Of Dust Bunnies and Other Domestic Horrors.

The plight of a working mother with two jobs is made worse with a choice. The choice was, do I continue writing, or give it up to be a better housekeeper, a better mother, a better wife. I gave it up—for almost a week. I found out I’m a better wife and mother if I can exercise my craft. I write, therefore, I am.

But that says nothing for my housekeeping. With only so many hours in the day—and night—something gets left out. Let’s face it, would anyone rather do housework than anything else in the world, say, even a root canal?

Each week, I squeeze out an hour or two to run the sweeper, man a dust rag and toss a few things in the laundry (only what’s absolutely needed to dress myself or my child) and spend the rest of the time in pursuit of the creative. Everything changes. Some changes are good.

Recently my day job offered the opportunity to work from home. I thought it over for a long time. It’s a lot to consider. Do I wish to always be in my own home, to never leave during the daylight hours, to not have coworkers surrounding me and laughing? As it turned out, I decided I could live with it. It was the advent of winter that sealed the deal. The thought of my pretty red sporty car on the snow and ice was enough to scare my hair white.

The things you discover when you’re in your own home twenty-four hours a day are mind-boggling. One of those things is that the housekeeping gene in my family is dominant. I thought it had skipped my generation. I thought it might actually be a disease that only affects those in my family such as my grandmother and my mother. We suffered through a childhood of demands, such as, “Pick up your shoes,” “Clean your room,” “Your turn to do dishes,” and “Is this where you found it? Clean up this mess!”

I now hear those words flying from my own mouth. I swore it wouldn’t happen, but it’s happening. The twelve-year-old princess is finding out what it’s like to live with a stay-at-home mom. I don’t think she’s pleased. Those chores do pile up.

For the first few weeks at home I tried to turn a blind eye. Then it hit me all at once. I’ve lost control of my life. There are things in my house that I’m ashamed of, other things I cannot find, and still other things so disorganized I cannot figure them out.

Then the new year hit. The Christmas decorations were stored away for another year and the place looked like a warmed-over version of hell. Still, I tried to ignore it. Nagging feelings of total chaos danced in my head. It even got to the point where I could no longer write. It’s too much chaos!

Things had to change, so, New Year’s resolutions:

1.       Clean this Mother Hubbard (censored expletive) of a house.

2.       Be kinder to myself and others.

3.       Wrestle back control of my life.

It came to a head one day while working at my day-job. I work for a call center, answer questions for those who call in and ask. There is no room for errors. So, as I researched the needed information, I was brutally attacked. That’s right, attacked. A small horde of vicious dust bunnies took flight and went for my eyes. Thinking fast, I put my caller on hold and went on the defensive, swatting and swinging until the nasty creatures were subdued.

After the call, I took my break and went on the hunt for that horrifying, unnatural being known as the domestic dust bunny. It was the dog who had flushed them from their hiding places. The evidence was quite literally written on her poor face in the form of fuzzy gray balls of fluff. She looked confused, upset and not a little terrified. Something had to be done. The malicious creatures had taken on life and were stealing the dog’s food and socks from the laundry monster. Unbelievable.

I was on a mission. Over the next few days I tore into each room, tracking and hunting, evicting spiders along the way as I sought out self-animated and self-aware dust bunnies. It was in the man cave where I found the breeding ground. I was at war and the stakes were high. At one point I even thought about using my husband’s old shotgun. I won’t tell you what I did about the thought, but the husband was not amused. The most difficult part was patching the holes in the floor, walls and door.

They’re all gone now.

Still, there were my goals for this year. There are things that stand in the way of such lofty goals—things such as the laundry monster and the mail beast.

The laundry monster is pretty well self-explanatory. We’ve all experienced such creations of our own making. The pile grows higher and higher until an avalanche threatens to destroy lives. After getting the many missing socks from the now-vanquished dust bunnies, the pile grew higher. I started on it straight away.

What to do while waiting for the laundry was to tackle the mail beast. This creature is a bit more rare. We don’t throw out our junk mail. We don’t have a shredder, but we have a fireplace. One does not fire up the fireplace in the heat of the summer, so one stores the mail until such time as a fire is feasible.

