Dusting Off Some "Me Time"

The weekend here was positively glorious. Sunny, with a gentle warm breeze, sapphire blue skies dotted with whipped cream clouds, and my favorite temperature. 82 degrees. Surely you're not surprised that I have a favorite temperature?

Mac Daddy took the boys to the park to play some baseball Saturday morning. They gathered their gear, a cooler of snacks (that I admit to checking on the sly to ensure Mac Daddy packed the right stuff), and sunblock, thanks to my nagging (no word on if that was actually applied). Hugs and kisses, smooch smooch goodbye. Off they went, downright dancing down the sidewalk. My three boys, to whom I owe all this dirt and noise.

And then I clutched the powder room pedestal sink to keep from falling to my knees onto the cheap plastic stool and wept. Fat monsoon tears that I didn't even bother to wipe away. I gripped the sink to keep myself from giving in to whim and bashing the weathered pewter mirror in front of me. I stifled the bellowing scream bubbling up in my gut and let a snarl escape instead, a rather unfulfilling impostor.

No park for me. No breeze was to grace my face. I stayed behind at home.

Ah, the house to myself. Just me. Unplugged and Twitter free. Illicit, decidedly un-kid-friendly lyrics cranking at rock star decibels on the iPod, hot, strong coffee in my favorite travel mug and another full pot in the French press.

And me, hair swept back in a blue bandanna fished out of the dress up box, tattered purple tank tank top, supremely comfortable baggy jersey knit shorts, not a lick of mascara. Just me.

And a dustpan.
Broom.
Mop.
Murphy's oil.
Vacuum.
Sponges.
Rags.
Toilet bowl brush.
Stainless steel polish.
Method cleaner.
Dustbuster.
And those damned yellow rubber gloves.

You see, the only "me time" I get in my house is when I'm cleaning. Forget what I said before, now I regret firing my cleaning lady. First of all, cleaning my house makes me utterly irascible, while having a clean house makes me deliriously jubilant. The stream of pee around the bathrooms, thanks to two little boys and one big man, with poor aim, is enough to make me gag. You should hear me yell when I catch Bird leaning back to pee so he can (somewhat) aim and watch Kim Possible at the same time. He misses. Every. Single. Time.

And then there's all the dust bunnies.
Hair.
Fuzz.
Crunched leaves, twigs, and other signs of nature.
Sticky floors.
Crumbs.
Dust.
Fingerprints.
Hand prints in the least expected spots.
Toothpaste goop.
And all the usual suspects.

I. HATE. To. Clean.

The proverbial silver lining is this: I am all by myself when I am cleaning. That alone makes it more bearable.

No one is there to tug on me. I can pee in peace, whether the door is shut or not (and for the record, I have no issues with aim). I can eat three popsicles in one sitting, one in every flavor. I don't mentally tally up the constant chorus of "Hey, Mommy" in my exploding head. I don't have to endure knock-knock jokes or the Dragon Tales theme song. I don't have lunches to prepare or LEGO fights to mediate or bottoms to wipe or time outs to impose. There is no whining, bickering, yelling. The banshees have left the building.

And I am alone.

Me time.

Problem is, me time is not the same as time for me.

I suddenly don't feel so guilty about ignoring my family all day Monday while I curled up in the rocking chair on the front porch, with the ceiling fans on so I too could feel a breeze in my hair, to indulge in Twilight.

Sometimes I miss my little one bedroom apartment on Excelsior Boulevard. The one where I had a God awful floral wallpaper border in my nauseously girly bedroom, battenburg lace curtains, umpteem throw pillows on my bed, two walk-in closets, a tiny balcony covered in AstroTurf, a wall of mirrors in the bathroom, my very own stereo, even though it was just a little Bose shelf unit, and wall-to-wall carpeting. The same apartment where my Sunday paper was stolen on a regular basis. The same apartment that smelled ever so faintly of a potion of cat piss, stale Swisher Sweets, and bleach. The same apartment where doing laundry in the basement required a chaperon. The same apartment where I was alone but never lonely. Alone. By myself. Doing whatever the hell I wanted.

When time was all about me.

