Christmas ADHD

It was a rough Christmas. To be honest, the entire holiday season has been a whirlwind of furious activity. When September arrived, I finally started feeling better. After one week shy of a year from the time my heart went haywire, I was finally starting to feel like my old self.

My old self took a look around and discovered my home was a mess. I spent several weeks scrubbing, cleaning, spackling, painting and barking orders at the rest of the household. New furniture was ordered and the place reorganized just in time to feed the multitudes for Thanksgiving. It took a week to prepare the food that would be devoured in less than two hours.

The next day I rested. Then it was time to prepare for Christmas. The days flew; the husband injured his shoulder at work. He needed care. He needed meds. He needed a doctor but convincing him of such is like trying to pull teeth on a tyrannosaur. We argued. I threw up my arms in surrender and tried to carry on.

The project this year was bath stuff—you know, soaps, oils, gels, salts, powders—all the stuff needed to enjoy a decadent bath, complete with chocolate truffles. What’s a luxurious bath without amazing chocolates? All of it had to be formulated, made by a caring hand for the women in the family. I turned my dining room into a laboratory.

Men don’t really care about luxuriating in a hot bath with fragrant salts and oils. For them it would be baked goods. The kitchen was turned into a bakery. I had to spend hours creating goodies and slapping the husband’s good hand every time he tried to sneak a treat.

Treats are a favorite of most men. They wander through life looking for some tasty confection to shove into their mouths. Grandma always said, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” I think some women should aim their culinary weapon more carefully. Some of them tend to cook for the wrong men and end up with broken hearts and fatherless children.

Oh, yeah—the child. In the midst of flurry and mayhem, the princess fell ill. She came back from the annual cookie baking at Grandma’s with a stuffed head and a slight fever. On Monday, I left work early to take her to the doctor. The poor kid had a sinus infection—or so they thought.

Missing time at work, behind on the gift projects and still trying to find time to do the shopping, Christmas was just a week away. The work week ended, the child was not improving. I was in the final push when she began crying in the night. Fortunately, I was still up furiously working away at getting things finished. At this point, I was no longer looking at the calendar, but at the clock.

The husband was pressed into taking her to urgent care. They sat there for three hours while the smoke hissed from my furious hands. The oven fired non-stop, with the aromas of various cookies mixing with the scents of lilacs, lavender, jasmine, oranges and cloves.

The salts spilled all over the floor.

I love my floor, durable hardwood that shines as highly polished wood should. I believe I wrote about the odyssey of having it installed. Home repairs always come with their own special problems. No matter how well you plan, how organized you are, something always goes wrong.

I have yet to paint the kitchen and dining room. Kitchens need fresh paint regularly, at least in homes where kitchens are used. I cook. I cook a lot. My walls are a mess. I really must get them done. Maybe I should paint them green. Green is a nice color for kitchens.

Where was I? The phone rang and the husband informed me the princess had strep. She was indeed very ill. That’s just fabulous. As I contemplated this new development, I set my bare foot in the spilled bath salts. Oh, yeah. Clean up the salts.

The timer went off and I couldn’t remember why I’d set it. Was there something in the oven? Butter cookies.

My husband loves butter cookies. He’d eat his weight in them every day, if I could bake that much. I would have to hide them if I wanted any left for Christmas presents. I had yet to wrap things and the daughter would be home soon.

So, I wrapped. Still working furiously, I had paper and ribbons strung across the living room floor. When she got home, she found a pile of packages covered in pretty paper. I told her she could decorate them with all the ribbons and trinkets from the wrapping box and turned her loose.

The husband returned to town to fetch meds and toilet paper. Antibiotics have an adverse effect on the digestive tract. I also asked him to get yogurt. It’s essential while taking antibiotics.

The day ended, the child tucked in and the next day was a mess. Not a surface in the main part of the house was clear. There were still cookies to bake, soaps to make, gifts to finish and a kid who was up in the night with an ear ache.

Ear pain is the worst. The poor kid has dealt with this since she was three months old. There is nothing more crazed in the world than a mother with a sick kid. When she’s in pain, I’d kill to have her healthy again.

Another dose of meds and a glance at the abandoned vacuum cleaner and I tried to remember what I was doing. The husband complained of throat pain. I demanded he see a doctor immediately. He told me to . . . Never mind.

Focus. Christmas gifts. Cookies? Tinsel is shiny.

