Have you seen this woman?

I'm finding that this 'life' thing calls us (often) to experiences, chores, events we might not have considered even yesterday.  It happens to me quite frequently.  How about you?

Do you have a bathroom?  Do children enter that bathroom?

I enjoy my children.  I don't enjoy my children's bathroom.   I have nothing against bathrooms, in general.  I don't, however, frequent the water closet of my offspring.

Apparently, children can completely destroy a bathroom in well under a minute.  It is messy.  There is toothpaste everywhere; even if the counters have just been cleaned. They also have different ideas about when it's time to empty the trashcan.  In their world, it makes sense to continue filling the trashcan, even after the trash at the top is taller than the trashcan below.

A children's bathroom with girls brings many bottles of very smelly substances which are a 'must-have' at every dollar store visit.  None of these bottles have tops, all are half full and each of them has spilled a bit.  The counter in a children's bathroom is very sticky.  And usually the dental floss, from the one time in the last year that they've flossed, is laying atop other restroom debris.

My children don't have a grand excuse for the mess, as we (at their insistence) employ the 'family bathroom.'  Apparently, the shower in our bathroom is better, our mirror is bigger, and it's more fun to throw the towels on the floor in our bathroom than in theirs.  That said, there is very little activity in my children's bathroom - very little.  It should be spotless.

My ultra-crafty children did figure out a good use for their empty toilet paper rolls - each time they don't put a new roll on the fixture, they just toss the old empty roll in the tub.  I mean, that makes perfect sense, right?  No one is bathing in it.

The problem arises when we have visitors, as this children's bathroom is the one the lucky guests of Chez Graham must share with said children.  And I blame the entire disrepair on them - except for one part.

Years ago, in an effort to attain and maintain the utmost sparkly clean, I poured a whole bunch of something very strong.  I'm unable to remember exactly what it was, but it did irreparable damage to this toilet already destined for a miserable life in the children's bathroom.  At first glance, one would assume that the toilet is a bit stained and unclean.  Upon further investigation, however, you notice that the discoloration is nothing more than the large patches where my attempt at cleanliness stripped the bowl of it's bright white shiny paint and left amoeba-like patches a nice shade of light brown.  (Just so you know, that is the color of your toilet when the paint is not on it.)

So, here we are.  We are left with a bathroom only inhabited by my ever-so-tidy children and our poor, unsuspecting guests.

As much as I'm against it with every fiber of my being, sometimes it must be cleaned.  Many times I pretend that I actually believe that what my children deem clean really is and I let it go.  Other times, though, for the well-being of loved ones like Pop and Baba; I must dare to go where I oft-times consider way out of my comfort zone.  From time to time, I must enter.  I must wage war on the long, skinny room in the very center of our home, carrying any instruments of aide and every liquid in a spray bottle.  I have to rise up, be an adult, breathe from my mouth (allowing no stray germs to enter my bloodstream through my nasal passages) and go in.  I have to do it.  I signed on for this.

Sunday was just such a day.  The trip in was a necessity.  I was the one.  I had to go.  I found myself wondering what you all look like when you enter your children's bathroom, after I used a t-shirt tied around my head to ward off any strange smells.  I rushed past the mirror and did enjoy a tee hee at the sight of the circumspect individual vowing to cleanse the bathroom.

It was when I had to complete the suit of armor, though, that I decided the look must be preserved for posterity (or maybe just until my children have children or get a job as a bathroom attendant at the airport).

I had just returned from a quick trip to the Dollar General for cheap cleaning supplies and was quite eager to employ them in my quest for clean.  Unfortunately, I neglected to review the directions for using the lemon-scented ammonia.  I really went for it, wanting all I could get to assist me, and I poured out half of the bottle over the counter top, sinks, and toilet area.  (I guess I didn't glean much from the incident a few years ago when I caused the stripping of the toilet finish.)

If you are familiar with the side-effects of ammonia, you may already know where this is leading.  If you've been in my home and know that there is no window in my children's bathroom, you may  realize that it was bad.  The air was filled with the most evil fumes I've smelled in recent memory.  My eyes watered, my throat stung.  I was in it, though.  There was no turning back.  I couldn't walk away and pretend I hadn't noticed that no living thing could survive if they entered the bathroom.  I couldn't poison my children.  I had to finish the cleaning.

So, my friends, I grabbed the swim goggles I found on the side of the tub in my bathroom, armored myself and went in. I wanted you to see how to dress if you find yourself in a similar situation.  I want this blog to be a help for you.  I want to be a source of home-maker help.

