Pacing

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I remember running track, a billion years ago. I ran long distance, and wasn’t particularly good at it, but I did manage to finish the races without puking or walking halfway. Those were my standards of success. But I do remember every time I hit mile two I would say to myself, “OK, slow down a little or you won’t be able to finish.”

That’s been me my whole life, with everything I’ve ever done. I spring off the starting line with a bang, and then later down the road realize I better start pacing myself. So that’s what we’re doing around here. We’ve been working so hard, for so long, at home and at work. We’ve had paint projects and parties and outings and dinners and late work nights until we’ve hit our two mile point. It’s time to slow down and pace.

That’s what this weekend is for. We’re not going out with friends. We’re not painting a room. Or moving furniture. Or hanging curtains. We’re keeping close to home. We’re going to sit on the patio with Jane and blow bubbles. We’re going to eat at the table. Watch a movie. Maybe forget where we put our phones.

When I finally do remember to start pacing,  I realize I really, really like it.

And Then There Was The Time My Little Sister Pooped Behind My Great-Grandmother’s Casket

Elizabeth HarrellLeave a comment

When I was eight, and Rebecca was two, our great-grandmother died. It was our first experience with death, and the visitation was sad and confusing. After it was over, the lights of the funeral parlor dimmed. It was late and the building was closing. Mother gave me a job, “Go get your sister. We need to leave.”

Like all oldest children, I relished being given tasks and sought to complete my missions with the maniacal gusto of an SS officer. I marched into the room and inspected it for signs of Rebecca. The lights on the stage illuminated giant swaths of pink carnations on stands. In the center was my great-grandmother’s coffin. Hundreds of empty chairs faced the stage. Rebecca was nowhere to be found.

“BECCA!” I hissed, hands placed on my 8 year old hips with an air of authority, “We have to leave! Where are you?”

The voices of my parents and extended family drifted in from the hallway. They were crying and exchanging goodbyes and here I was, task ridden with corralling my sister. Again. The sweet sensation of self-righteous persecution rose up in my chest.

And then I heard a resounding, yet muffled, “NO” from the depths of the shadows.

I marched to the source of the sound, which happened to be Granny’s coffin. 

Becca was crouched behind the coffin like a tiny unhinged mental patient.

“Come out from behind there!” I ordered, trying my best to show no fear, but truthfully I was totally freaked out about the whole situation.

“NO. Don’t look at me,” Becca stated, crouching even lower.

Rebecca was a childhood picture of angelic beauty. She had white curls encircling her face, tiny pink lips like rosebuds, but her voice left something to be desired. It was overly husky, with a booming quality that can only be compared to a logger like Paul Bunyan.

It was at this point Mother marched into the room. The funeral director was standing behind her, glaring at us. His thoughts were clear.

“Lady, get your kids out of here… I’m missing Jeopardy.”

Mom bent over and snapped her fingers, “Rebecca, come here to me right now.”

“NO. Don’t look at me.”

This meant only one thing. “Don’t look at me” was code for “I’m taking a giant crap in my pants and I’d like some privacy please.”

Mom reached into the shadows and gripped Rebecca’s arm, dragging her toward the door.

“Stop that, you need to potty in the toilet like a big girl,” Mom ordered.

“NOOOO! I will just do it in my pants.”” Rebecca boomed and the funeral director took a step backward, clearly unnerved by disparity between her cherubic looks and  the John Wayne-esque quality of her vocal chords.

And so it went. Mom would drag Rebecca a few feet and then Rebecca would crouch, straining with all her might in hopes that she might “just do it” in the comfort of her own pants and not have to rest her laurels on the cold, unwelcoming lid of a toilet seat. 

I glanced up at the funeral director and he gave me a half smile. He pitied me. I pitied myself.

But I didn’t know then that one day, that strange, crouching, diaper wearing, man-voiced toddler would be my best friend. Everyone always says that God has a sense of humor. I’ve heard that men’s nipples are proof. But I think sisters, women bound together by blood, DNA,  and childhood memories of poopy diapers behind caskets, are the greatest proof, and blessing, of all.

