"We are here to mourn the death of our beloved Hive-Brother, Flitterbik (so named for Grand old Flitterbik who we believe to have sired so many of us, who was so named for a game he heard a group of humans playing years ago - though he could never quite figure out what "mythological" meant).
Each of us is aware of the conditions and possible future facing our hive-family. Despite the risks, Flitterbik - our noble brother - left the dry and safe confines of the hive this morning in search of food and water. He made little show of his going, shy and reserved as he was, but his actions did not go unnnoticed by Hive-Keeper Whzzzmn. Whzzzmn alerted us to the situation, speaking highly of the stoic and brave Flitterbik, who took no real concern for himself.
A search party was sent out. But as WaterSeeker, Damnit, Barkwalker, Ihatethosebugs, and Ugh reached the take-off platform they saw it was too late. The large long-haired human woman, the one which we call InBetween - so named because she stands between us and food, water and life - caught sight of Flitterbik. For a moment the rescue party thought they had been seen, for InBetween said, "Ugh, damn it! I hate those bugs," but in fact it seems she was just speaking a language that sounded like their names.
To the horror of onlooking eyes, she wound toilet paper around her hand, fashioned it into a soft white coffin - for indeed that's what it was - and approached our brother, Flitterbik. Flitterbik could see the end coming. But overtired from the cold, lack of food and water he greeted his demise gracefully. He held still. He did not make trouble. So doing would likely cause InBetween to actively retaliate on us all. He knew this. His sacrifice enables our survival for a short time longer.
InBetween enveloped him in the tissue and walked him to the Watery Tunnel. The rescue party believes she showed a kind of deference to Flitterbik, because she paused and mumbled something before sending him on his way.
Now, brothers - dear Queen - was Flitterbik's sacrifice for naught? I say no! Ugh tells us that his wings were not moving when he was captured. Ihatethosebugs says he was standing on cloudy air, but sideways. And Barkwalker noted that there was an uncommon amount of moisture in the air. So we have learned something. And that lesson is: If you we do attempt to go out the glowing square, we must not stop and stand transfixed by the cloud! We must push forward with more force and more determination and never stop to rest! For when we do, when we are distracted by the wonder of the man made world, InBetween will find us and InBetween will send us down the Watery Tunnel!
Remember Flitterbik in your hearts, my brothers. And let us wait a while until one of us tries again. Let InBetween think she has got the last of us! Hahahaha!!!"
Yes. This is what I imagine the hornets are saying back in their hive after I killed yet ANOTHER winged intruder in my bathroom. Ugh. I hate those bugs.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
I Stand Smiling
I sincerely feel like writing. And since my "I shouldn't's" overcome the desire more often than not, I figured I had better just let the desire wash over me and see what is left on the beach.
I guess I could start with what I did today . . . I woke crabbily and plodded to the shower. It was a nice shower. I don't remember thinking very much, though I must have because I came out clean and smelling of Herbal Essences. Then I heard an odd buzzing noise. This noise drew my attention and my eyes up to the lights above the mirror. Ah yes, another hornet. Or wasp or yellow-jacket. I don't really care to know the genus of the flying monstrosity that is just one of a dozen I have killed over the past month in the new house. Point is, he was there to frighten, peeve, and otherwise greet me as I emerged all warm and cozy from the shower.
Yes, a hornet INDOORS in January/February. I've heard that the only explanation of this is that there must be an active hive IN THE HOUSE. I know, it freaks me out too. I can't tell where they are coming from and my little friend this morning met his maker after an unsuccessful tango with our energy efficient light bulb, so I have yet to see where they go . . .
Anyway, then I dressed, dressed the children and before I knew it was in the car on my way to work. I worked at work. I didn't do what needed to be done before it needed to have been done, but I did other things that were on the docket. So I suppose that's a good thing.
The highlight of the day was taking the children to Bryson's Rock Shop on Washington. They went crazy in there! They have recently become enamoured of DreamPacker's rocks, gems and oils. Lemur especially is looking forward to a Grandma-Grandson date to the Gem Show this coming week. He desired a $70 Petrified Wood Ball on a golden stand, but opted for a $2 grab bag after he saw that Rivulet had one. They came home happy but by no means satiated. Rivulet declared, "This is the beginning of my rock collection!"