If you ever have to wage war on the space called a children's bathroom or if you ever pour out half of a bottle of ammonia (lemon scent doesn't seem to help with the fumes), I have two pieces of advice.

Never stop singing, "I am Woman, Hear me Roar," and dress like this:

And now for the news on who won the WHAT IS IT? contest yesterday!

This was the photograph:

And this is what it was:

The winner, chosen at random from among the correct guesses is Adrianne I.

Way to go - let me know when you are ready for your session - I can't wait!  

As usual, one of the most interesting things about the mystery photo contest was the guesses - all of the incorrect guesses were the same  All of the people who guessed incorrectly guessed that the photo was a picture of a safety pin bracelet.  That's so interesting.  Apparently, right or wrong, our eyes do a lot of the same things!

Thanks for playing everyone - plan to try again next Monday.  

Feeling a tad bit better . . .

A few truths I must share  . . .

1. From time to time my trusty minivan (sexy bastion of coolness that it is) has been known to be a bit messy.
2. Often I find rare relics of petrified food that I remember we had long, long ago.  
3. Some of my children's friends jumped into the way back seat a couple of days back and shrieked at the leftover corner of an Egg McMuffin.  (They simply tossed it out, affording neighborhood birds a dandy, cheese-filled treat.)
4. Once we were driving down the road, ran into my oldest daughter's best friend and invited her to come along with us to dinner.  She was barefoot, so she couldn't go.  'Problem?' you ask.  No problem - we found a pair of her shoes in the backseat!  
5. Many times I can find just the art supplies a friend in need needs, just by opening up the back hatch.

And one more thing:  I believe one should not use the plight of others to feel better; that it is wrong to put others down in an effort to build one's self up.

However, I will now do just that. 

I offer my apologies in advance.

The photograph below makes me feel better.  It does.

Recently I exited the local QT, and this is what I saw.  I stood still, mouth agape.  I stared in amazement.  

I stood taller.  I felt better.  I circled the car.  I looked into all of the windows.  And I waited to see who returned to the car.  I even felt like such a maven of car cleanliness that I stood to take a photo.  I couldn't pass it up.  I just couldn't.  

I never saw the person who owned the car, but I did notice that there wasn't much room for a driver.  There was, however, just about anything else any human could ever want - perhaps in an entire lifetime.  

In an effort to protect the as yet unknown identity of the car owner, I have cropped the photo close.  That's the least I could do.  

The he or she who drives this car gave me a great gift.  

Since this sighting, I have sat up straighter in the driver's seat, I have (mostly) ridded the car of some debris (every few days) and I am confident that as of this writing, there are no rock hard french fries in the floorboard of our van.  

Life is good, though I do worry a bit that we won't have what we need in a pinch.

Parenting perfection . . .

Every now and then, things are just wonderful.  You know what I mean.  The sun is shining (it always is when you have this feeling), the little folks in your home are not killing each other at that exact moment and for no particular reason, you just think you're a swell parent.   Usually (as in any other arena when you begin to think too highly of yourself) one, two or three children burst your bubble and send you plummeting back to earth - but for that moment, that one shining moment, your home could be on a television show.

I remember one day a few years ago when I began to have those magic thoughts inside (Deana, Deana, Deana, you are really a great one.  You are THE mother today; these children are so, so lucky.)  I should know by this point that the immediate second that I think anything like that, I should STOP - I will soon be shown it untrue.  But, alas, we go with it.  For one fleeting particle of time, we relish the thought that we might be doing some wonderful things and our children just might not parade their childhood years in front of God and everybody on the Oprah equivalent of their day.

On this particular day, my children each had a friend or two over.  I had cleaned off (well, used a one-armed swipe to slide the stuff into a large bag) the kitchen island.  I had introduced those poor souls (who had never known the thrill of victory) to the sheer joys of shaving cream.  I was changing their lives, one pile of cheap sudsy cream at a time.   The babes giggled as they created masterpieces of mountains and flowers, they tossed blobs of the slimy mess onto each other, and I - oh great I in my laid-backness just giggled happily.  It was an illustration for all of you, from me, the great one.

