"WHAT did you DO?!?"

   
    I am not the woman who drops the kids in a perfect 'educational community' with rainbow-colored walls and lots of IQ testable toys before jetting off to an executive meeting. I am Wife first (dinner on the table), Mommy second (wipe the noses), Housekeeper third (ha-ha...ha...), and a Piano Teacher.

   Someday, my studio and my house will not be at the same address (that's the dream, anyway). Someday, I will not mix homeschooling, bathroom cleaning, and lessons in the same afternoon. Someday, I will be Professional.

   But the parents of my students are very understanding - especially since the fees are discounted on account of the 'I-may-have-to-dash-upstairs-and-put-out-a-fire' clause. And my kids almost understand the need to play quietly while Mommy teaches lessons. Sometimes, I get through a half hour without screaming interruptions.

   Not yesterday.

   Yesterday, the baby went viral (runny nose), and my son went crazy (he turned five with a vengeance).
 
   I was addressing a particularly feisty Telemann passage, reveling in the excellent technique of my ten-year-old student, when I overheard the parent in the living room tell my son to wash his hands after he blew his nose for the umpteenth time.

   Son sighed, rose, and stomped past the studio. "I hafta wash my hands," he growled.

   "You obey Mrs. B," I told him.

   "Ugh." He shut the bathroom door with less than perfect respect, but I didn't have time to address it. Fingering is everything in these jumpy baroque fantasias, so I had to stay focused.

   Two measures later, Son shrieked.

   The door was flung open.

   Student and I spun about. "What is - ?" I began.


   "MOMMY!" he cried. "WHAT DID YOU DO IN THE TOILET???"

   Student looked at me. Parent looked at me. Son looked at me.

   Silence.

 
  Then I remembered. "Son," I said, "it's called toilet bowl cleaner. I know it's blue, and distressing, but all you have to do is flush it away. It will clean out the bowl. I forgot that I put that in there, okay?"

  "Oh!" Son nodded. "Okay." He slammed the door.



   Silence.

   "Well," I admitted to my student, "that could have been phrased better."

    She collapsed into laughter.



   Someday, I'm going to have a studio with a door. That closes. And then I'll wear high heels to my lessons, and severely dark blouses, and scary narrow spectacles that I don't really need. And I will ooze Professional. But until that distant day, I will treasure these moments of pure humiliation.  They keep me humble.


 

Slogans are Stupid

At three in the morning, very few things make sense.

Marketing slogans on yogurt, for example.

   If you lie awake long enough, with a well-meaning cat breathing halitosis into your ear, you start to lose a sense of reality. Perhaps, you think, a snack will fix this. A little nibble will surely solve what three hours of counting sheep and tossing and turning hasn't accomplished.

(The body can't physically stay awake forever... right?)

   This morning, I descended the stairs at nearly-four-a.m. with the hope that an organic raspberry yogurt would quiet the lingering resentment of this mortal body long enough for my brain to shut down entirely. But when I pulled the small cup from the back of the refrigerator, a bold and unreasonably perky font glared up at me and asked:

"LIKE TALKING FOOD?"

- and my first thought was, "No. No one would like that. Talking food - that's just creepy - oh, wait. Right."

An easy enough mistake, right? (Just humor the crazy tired person - 'Yes, yes, an easy mistake'.)

And seriously, how hard could it be for Stonyfield's online promoters to honor syntax and type: 'Do you like talking about food'? Don't they care that zombified customers are being maliciously and momentarily startled?

The moral of the story is: Don't end sentences with a preposition. But for pity's sake, please use them!

My Feelings Exactly

  There are two kinds of books for children.

  As immortalized in the Brian Regan comedy routine, there is the board book, with a total of sixty words about a happy clock with an obscene price tag of $12.99. I don't mind board books, because I can read four or five of them to my daughter in the space of three minutes, kiss her goodnight, and get on with a long evening of laundry and mindless television. (What? You never watch mindless television at the end of a long day? You're the person who always finds a good book? Then tell me how you can fold underwear and prop a book open with  your toes and I'll join you.)