By that time, feasibility of a fire was not an issue. The mail beast was. It was too large to tackle. It was spreading its piles across the counters, reproducing asexually and making a bid for world domination. Cooking meals was becoming risky.

You see, it wasn’t a matter of scooping it off the counter and making trips to the fireplace. The problem was it wasn’t all junk mail. There were needed documents in the beast, documents that weren’t a priority, but needed to be sorted from the belly of the beast and filed away. Daunting at best.

So, while the laundry was going, and the dust was settling, the mail had to be sorted. I was well through it all, had most of it sorted into piles according to subject or into the flames when I ran across something startling—a letter from one of my best friends. It was dated July, 2013.

Chaos ensued and won the day while I stopped to read the coveted, rare, hand-written, post-marked letter. When was the last time you got such a rare treat? I nearly did a jig of joy. (Okay, I did the dance since no one was looking.)

The mail beast was left in its sorted piles while I answered the letter with five rambling pages of hand-written silliness. It had to be answered immediately. It had waited for an answer for six months.

The letter is now in the mail and when I glanced over, I saw that the beast was once more trying to retake it’s former shape, although much reduced in size. Meh, I’ll worry about it tomorrow.

Easter, Redneck-Style.

04/04/13

Here in Illinois, there are many Easter traditions. Most Christians go to church, spend time with family, hunt Easter eggs, fill baskets with goodies and remember the reason for the celebration: He is arisen. It’s a time of celebration and rejoicing, a time of reverence and gratitude. There’s ham and deviled eggs and readings of the Passion of Christ.

In Jewish households, it’s the time of liberation, the Pesach, or Passover. It’s about the Ten Plagues, a stubborn Pharaoh and Moses. It’s a celebration of the Exodus and freedom from slavery, a celebration to be savored with unleavened matzah and wine, song and ceremony.

Then you have Rednecks.

Nothing says Easter to my family like shootin’ stuff. Every year, on the Saturday before Easter, we get together with our arsenals; fill glasses with wine, pop caps off beer and yell, “Pull!” A clay target is thrown by some guy or gal with his/her hand on the lever of a strange contraption. It’s followed by a cacophony of gunshots, which we all hope will eventually splinter the target into black powder against a blue sky.

I like to shoot. There was a time—with youthful good vision—when I never missed. When I stepped up to the line, most of the men would step back because they knew they would never get a chance with me shooting against them. One of the proudest moments of my life was when my grandfather, a seasoned duck hunter, put his gun down and vowed to shoot no more because his granddaughter out-shot him. I still grin when I think about it.

This year, a new target was introduced—the exploding target. It was stationary, set in the field to await its fate. It’s essentially a plastic jar wherein two chemical components are introduced to each other and mixed thoroughly. All one must do is shoot the thing and duck and cover. The trouble is you must hit the target.

I didn’t get a chance to shoot at it.

Many others did, though. Shot after shot rang out as they tried to hit the tiny jar in the distance with hand-guns and rifles. I got tired of watching and walked back up toward the house. I should never have turned my back. A moment later, I was covering my head and looking for a hole to dive into. An explosion rang out over the hills. It was a boom of deafening proportions. When I chanced a glance back, billows of yellow smoked filled the air above a crater in my father’s unplanted cornfield. For a minute there, I thought we were under attack.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: guns, alcohol and explosives? My God, what about the children?

Fear not, dear readers. Those children were right there where they should be—in the thick of it all. They shot guns, kept score, tried to out-shoot, out-talk, and out-do each other all day. Hey, they’re not your kids. They’re redneck kids. My nephew brought in his first turkey when he was only seven or eight, and he did it with a bow. He has a good eye and was proud to bring home dinner. My daughter shot her target pistol like a pro and earned the envy of every boy there.

But . . . with all those guns and all those kids running around, you’d think it was a recipe for disaster. No, not in this family. Anyone who grows up with guns in families such as ours has a healthy respect for them. We all learn proper safety, proper handling and proper care. A gun is not a toy, it’s a tool. Like any tool, it’s to be cared-for and respected. That’s the way of it.