I have in my head the thoughts that should be, the thoughts that can't help but be and the thoughts that wish I had more time to think them. Sometimes it feels as though they come of their own accord, respectfully taking a number as I try to fill their order before they begin pushing each other and yelling "Hey, I was next!" to the thought that suddenly needed immediate attention.
Potty Training is one of these thoughts. Writing in general or in specific is one of the more patient loiterers of my mind. There is the self doubt, the self deprecation and the feeling of loss every month that I'm not expecting another child. Mostly, these stay in the background behind the joy and contentment that rules my greater waking hours until a trigger lurches them uncomfortably forward.
In those moments it is good to have Muad'Dib around. "It'll pass," he says as he strokes my hair, "In a few days, you'll feel your real feelings again and be okay."
He's right. He's almost always right . . . and I'm proud to be the sort of woman that can hear when her husband is right and just nuzzle up in the truth for a moment, enjoying the warmth and comfort it offers: "It'll pass."
Last year at this time I was beginning the Cleanse from Hell. Not my theater cleanse - that one worked super well. No, I mean the physical cleanse that kidnapped, tortured and overfed my emotional inner beast for four months. I'm still recovering in some ways.
I believe that, physically, the cleanse did a lot of good. But I was in no way prepared for the side effects of cleaning out one's body. As a warning: If you have taken ANY anti-depressants, pain medications, antibiotics, cold medicine, anti-psychotic medication, antinausea pills, sleeping pills or any other dosage of chemical weirdness it will be RANDOMLY re-released into your bloodstream as the cleanse does it's work.
Yikes. As a woman who took numerous antidepressants for five years, I thought that when I quit cold turkey and remained drug free for the next five years, I was home free. Nope. Turns out all of that stuff was still hiding out in my system.
Anyone want to know what I was doing last February through May? Trying to survive. That's what I was doing. I can't imagine how Mua'dDib handled it. I have small memory glimpses of him during that time, but the most I can remember of myself is sitting in front of my laptop watching T.V., eating, and trying not to think or feel anything.
And even then, Mua'dDib was right. It passed. It was awful. It was hard, it was trying. I wanted to leave. I wanted to check into an institution until I was past whatever it was. And instead, I rode it out. I shut a few people out of my life in the process . . . but I came out on the other side. And that's something.
So days like these that start weird, continue weird and end a little off . . . I can take those days. Especially if I can get that little reminder, "It'll pass." Because now I really know, can really believe that it can, will and does pass.
And I am still standing.
Quite honestly I am surprised that this is turning into the subject of my post. I intended never to speak of, let alone write about, this experience. I have a feeling there was more yelling and crying and hurt feelings than I would like to acknowledge. And yet this is what is scrambling to the front of my brain tonight.
And not for a journal entry either.
I don't know that someone needs to hear it, or that someone needs to read it so they can understand a little of why I behaved as I did last year. Perhaps it is simply my opportunity to declare that it is PAST and no longer PRESENT.
When I was fourteen, I had a dream that I was in Salt Lake City, walking around with a group of my Junior High girl-friends. They were all in flowing blue/pink dresses, much like long ballerina dresses. I was in jeans and a t-shirt. I knew we all wanted to get to the Chocolate Shoppe. I knew the way because I had been there before. I tried to lead my friends, but every one of them wanted to dally, look over the sights and even wander along unfamiliar or unmarked roads. I tried to urge them on, shepherd them to our destination as quickly and safely as possible. They did not listen to me.
Finally, we arrived at the shop. As mentioned, I had been there before. I had tasted all the chocolates and so knew the best of the bunch. I told them to choose the blueberry truffle. But no one would listen. One by one my friends chose another chocolate and one by one, they all fell to the ground. I don't know if they died or just fell asleep, but in the dream I was very distraught and disappointed.
This dream has come to me many times over the fourteen years since I had it. I still don't entirely understand it.
I'm not even sure how it applies, yet somehow feel that it does. So . . .