White Paint

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Our living room is officially white. No more beige. It was such a weird beige, with strange greenish yellow undertones that made everything look icky. I’ll never quite understand why I loathe most shades of brown on the walls. I see lovely linen colored walls in other people’s homes, and it’s lovely. I see dark brown bedrooms and think it’s so striking and dramatic. However I still hold stubbornly to the “no brown paint in the bathroom” theory. I mean, we all know that color doesn’t belong in the bathroom. It can mask the need for a good cleaning. You know what I mean.


All I know is now that that icky color is gone and everything is open and white I can breathe deeply again (with the help of Flonase of course). 


Now I just have to find the time to rehang art, but it’s so much more fun to play with Jane’s Minnie Mouse sunglasses.

 

The Janester and Me and the Phrase “I Don’t Know How You Do It.”

Elizabeth HarrellLeave a comment

“If evolution really works, how come mothers 


only have two hands?” 


― Milton Berle

There’s a phrase in the world of motherhood that is a passive-aggressive hot button. I never realized it until this week. I’ve used it myself before, and I didn’t understand the emotions it elicits until it reached out and slapped me in the face. Now I do. And here it is:

“I just don’t know how you do it.”

Let’s back track a bit.

A person I don’t know well, only through association, ran into me at Target the other day. We were talking about how crazy Saturdays are now that we have kids, packed with grocery shopping and errands and laundry. But then she patted me on the shoulder and said, “I just don’t know how you do it.”

My nostrils caught a whiff of condescension and I was instantly on the defensive. The difference between us is that I work outside the home, and she doesn’t.

First, let me preface by saying I’m not all about this whole mommy -wars thing. I think it’s dumb. I think if you love your child and you’re doing your doggonest to be the best mother you can be, a tip of the hat to you. I don’t buy into the rules, posed by various groups and factions. Breastfeeding. Formula. Working. Not working. Crying it out. Time outs. Organic food. Private school. Public school. Home school.

Blah, blah, blah.

In my opinion, these are the things that make a good mother.

1. If your child is teething, and clinging to your leg and crying all day, and you slip away to go the bathroom for the first time in six hours, and said child manages to get into the bathroom with you, and clings to your knees while you try to do your business, and then starts trying to pick your nose, and you don’t yell: a bronze good mother star for you.

2. If your child is a picky eater, and you work your head off putting together a plate with lots of healthy selections (avocados, chicken, strawberries, whole wheat toast), and your child pokes the avocado with their pointer finger, licks a piece of chicken, and then chunks the entire plate into the floor where the dog attacks it like Jaws, and you don’t start crying and having uncontrollable eye twitches: a silver good mother star for you.

3. If your child is throwing a fit because you didn’t remember to bring the sidewalk chalk outside, or your child is throwing a fit because you did remember to bring the sidewalk chalk outside but you put it on the patio table instead of on the ground, or your child is throwing a fit because you remembered to bring the sidewalk chalk outside, and you placed it on the ground, but for some reason the light blue color is missing, and you don’t pick up that box of sidewalk chalk and heave it into the middle of the yard like an Olympic javelin thrower on steroids: a gold good mother star for you.

So I’m standing there, receiving a sympathetic pat while the words “I don’t know how you do it” ring in my ears and I realized that the subtext I’m reading into that phrase meant several things to me. “You must not have time to be doing it right because you work.” Which in turn might mean “I don’t work and I have time to make lunches, and do laundry, and care for my kids and you don’t…”

But as I studied her face, I realized that in this case, she meant it as praise. I realized I was being too defensive. She meant that she admired the fact that I juggled a lot more balls in the air than she did on a daily basis. Or maybe not more, just different. And maybe she also meant she was relieved she didn’t have to. But that’s ok. That’s her business.

But I also realized I’m probably not going to be saying that to my stay-at home friends anymore. I don’t want them to think I think there’s something wrong with what they do. Or undesirable. Or unlivable. Because it’s their business. They’re good at it. And Jane is my business, and I’m good at it. And this morning I talked Jane into sitting on the potty, and she did, and she peed a little, and she was so excited she reached in to touch it, and promptly stuck her hand on my face to share, and I did not scream in horror or run away from her like the ebola virus.

I think that earns me a gold good mother star.