The day sped by. It was a day when I cursed the Mayans. If the end of their calendar had meant the end of the world at midnight on the 21st, I wouldn’t be struggling to finish crap up. The Mayans were an interesting people. So much technology, so much violence. I wonder what they would think of our modern Christmas rituals.

The cookies are burning. I don’t even remember putting then in the oven.

There was a loud crash at the back of the house. I didn’t bother to find out what it was. It didn’t matter. I still had to clean up bath salts.

Cookie sheets loaded with balls of raw dough were shoved in the oven. Melted soap had to be poured into molds.

The kid was screaming again. The pain was unbearable. Her regular doctor could get her in right away. Get dressed. Now!

The strep was drug resistant. They put her on something stronger and recommended complete bed rest. Well, duh. It was Christmas Eve and Christmas with the family was just canceled. While driving to the pharmacy, I made all the calls needed to inform family, blew up at my sister who didn’t want to help get the gifts to my mother’s—after all the hard work—and got the kid home. The concern now was her infected eardrum rupturing. It did, later that night. It’s the first time it’s ever happened.

Christmas Eve. I’m in a panic. There are things to finish. My brother-in-law generously offered to pick up the gifts for my mother’s party. I suspect it was because I blew up at my sister, then called my mother to tell her I would bring the things myself , then my mother probably called my sister to tell her to cooperate and now the entire family is angry at me. I don’t care at this point. I’m still walking in spilled bath salts. I grabbed a broom.

The broom lay forgotten on the floor while I boxed, bagged, wrapped and tagged. It was all done when the man arrived. He didn’t look very happy. I’m sorry for that. Truly I am, but I shoved the thought to the side while tending the child’s pain. I put a pot of soup on, tripped over the broom and skinned a toe on the bath salts.

The husband announced he was hungry. The kid wanted to unwrap gifts. The sausage we were supposed to share with the in-laws for Christmas Eve dinner needed to be cooked. Forgetting completely about the soup, I started a loaf of bread to go with the spaghetti I was now planning.

The lights on the tree are pretty. It would be nice if I could enjoy it. I sat down to gaze at it. The kid announced she was hungry. I had to feed her because she was losing weight from lack of appetite. I just put a tray in her lap when the husband returned with some of her favorite soup from her favorite restaurant. Excellent timing.

I was done. Finally. After stubbing my toe on the broom in a pile of bath salts, I cursed and began packing all my supplies. The husband complained about the mess on the floor, but didn’t bother to help clean it up. Instead, he made a bee line for the piles of cookies I’d failed to hide.

The sun was shining on the melting ice outside the window. Shiny. The cat ran through the room and skidded on the salts. I finally remembered to clean them up, finished packing the supplies, put the centerpiece in place and headed for the living room.

“Can we unwrap presents yet?”

The child was finished with her lunch, patiently holding the tray with its uneaten remnants of food. Dropping a handful of tissue paper, I took the tray and tried to find a clear surface in the kitchen to set it on. It was a mess. The cat found something to bat across the floor and right underfoot. The dog chased after the cat. I tripped and knocked over a jar of bath salts.

To occupy the kid, I let her open a gift. It was a sketch kit, complete with everything a sickly child needed to occupy her hands. She was overjoyed.

I stepped in bath salts while carrying empty tea things to the kitchen and went in search of the broom. I found something that needed to be wrapped and went back to the piles of crap in the living room. Ribbons and bows and tape and paper—all over the floor. Decorating gifts is a creative talent of mine. I enjoy it. I don’t use those cheap ribbons available only at holiday time. I go to fabric stores and buy the good stuff. I use lace and ornaments and candy canes.

The husband growled about gritty salt under his feet.

I abandoned the living room mess and went in search of the broom. The kid wanted water.

The sausage was burning.

The dog was chasing the cat.

The stockings were hung with great care.

The last batch of cookies were disappearing down my husband’s gullet.

I forgot what I was going to write about. Christmas rituals? Insanity. Ooo, that golden ornament is shiny. Nice.

The Blessings of Life

7/3/10

It was a good week.  Hell, it was a grand week.  All things considered, it ended on a very high note.

At the end of last week, I thought things were pretty crappy.  I was facing a Saturday morning spent in overtime, followed by an afternoon of long-overdue washing in the musty, humid confines of our friendly neighborhood laundromat. 

My washer is dying.  My dryer isn’t in much better shape.  The house needs work—lots of work—and book sales ain’t what I wish they would be.  After spending $1200.00 to keep my lemon of a Saturn on the road, I’ve been running a bit short in the cash department. 