This is my gift for the night. It has been over a month since I wrote last. I have not read a book since the cleanse. I have little desire to read, honestly. And though saying so brings tears to my eyes, I have difficulty picking up a book. Even an old friendly book like Ender's Game or Rebecca. Actually, I still struggle with having a desire to DO things.
Despite that - despite all disappointments that hedge a normal life - I declare that I am a happy woman. Perhaps I should write about that next time. And until then, I hold close the fact that on days like this that start weird, continue weird and end just a little bit off . . .all in all I can take those days over the sort of days I had last year. Because I now have a firm testimony that "it" can, does and always will pass.
And I will remand standing.
As I am now.
I guess I could start with what I did today . . . I woke crabbily and plodded to the shower. It was a nice shower. I don't remember thinking very much, though I must have because I came out clean and smelling of Herbal Essences. Then I heard an odd buzzing noise. This noise drew my attention and my eyes up to the lights above the mirror. Ah yes, another hornet. Or wasp or yellow-jacket. I don't really care to know the genus of the flying monstrosity that is just one of a dozen I have killed over the past month in the new house. Point is, he was there to frighten, peeve, and otherwise greet me as I emerged all warm and cozy from the shower.
Yes, a hornet INDOORS in January/February. I've heard that the only explanation of this is that there must be an active hive IN THE HOUSE. I know, it freaks me out too. I can't tell where they are coming from and my little friend this morning met his maker after an unsuccessful tango with our energy efficient light bulb, so I have yet to see where they go . . .
Anyway, then I dressed, dressed the children and before I knew it was in the car on my way to work. I worked at work. I didn't do what needed to be done before it needed to have been done, but I did other things that were on the docket. So I suppose that's a good thing.
The highlight of the day was taking the children to Bryson's Rock Shop on Washington. They went crazy in there! They have recently become enamoured of DreamPacker's rocks, gems and oils. Lemur especially is looking forward to a Grandma-Grandson date to the Gem Show this coming week. He desired a $70 Petrified Wood Ball on a golden stand, but opted for a $2 grab bag after he saw that Rivulet had one. They came home happy but by no means satiated. Rivulet declared, "This is the beginning of my rock collection!"
I have in my head the thoughts that should be, the thoughts that can't help but be and the thoughts that wish I had more time to think them. Sometimes it feels as though they come of their own accord, respectfully taking a number as I try to fill their order before they begin pushing each other and yelling "Hey, I was next!" to the thought that suddenly needed immediate attention.
Potty Training is one of these thoughts. Writing in general or in specific is one of the more patient loiterers of my mind. There is the self doubt, the self deprecation and the feeling of loss every month that I'm not expecting another child. Mostly, these stay in the background behind the joy and contentment that rules my greater waking hours until a trigger lurches them uncomfortably forward.
In those moments it is good to have Muad'Dib around. "It'll pass," he says as he strokes my hair, "In a few days, you'll feel your real feelings again and be okay."
He's right. He's almost always right . . . and I'm proud to be the sort of woman that can hear when her husband is right and just nuzzle up in the truth for a moment, enjoying the warmth and comfort it offers: "It'll pass."
Last year at this time I was beginning the Cleanse from Hell. Not my theater cleanse - that one worked super well. No, I mean the physical cleanse that kidnapped, tortured and overfed my emotional inner beast for four months. I'm still recovering in some ways.
I believe that, physically, the cleanse did a lot of good. But I was in no way prepared for the side effects of cleaning out one's body. As a warning: If you have taken ANY anti-depressants, pain medications, antibiotics, cold medicine, anti-psychotic medication, antinausea pills, sleeping pills or any other dosage of chemical weirdness it will be RANDOMLY re-released into your bloodstream as the cleanse does it's work.
Yikes. As a woman who took numerous antidepressants for five years, I thought that when I quit cold turkey and remained drug free for the next five years, I was home free. Nope. Turns out all of that stuff was still hiding out in my system.
Anyone want to know what I was doing last February through May? Trying to survive. That's what I was doing. I can't imagine how Mua'dDib handled it. I have small memory glimpses of him during that time, but the most I can remember of myself is sitting in front of my laptop watching T.V., eating, and trying not to think or feel anything.