Paying it Forward

So the movie Pay it Forward actually kinda sucked. Am I wrong here? I mean Helen Hunt rocked it in her Mad About You days, and Haley Joel Osment was still cute then, but overall this movie blew chunks.

But the concept of paying it forward has really stuck with me. Call it karma. Call it divine justice. Call it what you will.

Case in point:

A tow headed young boy of four asks Santa for a train set for Christmas. The real deal. With lights, pretend steam blowing from the engine, tiny faux trees and conductors, a track that doesn't break if someone creaks on the floor next to it. A Lionel. Unparalled in the world of trainmanship. Yes, I realize that's not a word. Work with me and don't act as if you don't know what I mean. This little boy just wants a train set. A perfect train set. And so his grandmother goes on a hunt. A hunt for a steal. More than a bargain. She's become a highway robber.

Goodwill is about to answer this tow headed boy's dreams. Grandma finds a complete train set in fine working condition. For 90 bucks. Oh, excessive for a four-year old, but answering his dreams on Christmas morning is priceless. Thanks for ruining that term, by the way, MasterCard. Grandma collects the various cars, tracks, and accoutrements. She lugs it all to the counter and starts counting out her cash in fives and tens. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty...Eighty. Sounds of rifling through change, receipts, business cards, expired McDonald's coupons, to-do lists fill the air that seems to stand still. A lousy ten dollars short. No train for her fair haired grandson. Shoulders slumped, face forlorn, she gathers the pieces to return them to their spot on the shelf in back.

In sashays an old friend. "Why the long face?" she asks.

Grandma can barely summon an answer. She manages to faintly gesture to the train and mutters something about her four-year old grandson asking Santa for a train set. She's defeated and lacks the energy to catch up on niceties with this old chum.

"Ten bucks?! Why here's ten dollars! Merry Christmas to you and your grandson!"

And so the universe winked in its wily way, reminding her who's in charge.

You see, a few weeks ago this grandmother met a man at Goodwill. This very same shop. A man clean from months of treatment and job training. A man about to graduate to a new, sober life. He wanted to dress the part of success. He had borrowed a tie and had gently used pants in hand. Now if only he could find a collared shirt in which the collar buttoned snugly without choking his Adam's apple when he gulped. He relayed his story in casual yet ripely emotional conversation as they both pecked through the racks of discarded Joseph A. Banks oxford shirts. He hadn't enough money for a proper shirt and he dragged his feet as he somberly walked away, feeling spent, tired, sad,defeated once again.

Grandma slipped him a ten spot.

And the universe paid her back. Sobering indeed.

On marbled time.

My niece just emailed this to me. It is eerily in line with my post today so I had to include it. Ignore that it is an Internet chain. Just read it and take the message to heart. Marbles aren't just doled out one demand, you know.

Here's Nic's note:
"The older I get, the more I enjoy Saturday mornings. Perhaps it's the quiet solitude that comes with being the first to rise, or maybe it's the unbounded joy of not having to be at work. Either way, the first few hours of a Saturday morning are most enjoyable.

A few weeks ago, I was shuffling toward the garage with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other. What began as a typical Saturday morning turned into one of those lessons that life seems to hand you from time to time. Let me tell you about it:

I turned the dial up into the phone portion of the band on my ham radio in order to listen to a Saturday morning swap net. Along the way, I came across an older sounding chap, with a tremendous signal and a golden voice. You know the kind; he sounded like he should be in the broadcasting business. He was telling whomever he was talking with something about 'a thousand marbles.' I was intrigued and stopped to listen to what he had to say

'Well, Tom, it sure sounds like you're busy with your job. I'm sure they pay you well but it's a shame you have to be away from home and your family so much. Hard to believe a young fellow should have to work sixty or seventy hours a week to make ends meet. It's too bad you missed your daughter's 'dance recital' he continued. 'Let me tell you something that has helped me keep my own priorities.' And that's when he began to explain his theory of a 'thousand marbles.'

'You see, I sat down one day and did a little arithmetic. The average person lives about seventy-five years. I know, some live more and some live less, but on average, folks live about seventy-five years.