Summer expenses are the worst.  You shell out money for entertainment in the long summer days.  You pay for fancy summer schools to keep the kids’ minds engaged.  Then there’s air conditioning for those sweltering days and supplies to keep the sun from frying your skin and the bugs from eating you alive.  Vacations—even those spent at home—take a bite out of the pocket book.  And let’s not forget yard beautification!  It costs a pretty penny not to be the one house in the hood people cluck their tongues at.  Sigh.  Summer is expensive and the income remains the same as any other time of year. 

Ah, but I digress (like always).  It was Saturday and not starting out to be the weekend of my dreams.  So off to work I went, to spend some quality time trapped inside my stall at the cube farm.  Gratifying though it was to see I wasn’t alone in the world of financial crunch, I would happily have given anything to be anywhere else.  As I looked out over the sea of equally dismal faces, I wondered what these people would be doing if not stuck to an over-cooled office on such a fine, sunny day.  Would there have been pool parties, trips to parks with kids in need of parental attention, cookouts and picnics?  What price do we pay when we sacrifice our lives to the almighty dollar?

I stayed as long as I could stand—three and a half hours.  I promised to stay longer, but there comes a point when too much is enough.  I left.

The laundromat was fun.  I loaded two large carts with all the dirty clothes and bedding I had in the car and wheeled it all inside.  There was a lot of wash.  To say no one besides the driver would fit in my vehicle would be an understatement.  As it was, I had to shift with the load while I drove.

Once inside the stink of the place, feeling the sweat of other patrons hanging in the air and surrounded by the chemical stench of detergents and fabric softeners, and the aforementioned sweat, I wondered if the wash could wait another week.  As this thought was wending its way through my brain, one of the hampers tumbled off the cart and spilled forth on the floor.  No, it couldn’t wait.

I loaded up three four-load machines, two double-load machines and three single loaders.  After kissing goodbye to $25.00, I sat down to wait for the wash cycles to finish.  It was at this time I looked around at the other hapless patrons.  One thing I noticed was how shabbily everyone was dressed.  Yep, it was laundry day.  They were down to rags that were two sizes too small—a lamentable sight.  Apparently there is no dress code at the coin wash and I was over-dressed in my business casual. 

One woman kept yelling at her tweenies, while her husband/significant other rolled his eyes in frustration.  An older, tidy gentleman carefully guarded his two washers, stepping between them and anyone who dared wander too close.  A woman with the shape of a beach ball—with tiny head and short limbs—was intent upon telling me all about her horrendous health issues, going into vivid detail about the manner in which her many cysts were lanced.  A strange looking man was busily spraying every inch of every stitch of clothing he had with “Shout”.  Very odd.  My favorite, though, was the man with the braids in his long gray beard.  I’m just sure there’s a story there.

On the TV was some low-budget horror flick with bad acting and terrible animatronics.  The spectators were cheering for the monsters and laughing at the unbelievable panic of the nameless actors.  Ah, entertainment. 

When the washers finished, I began the arduous task of removing a couple hundred pounds of wet blankets, towels and clothing from my many washers.  The clientele of a laundromat is very territorial.  When I filled ten dryers along one long wall and staked out two tables for myself, I received quite a few nasty glances.  Tough ta-tas, ladies and gentlemen.  I got a lot to do and less time to do it in.

It’s been a long time since I’d been in a coin wash.  Did you know that you only get eleven minutes per quarter in a dryer these days?  I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve never been able to get anything dry in eleven minutes and I was running out of coins fast, so off to the change machine I went.

I passed by the guy guarding his washers and made the mistake of stepping too close.  He almost ran me down getting to them before I could steal his jockeys.  After waiting in line for the man ahead of me to scoop his change out, I slipped a twenty in the slot and heard that lovely clang of eighty quarters slamming into a metal tray.  “Jackpot!” I yelled and began snatching at the coins as if I’d hit it big in Vegas.  The manager was not amused.  I was by her expression though.

On my way back to the dryers, I noticed Shout-man was still hard at work spraying his trousers.  For a moment I thought of telling him about a new invention called laundry detergent, that you could just pour a measure in and, Voila! your clothes come out clean.  But then I thought maybe it was a kinky fetish of his.  One mustn’t interfere with another’s personal gratification.  I shrugged and went on.