And even then, Mua'dDib was right. It passed. It was awful. It was hard, it was trying. I wanted to leave. I wanted to check into an institution until I was past whatever it was. And instead, I rode it out. I shut a few people out of my life in the process . . . but I came out on the other side. And that's something.
So days like these that start weird, continue weird and end a little off . . . I can take those days. Especially if I can get that little reminder, "It'll pass." Because now I really know, can really believe that it can, will and does pass.
And I am still standing.
Quite honestly I am surprised that this is turning into the subject of my post. I intended never to speak of, let alone write about, this experience. I have a feeling there was more yelling and crying and hurt feelings than I would like to acknowledge. And yet this is what is scrambling to the front of my brain tonight.
And not for a journal entry either.
I don't know that someone needs to hear it, or that someone needs to read it so they can understand a little of why I behaved as I did last year. Perhaps it is simply my opportunity to declare that it is PAST and no longer PRESENT.
When I was fourteen, I had a dream that I was in Salt Lake City, walking around with a group of my Junior High girl-friends. They were all in flowing blue/pink dresses, much like long ballerina dresses. I was in jeans and a t-shirt. I knew we all wanted to get to the Chocolate Shoppe. I knew the way because I had been there before. I tried to lead my friends, but every one of them wanted to dally, look over the sights and even wander along unfamiliar or unmarked roads. I tried to urge them on, shepherd them to our destination as quickly and safely as possible. They did not listen to me.
Finally, we arrived at the shop. As mentioned, I had been there before. I had tasted all the chocolates and so knew the best of the bunch. I told them to choose the blueberry truffle. But no one would listen. One by one my friends chose another chocolate and one by one, they all fell to the ground. I don't know if they died or just fell asleep, but in the dream I was very distraught and disappointed.
This dream has come to me many times over the fourteen years since I had it. I still don't entirely understand it.
I'm not even sure how it applies, yet somehow feel that it does. So . . .
This is my gift for the night. It has been over a month since I wrote last. I have not read a book since the cleanse. I have little desire to read, honestly. And though saying so brings tears to my eyes, I have difficulty picking up a book. Even an old friendly book like Ender's Game or Rebecca. Actually, I still struggle with having a desire to DO things.
Despite that - despite all disappointments that hedge a normal life - I declare that I am a happy woman. Perhaps I should write about that next time. And until then, I hold close the fact that on days like this that start weird, continue weird and end just a little bit off . . .all in all I can take those days over the sort of days I had last year. Because I now have a firm testimony that "it" can, does and always will pass.
And I will remand standing.
As I am now.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Loving the Gamer in my Man
It's possible that I write better when cold. Like wine or ginger ale, my thoughts are best when chilled. Though that could be said for most of us.
In this case I don't mean that my thoughts have been given a chance to run their course and thereby form themselves into greater literary greatness, but the actual physical temperature of my fingers. When I'm cold, I have a greater proclivity to write. So I guess in a way I will miss these horrible single-pane windows when we move.
My children are nestled snug in their beds. My husband is playing Modern Warfare, which explains at least in part why I am blogging. It is really all I can do online while he games. Watching a movie or catching up on a network T.V. show is out of the question as it slows his game play and might make him or his team lose.
I do not begrudge him his nightly games with such friends as Phred, The Scrub, StOffdog and DecrepitSpoon. No, in fact I often nights find myself at his feet, absent-mindedly massaging his "doggies" (my brother's term for feet) or scratching his legs as I watch and cheer him in his virtual victories. Sometimes those head shots are downright incredible. I even get so wound up that I have been know to yell, "Oh come ON!! You were robbed! You SO got him first!!!" I would say that I am just doing my duty as The Most Awesome Wife Ever, but I would be telling a half-truth.
Yes, enjoying his games as he games does secure my title, but I don't only do it for the glory. I also sit there because the visuals of the game are pretty great. Some more than others, though. For instance, I could sit for a few hours together watching Muad'Dib playing Assassin's Creed I or II. I just think they're beautiful. I also enjoy the story and the all around game play. I also liked Star Wars: the Force Unleashed, and the Prince of Persia series. And the music of Morrowind still takes me back to our second apartment: me pregnant as the day was long, lounging on the couch and scratching Muad'Dib's head as he played and I fell to sleep.