With a smooth segue from shaving cream to pizza fixings, we cheerfully cleansed the artful island to make room for our next adventure in fun moments.  Out came all of the ingredients of a tasty pizza - whatever you could dream of - all in little bitty bowls to make it even more precious.  The children were delighted.  One little dab of shaving cream on each bitty turned up nose and a plop of pizza sauce upon every chubby cheek.  Each child stood happily on a chair, enabling them to reach all of the needed parts of their own pizza extraordinaire.  It was surely a moment they would never forget.  It was beautiful.  I pitied the poor parental fools who weren't like me, who didn't understand the secret of these moments.  I was sorrowful for their boring souls - those regular parents, the ones who didn't come up with these unforgettable afternoons.

Some of the memories have left me now, but I am certain that some cheerful children's music played at just the right volume in the background; learning songs created just for the moment, I am sure. Other children in other places must have been thrown idly in front of their televisions, sad and bored, but oh no - not at my house.  I was in the middle of parenting bliss and victory.  I was good.  I was managing many.  They were happy.  They were engaged.  They were creating.

And there I was, thinking about how darn easy it all was, how sad I was for those around me who just couldn't figure it all out.  Poor things.

(Here is where I would make the loud car-brake sound if I knew how to spell it.)

Here are but a few of the things that happened in the next milli-second, the one following my thinking I was such a divine instrument of parenting perfectness . . .

• one child slipped off of the chair and began crying
• someone's shaving cream from their shirt got a little bit mixed up in the pizza sauce
• there were not enough pepperonis to go around
• a couple of the children did not realize that the same hand motions used in manipulating shaving cream were not the same motions needed in pizza assembling
• one child tired of the pizzas and grabbed the can of shaving cream
• two children began to argue, thus sending a few of the toppings into the air
• another child slipped off of a chair
• there wasn't really a great way to mark each child's creation to be identified after the baking
• a couple of the little darlings weren't really hungry
• and then - worst of all - one of my darlings looked up at me, with big beautiful brown eyes and asked the unthinkable - "Mama, what are we doing next?"

WHAT?  Next?  Next, everyone under the age of forty will be air-lifted from the kitchen through a hole I will now blow myself and flown to another continent! And we will never ever use shaving cream again or make pizza again or maybe never eat again - that's what's happening next!  Got it?

Hmmmm.  Maybe that wasn't one of those moments of parenting utopia I had thought two and a half minutes before.  

But, even though I know better, they still happen . . . had one the other day.

And, I believe tomorrow I'll tell you all about it.  

The other perspective heard from . . .

I've been considering perspective quite a bit lately.  I'm leading the "Photography Club" at my children's school; I speak to them often about using different perspectives to 'tell' the story, to get different points of view.  I've had the kids do all sorts of activities to work on broadening the way they view various photo opportunities.

The kids love working with perspective; and as I suspected, they pick up on things more quickly than us adults.  One of the first rules of photography is to make sure that you, the photographer, are constantly willing to move to get the best shot.  A photographer has to move herself when she needs a new view.  It's a serious no-no to have your subjects have to move, and we are yet to figure out how to move objects like the sun, the trees, etc.  Kids have no trouble with that - they are quick to move, to look at things with a  new eye, to find a different approach to the same old scene.

They have enjoyed playing with perspective, too, loving to 'manipulate' the end result by changing the angle or the distance with which the photographer shoots.  It's fun to have your friend move to the end of the hall, another friend stand just feet from you with their hand held up and take a photo that makes the viewer imagine that the closest friend (the one that looks like a giant) is holding the tiny friend (the one at the end of the hall).  You can imagine all the fun that a group of kids with digital cameras can come up with to alter reality a bit to create a different scene.   No one can resist that fun!

The kids have learned about how to shoot to make the subject look large and imposing and they've learned how to make the subjects look tiny and diminutive.  They have learned to integrate photos from every angle, every side, different distances.  They love this stuff - the moving around, finding the best spot, the best way to understand the subject.

Again this morning, I was the student and my son was the teacher.  He stormed up the stairs with a loud battle cry that reminded me (loudly) that I needed to practice what I was preaching about looking at things from different perspectives.  Don't you just hate it when your lessons get thrown in your face?


I'll spare you many details, as many of them are not proper fodder for discussion.  Here is the Cliff Notes version of the morning drama . . .

Our dog, Sadie, is a fine dog.  She's sweet, obedient, and we argue over who she loves best.  Hands down, they don't come any better than Sadie.  She was a rescue dog, and we are always happy that she rescued us.  Sadie turned eight years old last summer.  She jumps around like a puppy when she's happy and runs like a greyhound, but we are reminded when we go to the veterinarian that she is 'getting on up there' in years.