'Now then, I multiplied 75 times 52 and I came up with 3900, which is the number of Saturdays that the average person has in their entire lifetime. Now, stick with me, Tom, I'm getting to the important part..

It took me until I was fifty-five years old to think about all this in any detail', he went on, 'and by that time I had lived through over twenty-eight hundred Saturdays.' 'I got to thinking that if I lived to be seventy-five, I only had about a thousand of them left to enjoy. So I went to a toy store and bought every single marble they had. I ended up having to visit three toy stores to round up 1000 marbles. I took them home and put them inside a large, clear plastic container right here in the shack next to my gear.'

'Every Saturday since then, I have taken one marble out and thrown it away. I found that by watching the marbles diminish, I focused more on the really important things in life.

There is nothing like watching your time here on this earth run out to help get your priorities straight.'

'Now let me tell you one last thing before I sign-off with you and take my lovely wife out for breakfast. This morning, I took the very last marble out of the container. I figure that if I make it until next Saturday then I have been given a little extra time. And the one thing we can all use is a little more time.'

'It was nice to meet you Tom, I hope you spend more time with your family, and I hope to meet you again here on the band. This is a 75 Year old Man, K9NZQ, clear and going QRT, good morning!'

You could have heard a pin drop on the band when this fellow signed off. I guess he gave us all a lot to think about. I had planned to work on the antenna that morning, and then I was going to meet up with a few hams to work on the next club newsletter.

Instead, I went upstairs and woke my wife up with a kiss. 'C'mon honey, I'm taking you and the kids to breakfast.' 'What brought this on?' she asked with a smile. 'Oh, nothing special, it's just been a long time since we spent a Saturday together with the kids. And hey, can we stop at a toy store while we're out? I need to buy some marbles."

This little story sums up the philosophy at Chez Dirt & Noise. Mac Daddy is one of the few dads I know who is home from work every single night for dinner with the family. Every. Single. Night. He takes time to read to the boys' classes at school. He chaperones field trips, bakes birthday snacks, and checks the class wish list to ensure the teacher doesn't have to fork out her hard earned money for supplies. Mac Daddy and I share parenting. There's no fiscal versus household division here. Parenting and partnering are practically the same word, n'est pas?

We both know the boys' teachers' names and where the classrooms are. We can both whip up a healthy meal that doesn't involve a menu and speed dial. We can both bathe, dress, cuddle, love, and raise our children. On the flip side, we can both ensure the heat and phone are never disconnected. We can both pay tuition. We can both beef up the 529 plan.

The bottom line is that we prioritize our family. We won't get time back with Bird and Deal. Soon enough they'll be embarrassed for us to hold their hands as we walk into school. They'll go quiet at the dinner table. And sadly, come September, Bird will start school and officially spend more time of his day with someone other than me. So for now, we cherish our family time. It's not a duty. We actually enjoy each other's company, though it's obviously not a sleigh ride all the time.

We spend our Saturdays together. Sometimes it involves inane things like hitting Costco or getting the car washed. Other days we all go hit tennis balls, explore bugs at the science museum, or take a spontaneous road trip to the beach. We view everyday as Saturday and try to inject some family time. I hear too many horror stories from friends and colleagues who don't get to eat dinner with their kids, let alone prepare a healthy meal, miss kissing their children good night, leave in the wee hours while their wee ones are still sleeping, sending a nanny to videotape a school performance.

When Bird and Deal grow up they won't remember (or care) that Daddy (or Mommy, but since I work from home they're well aware that my office is the yellow room at the top of the stairs) had a corner office and worked 70 hours a week. Well, they'll remember the 70 hours but will have no idea who their daddy is. The bottom line is that we don't get time back. Our children will grow up and away in the flash it takes to snap a mental picture. And then poof, it's gone. Our little ones are suddenly taller than us (OK, not a big deal considering I'm five feet tall). Living in another state. Holding hands with a woman who isn't their mother. Not calling on Mother's Day. Life won't wait for us to close the deal, take the call, impress the boss, make the rain.

There's a fine balance to meet our family's needs in the here and now while securing a financially secure future. No one wants an epitaph to read "Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda." Use your marbles wisely.