I seriously don't get the women who whine and complain about their casual gaming husbands. I mean really: have you ever even TRIED it? I actually enjoy playing a few choice games myself on Xbox 360. I certainly enjoy the look on my husband's face when he arrives to find me curled up on the LoveSac, finishing Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, or winning a game of Settlers of Catan.
Not to mention all the family friendly games that can be had on the consoles nowadays! In fact, we just held an impromptu "Family Night" and finished it off with a few rounds of Battleship and Connect Four. Rivulet and Lemur were actually able to play against each other! Muad'Dib helped and all the while I sat on the floor with a bottle of lotion, massaging little and big feet while cheering on who ever was not in the lead!
Well . . . I suppose that is all I have to say on the matter tonight. And when it comes down to it this post is really just a reminder of how much I love my life, my children and especially my husband. Even if loving him means I can't watch an episode of "How I Met Your Mother" before bed. Instead, I will go snuggle with him while he games. And, rest assured, I'm going to like it.
In this case I don't mean that my thoughts have been given a chance to run their course and thereby form themselves into greater literary greatness, but the actual physical temperature of my fingers. When I'm cold, I have a greater proclivity to write. So I guess in a way I will miss these horrible single-pane windows when we move.
My children are nestled snug in their beds. My husband is playing Modern Warfare, which explains at least in part why I am blogging. It is really all I can do online while he games. Watching a movie or catching up on a network T.V. show is out of the question as it slows his game play and might make him or his team lose.
I do not begrudge him his nightly games with such friends as Phred, The Scrub, StOffdog and DecrepitSpoon. No, in fact I often nights find myself at his feet, absent-mindedly massaging his "doggies" (my brother's term for feet) or scratching his legs as I watch and cheer him in his virtual victories. Sometimes those head shots are downright incredible. I even get so wound up that I have been know to yell, "Oh come ON!! You were robbed! You SO got him first!!!" I would say that I am just doing my duty as The Most Awesome Wife Ever, but I would be telling a half-truth.
Yes, enjoying his games as he games does secure my title, but I don't only do it for the glory. I also sit there because the visuals of the game are pretty great. Some more than others, though. For instance, I could sit for a few hours together watching Muad'Dib playing Assassin's Creed I or II. I just think they're beautiful. I also enjoy the story and the all around game play. I also liked Star Wars: the Force Unleashed, and the Prince of Persia series. And the music of Morrowind still takes me back to our second apartment: me pregnant as the day was long, lounging on the couch and scratching Muad'Dib's head as he played and I fell to sleep.
I seriously don't get the women who whine and complain about their casual gaming husbands. I mean really: have you ever even TRIED it? I actually enjoy playing a few choice games myself on Xbox 360. I certainly enjoy the look on my husband's face when he arrives to find me curled up on the LoveSac, finishing Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, or winning a game of Settlers of Catan.
Not to mention all the family friendly games that can be had on the consoles nowadays! In fact, we just held an impromptu "Family Night" and finished it off with a few rounds of Battleship and Connect Four. Rivulet and Lemur were actually able to play against each other! Muad'Dib helped and all the while I sat on the floor with a bottle of lotion, massaging little and big feet while cheering on who ever was not in the lead!
Well . . . I suppose that is all I have to say on the matter tonight. And when it comes down to it this post is really just a reminder of how much I love my life, my children and especially my husband. Even if loving him means I can't watch an episode of "How I Met Your Mother" before bed. Instead, I will go snuggle with him while he games. And, rest assured, I'm going to like it.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Thinking Willy-Nilly
Spurred on by the comment of my long-time-not-seen Mother-in-law, I write before retiring to bed. At least this time it's my own bed.
Ah, and casting for Seven Brides for Seven Brothers is complete! So now if I am beset by theatrical images, they have faces and bodies to them. I can finally begin mental blocking, which I then run by my better half. And I mean the good kind of mental blocking, not the mental blocking that means things are gummed up and unmoving, but in fact the blocking that means I know exactly where everyone and everything will go. I outline their traffic patterns and reasons for said traffic patterns.