Cyst-woman filled the last two dryers on the end of the row where I worked, taking the table next to mine.  Oh, goody.  A couple more hours of tales of gore and mayhem.  Joy. 

Another woman had come in with seven kids and several loads of wet laundry in tow.  She gave me a scathing look when she saw all the dryers I fed with coins.  The kids commenced to screaming and running the minute they came in until the biggest knocked me down.  Now, this boy was a huge kid, bigger than his rather large mother—but when she saw what happened, she laid into him until he squawked for mercy.  The shivering child found a chair in the corner where he sat quietly for the rest of my stay.  Cyst-woman began mumbling something about minorities who didn’t know how to control their children and I turned up the heat on the dryers.  Come on, clothes!  Cook up already.

I folded, put things on hangers and fed more coins into machines.  The older man, with his few items now neatly folded and tucked under his arm, made a point of approaching me.  He wished me a pleasant day before leaving and pointedly ignored everyone else.  How very peculiar.  Shout-man continued to spray his shirts.

Cyst-woman had finished the descriptions of her underarm cysts and boils and moved on to her copious amounts of stomach mucous.  I began making deals with the dryers.  “If you work a little faster, I’ll hook you up with that smart-looking washer over there.  You know she wants you.”  “Okay, look, just get the clothes dry fast and I’ll see you get a long vacation on the Island of Misfit Toys.  Help me out a little, will ya?”

Finally!  It seemed to take forever (four and a half hours actually), and I’d already made several trips to my car with loads of clean things, but it was all finished.  Big Mama smiled at me and apologized again for her clumsy son.  Cyst-woman seemed rather dejected that I was leaving.  Shout-man finally started his washers.  Braided-beard had a twinkle in his eye as he grinned and waved.  I still think there’s a story there.

Home again after a very long day, I carried the first basket of items in and set it down on the carpeting.  Something was different.  With a frown on my face, I looked carefully about the place.  Had hell frozen?  Was I losing my mind?  Was I hallucinating? 

The house was clean.  Not just tidied a bit, but really clean.  The furniture gleamed, the carpet had luster and the kitchen was spotless.  Even the kitchen floor sparkled from a fresh scrubbing.  Halleluiah!  I didn’t know what had happened, but I thanked the goddess of all celestial housekeeping for her kind intervention and went in search of my husband.  Every room I passed was tidy, beds made, things put away. 

When I found him, he said something to me that I’ll never forget:  “You worked hard today.  I don’t want you to do anything but relax.”

My response?   “Who are you messing around with and how did you get her to clean the house?”

Yes, I’m sarcastic and rude, but give me a break.  This was completely out of character for him.  He’s not above helping me on house-keeping day, but he so rarely ever takes the initiative, I couldn’t help being a little suspicious. 

Then I decided it didn’t matter.  If he was screwing around, he was forgiven.  Gentlemen, let me clue you in on something about women.  When our homes are in order, all is right with the world.  We become very happy creatures.  I came home to a clean house.  That’s all that mattered.  And he got a big hug, a big smile and a very sloppy thank you kiss from a very grateful wife. 

After everything, the weekend was going to be all right.  And it had stopped raining.  The constant monsoon that was our Illinois spring had finally trickled to a halt. 

Sunday dawned sunny and hot.  The air was so thick you needed a machete to cut off a chunk to breathe, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me.  The yard needed a lot of attention.  All the rain had done wonders for the flower beds and tomatoes, but the weeds were taking over.  I had to use a digging fork to pull them all out.  Then my daughter helped me move the piles of refuse to the compost heap—a mound that doubled in size as we worked.  Together we planted the cannas my beloved Aunt Alice so loved and installed the water fountain my mother had given me for Christmas. 

My house was clean, my yard was in better order.  Things were looking up.  Still, one thing bothered me.  The skeleton of my ruined gazebo stood over the barren patio I’d built with my own hands.  It’s such a sad sight.  Knowing I wouldn’t be able to replace what Ma Nature tore asunder really irks me.  I loved writing out there.

Ah, but that’s why I was putting in the extra hours, right?  It was to pay for those extras we just can’t afford at present.  Times are hard all over and I should be grateful I have a job to put the time into.  Still, it would be many weeks of overtime before I could buy a new one.  It wasn’t going to happen this year.

