is always up for a good prank. An ounce of prevention.... I figure I'm saving myself from future worms under my pillow.
7. Sometimes I forget to brush the boys' hair. You're no dummies. You've probably already figured that one out. I post lots of pictures. The fine young gents desperately need haircuts too. And I don't always keep their nails trimmed as neatly as I'd like. And
sometimes their feet smell like toast. I do wash and polish my children once in a while, you know. But sometimes I forget.
8. I hated Eat, Pray, Love (Elizabeth Gilbert). There, I said it. My secret is out. Everyone I know who has recommended the book to me loved it. Raved about it. "It's so good!" they said. I don't doubt it is, really. I trust your judgement far better than my own. I kind of liked the "Eat" part. It was a little charming but....eh. "Keep going, the middle part is the best, the part about India." Like, four people told me this exact same thing. So I kept reading. When I got to the point at which I wanted to give the writer a good long shake every time I picked up the book, I quit. And I never....rarely....give up on a book. I don't think I've ever before given up on a book that's entertaining and well-written.
9. Sometimes when I'm alone,
I talk to myself. Entire conversations, out loud. Sometimes I forget I'm not alone. Loving husband used to ask, "Who are you talking to?" Then he caught on, and he started asking, "Are you talking to yourself?" I always say "No!" indignantly. It's a lie. I am talking to myself. But I'm embarrassed. Now he's learned to ask, "Who are you talking to?" because I'm never really talking to myself. It's not embarrassing to mutter to oneself, "Let's see, where does this go? Oh, here it goes." It
is embarrassing to get caught holding a conversation, discussion or debate with another person when they aren't present. Once I told loving husband, "I'm talking to
you. And I don't want to talk about it right now."
I do win a lot more arguments that way. My biting wit and articulate reasoning seem to work best when I'm all alone and my conversational partner can only say things like, "Wow, you're so cool and smart." or "Gee, you're right. I'm so sorry."
10. Sometimes I say snarky things to my kids. But they're funny snarky things, so that makes it all right, doesn't it? Like yesterday when lovely lady moaned about having to "go in nature" and I remarked that in nature some mothers eat their young. I told her it was a good thing I'd just had a sandwich.
She didn't think it was funny.
Fine young gent, 5, the middle one. He's a quirky little guy. A still-waters-run-deep kid. Smart.
Less than a month later, loving husband and I were expecting the eldest of the fine young gents. That pretty much killed the romance. It's hard to be all lovey-dovey when you look green and pasty and feel like barfing every time someone even looks at you.