Muad'Dib is dangerously right: I'm going to enjoy this.
Part of me doesn't want to. Part of me is holding on with both hand and all ten fingernails to the Sayyadina that came home from "Into the Woods," hung up her theater shoes and just was. At home with my children, keeping up the house; staying within walking distance from my own front door . . . these are the things I want to hang on to. I was released from all the garbage that overwhelmed me last winter and spring. I was unshackled from the drama of the theater. I was looking forward to more home and more family and more children.
And now . . . the TheaterGeek inside is scrambling for secure footing in my head. As well it should be, seeing as The Husband and I are co-directors, and I'm the only one between the two of us who has done it before.
I have noticed in the past two weeks that I have lost a part of myself. It's a small part - but I have begun to miss it. I used to be a ListMaker. You know: To Do, To Buy, To Bake, Gifts, To Clean, To Pack, etc. Any process that could be made faster and clearer by having a list laid out before hand HAD a list. And then, as we were gearing up for Auditions I noticed that I had not the slightest inclination to list.
I then sat down and TRIED to list. It was very difficult. After a few minutes, holding my head between my hands, staring down at the lined paper of a purple notebook thinking "Where do I start?" I realized that I was unable. I remembered that I was once able, and was no longer so.
Over the aforemeantioned two weeks, I have attempted lists numerous times - just today, in fact - to little avail. It is much like trying to break an egg by squeezing it in your hand. Or like walking through a maze while hungry and dehydrated. You know there's a rhyme and reason to the twists and turns - or that there could be if you thought about it hard enough - but you're so miserable, you don't give a damn. You just want to sit down and - dude.
I apologize for the "dude," but it really fits my brain right now.
My infamous "Give-up Attitude" is not gone! It's still here! I wonder that perhaps it always has been.
No . . . I was not a "Give-up"-er my entire life. Were that so, I would not have ever been a singer, dancer, college student, good cook or good daughter. Or good wife or have well behaved children. No, this is a new-ish malady.
It's likely that the give-up attitude is directly linked to my weight, in which case I do not desire to further discuss it. In fact, I am now going to abandon this thought process altogether.
Except that in doing so, I shut off my mind from the free flow of inspired thought. And still I choose to keep it that way. So I will go to bed as I have been advised and try not to think of these things anymore.
No; not to think of possibly being over-run by TheaterGeek. not think of being a "give-upper" or an "Issue Skirt-er." Nor will I dwell on my being the "Dream Breaker" as I'm sure I was for some people while casting.
I just have too many thoughts I don't want to have. And the thoughts I do want to have and DO want to write about keep getting shoved violently aside, bombarded and trampled over by all the other yuck that I have taken in over the last few weeks like unaware shoppers on Black Friday.
Perhaps I always will need Theater. Sitting before my laptop, thinking that thought - I let out a low whine like a dog. How do my posts become so terribly personal like this? I suppose it has been quite a while, actually, since most of you were invited willy-nilly into my brain and heart, to be lost along the routes that my thoughts travel from one to the other.
Well, I guess then for those of you who missed these "Wonka Factory" type explorations, you will be pleased by my vulnerability and unwillingness to really see myself - and the opportunity that this give you to see me so clearly. From so far away.
And those of you who just skipped to the bottom of the post hoping to see pictures because the blog itself looked dangerously wordy: you were right to do so.
Good night.
Ah, and casting for Seven Brides for Seven Brothers is complete! So now if I am beset by theatrical images, they have faces and bodies to them. I can finally begin mental blocking, which I then run by my better half. And I mean the good kind of mental blocking, not the mental blocking that means things are gummed up and unmoving, but in fact the blocking that means I know exactly where everyone and everything will go. I outline their traffic patterns and reasons for said traffic patterns.
Muad'Dib is dangerously right: I'm going to enjoy this.
Part of me doesn't want to. Part of me is holding on with both hand and all ten fingernails to the Sayyadina that came home from "Into the Woods," hung up her theater shoes and just was. At home with my children, keeping up the house; staying within walking distance from my own front door . . . these are the things I want to hang on to. I was released from all the garbage that overwhelmed me last winter and spring. I was unshackled from the drama of the theater. I was looking forward to more home and more family and more children.