   Anyway, there's the second kind of book for children: the well-meaning STORY book. It has 40,000 words, detailing the emotional state of a butterfly who can't find it's shoes (or something like that), and it takes two hours to read out loud (including intermission). I wish I could say that I look forward to curling up with my children and reading them unabridged versions, but I confess that I may sometimes just point to the picture and say, "Where is the doggie? Good! Did the doggie get a bone (after a lot of unnecessary angst?) Good! Yay! The end!"
   Unfortunately for me, my eldest son, Spiderman, he of the now FIVE YEARS of age, can read. He reads well enough to know when I'm skipping, and he will stop me. "Mommy, you didn't read that word!" I can't adequately explain to him that my plot summaries are much better than the actual books ( there's a Twilight burn in there somewhere...) - so I am doomed to nightly long version renditions.

   Until THE book was discovered.

   The best book, the Terry Pratchett "Where's My Cow?" book. The book that has a children's book within it, and a series of inside-jokes for Discworld lovers surrounding. It has saved me. But more than that, it has a series of very readable words - followed by long paragraphs that are much more difficult for a five year old.

    I knew that salvation had come at last when Spiderman insisted on reading it to his little sister, Princess. They cuddled angelically on the sofa, and arranged the fuzzy blanket just so. Then he began, "Where's my Cow? Is that my Cow? Is says, 'Quack-Quack!' It is a duck. That is not my Cow."
   Then he turned the page - stared silently - and declared:

    "This is too many words."
    He turned the page and skipped on.

   "Where's my Cow? Is that my Cow? It says, 'Neigh'. That is not my Cow...."


    That's my boy.
 

More Valium!

   Vowels are such pesky creatures. Diphthongs are worse ('combination of vowel sounds' for those who didn't take Diction 101 for fun in college). Some words are doomed for failure in the initial attempts by small children.

   But not TV-associated words. 'Television' and 'movie' and 'watch' were no problem for either of my kids. So I was surprised by the following interchange:

Spiderman: "Mommy! I need more valium!"

Me: "Um... what?"

Spiderman: "Valium! Please may I have more valium?  I can't hear it!"

Me: "Right. Okay. Yes. You may have more VOLUME."

Spiderman: "Yes. I need more valium."

You and me both, kid. 

My Anchor Holds

Thou art the Lord who slept upon the pillow,

Thou are the Lord who soothed the furious sea,

What matter beating wind and tossing billow

If only we are in the boat with thee?

Hold us in quiet through the age-long minute,

While Thou art silent, and the wind is shrill;

Can the boat sink while Thou, dear Lord, are in it?

Can the heart faint that waiteth on Thy will?

- Amy Carmichael, Toward Jerusalem

    I confess that I had hoped recovery would be funnier. I thought the aftermath of unexpected, life-altering surgery would be a bit more hilarious, and redeem itself by providing amusing anecdotes for you, the reader. But this week, I find myself feeling very trapped in a leaky sloop, frustrated by lack of wind and the shore of Wellness that seems very far away. (Did I take that metaphor too far?)

   

    Anyway, I have spent the last week in various stages of embarrassing agony, and this only serves to keep me away from - what I have always thought was - my goal: returning to Normal! 

    This surgery has not precipitated a series of hilarious events, but it has brought one hundred gentle moments of love. My son, the Nutrition Police of the previous post, helped his father to purchase ice cream at the store and brought it to me announcing, "Here, Mommy! This will make your tummy better!" I have passed more precious hours in cuddling with my children than 'ordinary' life would allow. My friends and family have showered me in love and blessings (like doing the dishes).

    I have always been taught that 'in our weakness, He is strong', but I wasn't in a desperate hurry to be weak. And when I found WEAK plastered on my forehead a few weeks ago, I thought that HE would be strong in miracles, or thunder, or something amazing (and funny, if possible. The blog monster needs feeding).  But I found Him to be a strong cup of tea brewed by my best friend, or a strong cleaner applied to my floor by friend Bear, or my strong brother who could pick up the caterwauling Princess when I could not.

   There is no outboard motor in my boat. (I checked). My Lord can sleep amid any furious sea, and bids me rest in faith with Him. And while I doubt I'll be able to stop chafing today, or even tomorrow, I will cling to the fact that He is in the boat.

    And my Anchor holds.