But my house was clean.  When I woke Monday morning, it was still clean.  Oh, how I love a clean house, waking up and walking across the smooth carpeting, fixing breakfast in a neat, tidy kitchen.  I was in a good mood when I drove my child to school.  It was the same when I left work that evening.  Tuesday found me again in a good frame of mind even though I worked late and Wednesday morning when I got up, I found a few things out of place.  No problem.  In ten minutes I had the place neat as pin again.

Wednesday at work was a bit rough and very long.  It seemed everyone I talked to was in a foul temper and bent on taking it out on me.  Life at a call center is a pain in the ass sometimes.  But I was determined to keep everything positive.  I drove home slowly, taking time to unwind—after working extra hours—with the windows wide open and the wind in my hair. 

Pulling to a stop at the edge of the driveway, I got out of the car to get the mail.  There was an envelope from my father.  I thought, this can’t be good, and took a deep breath before opening it.  There were two small pieces of paper inside.  The first was a note.  “Spend this however you want.  With love, Dad.”  That’s all it said.

The second was a check—a very large check. 

My hand went to my mouth.  My butt went to the concrete.  The man who lived across the street came running.

He demanded to know if I was all right.  I said, “My dad is dying.”

“What?”

I handed him the note.  He looked more than a little perplexed as he helped me to my feet.  “My dad isn’t wealthy,” I told him, “and it’s not like him to do something like this.  He must be terribly ill.”

Once in the house, I started dialing the phone while handing the message to my husband.  The line rang as I handed him the check.  He dropped back into a chair and started grinning.  I got my dad’s machine and disconnected.  Once I got my mom on the phone, I asked her if she knew where Dad was and if he was all right.  She started laughing and asked if I’d got the check from him.

He had conferred with her before giving the gift.  It seems he felt his kids needed a little something to smile about and had written a check to each of us—just because.  By the time I finally got Dad on the phone, I was near tears.  I could buy a new washer, get the floor in my kitchen replaced, rebuild the deck, buy a new gazebo and still have enough to make reparations to my dwindling savings. 

My house was clean and no more OT!  Freedom! 

I called my sister and asked if she’d opened her mail.  She informed me she’d been too busy having fun with the neighbors.  “Open it,” I told her.  She launched into a tale of her evening’s fun and I interrupted.  “Open the *bleeping* mail!”

A moment later she was sobbing.  “He’s leaving us,” she said.  “Something’s wrong and he’s not telling us.”  All I could do was laugh.  It was the same reaction I’d had.  “He shouldn’t be doing this,” she insisted.  “We don’t need it.  He needs to keep his money.”

It must be nice, I thought.  No, I don’t really need it either.  The money crunch for us will be over by the end of this month, but it’s a very welcome gift.  Knowing how my father is with money makes it all the sweeter.  It’s not that he’s not generous.  If I really needed money, he’d write me a check in the bat of an eyelash with no questions asked, but he went without a lot as a kid and the lessons of childhood tend to stick for a lifetime.  He is a very frugal man.

Driving to work Thursday was a fun adventure.  With the princess in the back seat chattering away and feeding off my mood, and the radio playing a favorite tune, we made our way through town.  The stop-and-go traffic didn’t bother me.  Even my old nemesis in his pearl-white Cadillac Escalade couldn’t rile me.  I made a point of driving along side him.  As usual, he was juggling his coffee, his cell and his paperwork.  Today it even appeared he had his laptop open in the passenger seat, watching the screen instead of the road. 

With a wicked grin, I gave the horn a little toot.  His coffee hit the windshield and the cell phone hit the floorboard.  As he wrestled for control of the steering wheel and turned to give me a deadly glare, I smiled and waved—not the usual one-finger salute of most mornings, but a genuinely friendly wave.  I think he was a bit shocked because he took on that deer-in-the-headlights expression and offered a hesitant wave of his own. 

The princess laughed.  It’s good to hear her laughter.  The poor kid has been feeling the strain of our tension over the past few weeks.  Today, she’s feeling much lighter and much happier.  Work was actually fun with a few troublesome members of the team gone a day early for the holiday.  My mood of joy continues, a feeling I tried to pass on to everyone I met.  The long weekend awaits and much happy work is ahead at home.

So, to that end, the new Fortress of Solitude is in a carton in my garage—ready to be assembled.  I’m in search of contractor to fix the water damage to my house.  Tomorrow we’ll be shopping for a new washer.  And soon I’ll have the husband swinging a hammer on the new deck.  Life is sweet.  It’s truly amazing what a couple of thoughtful gestures can do for a person’s outlook.