And now . . . the TheaterGeek inside is scrambling for secure footing in my head. As well it should be, seeing as The Husband and I are co-directors, and I'm the only one between the two of us who has done it before.
I have noticed in the past two weeks that I have lost a part of myself. It's a small part - but I have begun to miss it. I used to be a ListMaker. You know: To Do, To Buy, To Bake, Gifts, To Clean, To Pack, etc. Any process that could be made faster and clearer by having a list laid out before hand HAD a list. And then, as we were gearing up for Auditions I noticed that I had not the slightest inclination to list.
I then sat down and TRIED to list. It was very difficult. After a few minutes, holding my head between my hands, staring down at the lined paper of a purple notebook thinking "Where do I start?" I realized that I was unable. I remembered that I was once able, and was no longer so.
Over the aforemeantioned two weeks, I have attempted lists numerous times - just today, in fact - to little avail. It is much like trying to break an egg by squeezing it in your hand. Or like walking through a maze while hungry and dehydrated. You know there's a rhyme and reason to the twists and turns - or that there could be if you thought about it hard enough - but you're so miserable, you don't give a damn. You just want to sit down and - dude.
I apologize for the "dude," but it really fits my brain right now.
My infamous "Give-up Attitude" is not gone! It's still here! I wonder that perhaps it always has been.
No . . . I was not a "Give-up"-er my entire life. Were that so, I would not have ever been a singer, dancer, college student, good cook or good daughter. Or good wife or have well behaved children. No, this is a new-ish malady.
It's likely that the give-up attitude is directly linked to my weight, in which case I do not desire to further discuss it. In fact, I am now going to abandon this thought process altogether.
Except that in doing so, I shut off my mind from the free flow of inspired thought. And still I choose to keep it that way. So I will go to bed as I have been advised and try not to think of these things anymore.
No; not to think of possibly being over-run by TheaterGeek. not think of being a "give-upper" or an "Issue Skirt-er." Nor will I dwell on my being the "Dream Breaker" as I'm sure I was for some people while casting.
I just have too many thoughts I don't want to have. And the thoughts I do want to have and DO want to write about keep getting shoved violently aside, bombarded and trampled over by all the other yuck that I have taken in over the last few weeks like unaware shoppers on Black Friday.
Perhaps I always will need Theater. Sitting before my laptop, thinking that thought - I let out a low whine like a dog. How do my posts become so terribly personal like this? I suppose it has been quite a while, actually, since most of you were invited willy-nilly into my brain and heart, to be lost along the routes that my thoughts travel from one to the other.
Well, I guess then for those of you who missed these "Wonka Factory" type explorations, you will be pleased by my vulnerability and unwillingness to really see myself - and the opportunity that this give you to see me so clearly. From so far away.
And those of you who just skipped to the bottom of the post hoping to see pictures because the blog itself looked dangerously wordy: you were right to do so.
Good night.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
"YOU rise, YOU shine!" *grrr*
It is now 4:53 am on a Wednesday morning. I went to "bed" at 11:45pm and little more than dozed until around 3 am.
Muad'Dib and I had callbacks for 7 Brides last night. The dancing and the faces and the movements and the judging and the nuances of casting has been mosh-pit-ing in my head. Couple that with an uncomfortable couch, weird noises in my parent's house, an ill-sleeping Rivulet, a stuffy nose due to dog hair, and Lemur talking in his sleep a foot from me . . . and it translates to a night of un-rest.
So, what is a girl to do this early in the stupid morning? I've already watched a few things on Hulu. I've cursed the fact that I didn't just go home and risk being up until 1 - at least I would be asleep right now. I've debated eating something and tried to focus on all my bodily sensations so I wouldn't over-react and assume I was suffering from Anxiety or something. No, just dropping blood sugar. It feels the same, though.
