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Sunday, May 22, 2005
trying on a new reaction
[I started writing this on Friday afternoon and am just now finishing and posting it]
This is a pretty standard parenting day. That is to say, lots of joy, dotted with frustration. We're cleaning. You might ask, "when are you NOT cleaning, Rachel?" To which I would answer, "only when I stop to be lazy and let things pile up so as to make it take much longer the next time, which is pretty much the majority of the time." You might ask, "Why don't you try Flylady, Rachel?" To which I would answer, "I did. She never would come clean my house, no matter how much I crossed my fingers and wished." seriously, I do have a system. It works way better than Flylady's, for me -- Flylady doesn't have homeschooled kids, apparently -- when I use it, which is never. Because, well, lazy. That's what it is, I'm lazy. And if I ever close this everlasting parenthetical statement and move on, you'll find that I'm sorta working on that.)
AN-Y-WAY. We're cleaning, as I said. I set the kids working on their rooms -- if you ever want a room made messy absolutely as quickly as it is possible to be done, like say, you're making a movie and you want a scene where a hurricane has destroyed a residence, hire my daughter. But don't tell her I said that. Meanwhile I was working in the kitchen. Sort of. If "working in the kitchen" constitutes "cleaning a little, then walking by the computer to check my bloglines thing WHICH DOES NOT WORK". The kids started to snipe at each other. C hit LT (he never hits. Whereas she thinks hitting is 'the i ching...the answer to every question.'). C started to sob about the huge job of cleaning her room. LT worked well for a while, then did likewise. I was quickly approaching the point where I would begin fantasizing about a) banging my head against hard surfaces b) running for the hills or c) living alone far far away. Warning signs of my nearness to that state included daydreaming about The Parallel Rachel while I washed dishes, and thinking minor swear words.
Then I had a little breakthrough. I thought -- what if, instead of getting mad, or yelling... what if I channeled that reaction into something positive? I could take my frustrations out on my countertops and piles of clutter. Instead of fantasizing about my quiet, clean, sparse apartment with the grand piano in an upscale old neighborhood in a highly-cultured city where I "worked" as conductor or second-chair flute (even in my fantasies, I don't reach as high as principal. It just is that little bit too unrealistic) in a symphony and weighed something obscenely and fashionably small and never EVER bought bargain clothes -- um, yeah, anyway, instead of fantasizing about all that, I would do my best to incorporate the good parts of that fantasy -- namely, the quiet, the cleanliness, and the lack of clutter -- into my Real Life. I would -- here's the biggie -- get those fantasies behind me, so to speak, by pulling a Marilla.
(if you know why I would call it pulling a Marilla, note it in my comments and if you are right I will seriously get your address and send you a present.)
I also thought I'd try, when the minor swear words began to come out in my mutterings without my really even asking them to -- hang uninvited guests anyway -- I thought that I would think about something, I dunno, holy. What Would The Proverbs 31 Woman Do? That sort of thing. That didn't work quite so well, because -- here's my dirty little secret, lean in close, it's juicy -- I don't ever plan to be like the Proverbs 31 woman. She buys real estate. She has servant girls. PUH-LEEZE. That is so not my sphere, and I just cannot identify. So does that get me out of the whole "her hands are busy" kind of thing? [hopeful grin.] See, my hands -- my hands are busy! They're busy... typing. dang. oh well.
Oh, man, where was I. Oh yes, I was going to try to think about something holy instead of thinking bad words, while I turned my house into a crystal-clean palace, that's right. And it worked! it really did. By the time T got home, I was in such a state of normalcy that I did not pass him as he was on his way in, blow him a kiss, and jump in the car with my camera and tripod to go try a little -- like four hours' worth of -- Nikon therapy, as I had originally planned. No, instead I showed him around so he'd make sure to praise me for all the work I'd done, and I begged and cajoled until he got us takeout for dinner. And then I put him in charge of the kids while I went to bed early with Mansfield Park. And he was so gracious and patient. Have I not TOLD you that he is the most wonderful man in the world? I knew I had.
Comments
It's probably a little easier to pull a Marilla if you can convince everyone to stay out of most of the house! "As a general thing Matthew gravitated between the kitchen and the little bedroom off the hall where he slept; once in a while he ventured uncomfortably into the parlor or sitting room when the minister came to tea. But he had never been upstairs in his own house since the spring he helped Marilla paper the spare bedroom, and that was four years ago."
(And if I'm right, you are so not sending anything to England!)
Posted by: Atlantic at May 23, 2005 10:20 AM
Atlantic, you have a good point about Marilla, but not THE point I was aiming at. (wouldn't that be NICE, to have the house stay clean because it was UNUSED! there's an idea. Clean the house, and then close off all but the most absolutely essential rooms. hmm... thanks for the idea. ;-) ) I think the quote I'm thinking of, though, comes when Anne goes away to Queen's.
Posted by: Rachel at May 23, 2005 04:43 PM
Wow, that was a very interesting entry, Rachel. Reminded me quite a bit of the letters we used to write to each other when we were "hyper." I have to disagree with you on your husband...You have the second best man in the world. (wink, wink). Wait, yours is older...Age before beauty.
Posted by: jenn at May 23, 2005 05:26 PM
Ah, yes, found it now. :)
Posted by: Atlantic at May 24, 2005 02:56 PM