So, no, no one was hurt—unless you count all the sore shoulders from shooting all those long guns. Mine still aches. But guns are not the downfall of such gatherings. It’s when the guns are put away for the day because Ma Nature decides to rain on our parade that you need to worry.

That’s when the ATV’s come out. That’s when the kids really run wild. When you have the entire big farm to run wild on, you don’t worry about freaks and weirdoes or drunk neighbors driving home from the local bar. Hell, you just don’t worry. You let the kids have their freedom. Freedom is in short supply for city kids. Farm kids have it made.

So, a myriad of four-wheelers and go-carts were at their disposal. Fun things, these vehicles in the hills and forests of the farm. With a tank of gas, you can go all night in the spring mud.

But it’s all fun and games until someone flips a go-cart.

There we were, the adults of the party, ducking into sheds and outbuildings to get out of the soft drizzle that added to the mud. I’d just watched my kid ride off with her cousin at the wheel. My mom alarm was going off. I had a strange feeling I shouldn’t let her go, but she begged, “Just one ride before we leave? Please?”

“A short one,” I told her. Then to her cousin, “Be careful and go slow.”

It was a short ride. With my niece at the wheel and my grinning child in the passenger seat of the go-cart, I watched them speed up the hill and disappear into the trees. They were followed by my other niece’s boyfriend on a four-wheeler. I stepped into the shed to wait with my mother, my sister and a few others. I didn’t wait long.

It turned out to be a very short ride indeed. The four-wheeler came flying down the hill and over the creek and to a skidding halt in front of the shed. My daughter was on the back with terror in her eyes. The boyfriend said, “They flipped the go-cart.”

It’s funny how those words can galvanize so many adults into action. I was on her in an instant, thinking my little girl needed to be picked up. I’d seen that look on her face before when she was six and had broken her arm. I knew something terrible was wrong, but she wasn’t six anymore. She’s twelve. She no longer weighs forty pounds.

Still, a mom in such a situation can do miraculous things. I lifted her from the vehicle and stood her on the ground. Grandma was suddenly there, shoving me aside, demanding to know what was wrong.

Hello, I’m the mom here.

Then Grandpa showed up and tried to shove Grandma aside. Auntie was there, too, trying to get into it. Before I knew it, my parents had taken over and I couldn’t get next to my kid.

Ah, well . . . They’d raised the three of us—and we were a real handful. There were broken bones, open wounds, cracked heads. I suppose I could defer to the more experienced ones, and my dad had some first-aid training.

Dad declared it to be a sprain. Mom decided she’d take her to the hospital. I raised a brow. Um, I guess I’ll get the insurance card and meet you at the car.

Mom drove. We took my child to the ER at our little hometown hospital. It’s a very nice hospital with a good trauma ward. Yep, her arm was indeed broken, in the shaft of the radius. Crap.

The good doctor spent a good amount of time lecturing about safety equipment such as helmets and pads. Yeah, okay, I get it. Next time, listen to the mom alarm. Visions of my child’s head or spine crushed under the roll bar of the go-cart flooded my mind. I wanted to smack him.

If he shot me the hairy eyeball once, he did it a dozen times. He wanted me to be ashamed, to feel the guilt of a mother who failed to protect her young. Next time, I won’t put the guns away. Next time . . .

We got back to the farm with the kid’s arm wrapped from fingers to shoulder. The molded splint was bigger than her head. She was in pain, had missed her dinner and wanted to go home. We had prescriptions to fill, it was late and her father kept calling. Of course, I didn’t answer until we were on the road for home. We were supposed to be leaving just after he had, but that was hours ago. I’d called him from the hospital after saying a silent prayer of thanks he’d already left when the accident occurred. Nothing says “emergency” like a father on a rampage.

We got home shortly before midnight and spent a quiet Easter Sunday at home with no ham and no deviled eggs. I just wanted to forget the holiday—or all holidays. Given our track record of late, boycotting the holidays wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

So, the moral of the story is, don’t stop shootin’ stuff. If you do, someone’s bound to get hurt.