She came to us trained and ready, thank goodness, and there was never any house-breaking tasks on our part.  Lately, though, she has begun to leave us some 'surprises' in the morning.  Not every morning and not a big mess, but a mess we don't much want to clean up in the hurried craziness of the school day.  We know when she has had an 'accident' before we go down the stairs because Sadie is a very bright dog.  On the mornings after her offenses, she quietly paws her way up the stairs, gently snuggles herself into the warm bed, leans against one of us and nods off in innocent sleep.  She does all of this just minutes before our normal wake-up time.

Alas, we wake the kids, turn up the heat and make our way downstairs to the mess.  We know it before we see it - it's there.  We clean it up, while the offender slumbers above.  We wait until she comes down and then we show her the mess, force her to get close to it and we say, "NO - SADIE, NO!"  Our children think we are abusing her and they run for cover.   They don't want to see or hear this horrible scolding.  (I must add here that this 'scolding' lasts less than two seconds and never reaches the decibel level of the voices of our children.)  This scolding is not horrible.  It is, though, the only thing we know to do.  We try hard to make sure Sadie gets plenty of outside time, we take her out right before we go to bed, and we hope for the best.  Other than this tiny behavior management tool (which, apparently, isn't working), things go along unchanged.

This morning, though, Harry stormed up the stairs to save himself from witnessing the torture, tore open my door and flew his tear-filled self onto my floor.  "I can't take this anymore!  I can't take it!  How can you do this?  What do you do when you need to go to the bathroom?  You go!  What do I do when I need to go to the bathroom?  I go!  Every night before bed, you remind me to get up and go to the bathroom whenever I need to.  Every night!  How can you get mad at Sadie for doing what she's supposed to do?  I can't take it any more!"

Well, there I was.  I had one eye sufficiently mascared.  We were late.  But there he was, in my space, reminding me to look at things from a different perspective.  He got me.  I woke up.  I was reminded.  I quickly told him he had a point.  I thanked him for reminding me.  I put mascara on the other eye and vowed to look at things differently.

And I will.  I'm not sure what we'll do to change the situation.   I doubt it will go away.  I imagine it's here to stay.  It's a small price to pay for the enormous gift of Sadie.  And this morning, Harry gave me another gift.  He threw my own lesson right back on me.   I DO use the bathroom when I need to and I WILL look at our little dilemma with new eyes.  I WILL.  I've been practicing all morning and I'll keep on trying.

Here's to looking at things with new eyes, from someone else's point of view, from a different side, a different angle and remembering that sometimes I have to move myself when I don't understand the situation.  Thanks, Harry.

I'll get to that or maybe not.

I trust that with just a glance at the above two photos you quickly concluded some of the things that this blog WILL NOT be.

I'll elaborate just a bit for those of you who aren't quite sure. While these things are admirable and often coveted by me, this blog WILL NOT contain . . .

• photos of my home-made bolognaise sauce, from tomato seed to garden to shabby chicly (I know that's not a word; I made it up.) organized kitchen to bubbly goodness in brightly colored Le Creuset to extended farm table on the porch with family and friends of all ages enjoying the delicious, colorful, nutritious goodness while mason jar candles sway in the light summer wind.
• tales of the sheep and I together, beginning with that that first shearing and ending with antiqued photos of the sheep being cuddled by my three children in their mother-knitted sweaters for the cool fall hikes along the river's edge.
• a pdf. of the shopping list I've designed, with spaces for notes about which store I visit for which staples and symbols for coupons best to use at each location.
• my tips for organizing the linen closet, neatly enclosing each sheet set inside the matching pillow cases, labeled shelves for each bedroom's linens and that uncluttered area saved especially for readying the home for guests.
• how-to's on "last minute breakfast ideas for hurried school mornings" and "welcoming the children home with loving treats at the end of the school day."

My truths aren't like that - those aren't part of my story. I may spend too much time worrying about not pulling off the "Martha Stewart with scruples and a loving touch" but I just checked to see that the Le Creuset oval dutch oven is $234.95 and I am involved in other pursuits.

Truth is:

• My pots and pans don't match, though there are some really nice pieces that have held up since the wedding and we gave Tim a cool wok for Christmas. Last night, I proudly prepared and served a delicious and nutritious slow-cooked meal that everyone devoured- when Emma and I bragged to two friends what a scrumptious, garlic-infused dinner we had enjoyed, they simultaneously asked, "Where'd y'all go?"
• I don't have a sheep. I did lovingly raise four chickens from birth to adulthood at school last year, coddled them, photographed them, taught children to love them, cleaned up after them, talked to them, chased after them on Washington St., and learned their different sounds (really). I can sew, but not on a sewing machine; and when my children need patches 'sewn' on for scouts, I much prefer the sticky stuff that binds the badge to the material into eternity.
• I have been a coupon person, and I hope to be one again. I have known the feeling of 'beating the man' at the Publix, leaving with a "saved" total larger than my "paid" total. I just couldn't keep it up, though. I couldn't win the race. I quit. I did. I just wasn't in it to win it. I bowed out. For now, I am eternally grateful that Tim is willing to do the grocery shopping far more than me.
• I organized my linen closet once, and I found a lot of neat things. I found a stained glass window that Tim bought before we married. I found pictures in frames that were on my desk at my job in Raleigh in 1998. I found some gifts for 'that special someone' I had bought right when we moved into this house nine years ago. I found a lot of ball point pens - many, many. And a large plastic red and white clothespin. I did organize the sheets in sets, and it looked great. I felt so good whenever I opened that closet. I did.
• This morning at breakfast, I signed papers, Tim laughed with the kids, Molly looked for 'needed' art supplies and ate the gluten-free, sugar-free breakfast she prepared herself, Emma ate - oooooo, I'm not sure what Emma ate, and Harry ate birthday cake from his friend's birthday dinner last night. Really. I haven't yet prepared this afternoon's loving, tasty and nutritious welcome home from school snack.

So that clears that up. I want to do those things; really, I do. You could say that I am somewhat of a procrastinator. Or, you could wait until later to say that. Or you could write it down on a list and just know that you'll say it later.

Sometimes I don't get to the things I want to get to. I wanted to get the house beautifully decorated for Christmas, with lights strung from the rooftop to the lowest branch, all for my children to love. I did. The photos above were taken this morning on the front porch, January 5, 2012. This is part of my 'claiming what makes me special' campaign. Two days before Christmas Eve, Tim surprised the kids with blinking lights on a few bushes on the left side of the house. They loved them! On Christmas Eve morning, Harry and Emma took the box of lights to the front porch, faces aglow with anticipation of the spectacle they would soon create. They took down the groovy carving that hangs on the back of one column and carefully strung lights two thirds of the way up the post, using wide blue painters' tape to secure the hold. They still hang there proudly. Today, the box still sits on the small, Granddaddy-made picnic table to the right of the door, and the groovy tree carving rests atop, as if he patiently awaits his return to view. All of that is true.

Let's face it; the house didn't shine out as our neighborhood's example of taste and beauty in celebration of the birth of our Lord. We don't have our Christmas decorations 'put up' and our tree proudly stands now to celebrate Epiphany tomorrow. I didn't have small, decorated gift bags for those un-announced friends that drop in and the last minute art project we tried two days before Christmas didn't exactly work and has been 'taken care of' by Tim.

All of that is not to say it was not a holy and wonderful celebration. It was! I was late, as usual, at doing some of the things that needed doing. But we did 'press pause.' I could tell you stories, and maybe I will, of the fun that Emma and I had gluing together a wreath out of cheap, shiny red balls. I could tell you about the singing that I heard from sun up to sun down from Molly, as she 'hung out' and went about her days off. I could tell you about the "hole" that Harry and his friends dug in the back yard and how it became a lake and how proud they were and how gorgeous the new water feature is. (Okay, not that last part.) I could tell you about all of the laughing we did and the way the fire went non-stop on Christmas day and about the way my grandmother ended up telling us old stories about how great it was growing up, poor, in a mill-town, surrounded by family and friends as far as she could walk. I could tell you about how I am still cleaning up sheets and blankets and pillows from all over the house because there was family and friends and neighbors who played and laughed and spent the night and stayed lazy in the mornings. I procrastinated, as usual. I did. But somehow it always works out. Stuff gets done and some amazing things happen that can't be planned for.

Just now, as I took a break from cleaning to get edit some photos and then took a break from that to work on this blog and then put that off for just a minute to check out what was happening on Pinterest, I found this:

The work you do while you procrastinate is probably the work you should be doing for the rest of your life. -Jessica Hache

So, for now I think I'll write a blog and take photographs of people I really dig!