We've been up to alot, really. Muad'Dib finished his run as Gaston in "Beauty and the Beast" at the Playhouse. I helped out my mom by running mic's for her show "Ebenezer" which finished performing just after Thanksgiving. We held auditions and the first set of callbacks for 7 Brides, which Muad'Dib and I will be directing together (to open February 19th).
Lemur has continued school. He's doing very well and his teacher is forever commenting on his art skills. I guess he's got a bit more "Robert" in him than we thought! Rivulet has continued on her path to turning four, but not on the one that passes potty-training. She avoids that path like it's a dark and spooky tree-lined Walk of Doom.
We will be moving into a new house sometime before the middle of January. Yay. A house. I'm exited for the open floor plan, superfluous closets and two car garage!
That exclamation point took a lot out of me. You'd think that because I'm so tired, I'd be able to sleep, right? Apparently not.
And I'm becoming aware of just how loud my keystrokes are, with my little ones sleeping almost peacefully not 10 feet away. Perhaps I should try another go at sleeping. I'm just concerned that I will merely continue the parade of theatrical judgement and so forth that thus far has kept me from sleep's sweet respite.
Oh that my mind would turn off; that I might be in my own bed, listening to my husband sleep and the heater click on an off periodically. My parent's apparently have a real gor'ram DRAGON under the stairs to serve as their furnace! Seriously! Every twenty minutes or so, this incredible belching grumph interrupts an otherwise close-to -silent environment. My heart does hopscotch - missing a beat - and then my brain tries to make sense of the feeling. "What the . . .!?" And despite that, despite the monster bellowing and roaring to life: my hands and toes are like little dexterous icicles. Okay, my hands are. My toes are regular ice blocks, not being very dexterous at all.
And yet, if and when I lay down, I quickly become overheated which - as most of us know - causes a normal nose to stuff up. Great. Now my back is cramping AND I can't breathe. Ugh.
I am meant to wake up and begin my day in one hour and twenty minutes. 6:30am to those of you not keeping track of the time. How will I be able? Suck it up and move forward, I guess.
Take the boy to school, clean the house . . . it's likely I'll be able to fit in a nap after the boy returns from his futile half-Wednesday. I mean really, if one is going to award a half-day to children, shouldn't it be on a FRIDAY so we can begin the weekend early? A Wednesday just messes everyone up!!
Meh. It's not like anyone listens to me. Particularly not during or through a ranting, incoherent and barely cohesive cognitive rambling at 5:12 in the morning.
I suppose it would behoove me to try again. If I fail, there is always "V" on Hulu. I haven't watched past the first episode. And I've just given up on FastDumbward. If I wanted to be spoon-fed a "Lost" type show, I'd just watch those horrible two hour ABC recaps. At least it'd be over in two hours!
Fine, you don't like me cranky-funny and sleep deprived? neither do I. I thought this would turn into a beautiful and majestic geyser of creativity . . . but it's just not. So . . . whatever.
also, if anyone knows what movie my title comes from, I will be most impressed."
Muad'Dib and I had callbacks for 7 Brides last night. The dancing and the faces and the movements and the judging and the nuances of casting has been mosh-pit-ing in my head. Couple that with an uncomfortable couch, weird noises in my parent's house, an ill-sleeping Rivulet, a stuffy nose due to dog hair, and Lemur talking in his sleep a foot from me . . . and it translates to a night of un-rest.
So, what is a girl to do this early in the stupid morning? I've already watched a few things on Hulu. I've cursed the fact that I didn't just go home and risk being up until 1 - at least I would be asleep right now. I've debated eating something and tried to focus on all my bodily sensations so I wouldn't over-react and assume I was suffering from Anxiety or something. No, just dropping blood sugar. It feels the same, though.
We've been up to alot, really. Muad'Dib finished his run as Gaston in "Beauty and the Beast" at the Playhouse. I helped out my mom by running mic's for her show "Ebenezer" which finished performing just after Thanksgiving. We held auditions and the first set of callbacks for 7 Brides, which Muad'Dib and I will be directing together (to open February 19th).
Lemur has continued school. He's doing very well and his teacher is forever commenting on his art skills. I guess he's got a bit more "Robert" in him than we thought! Rivulet has continued on her path to turning four, but not on the one that passes potty-training. She avoids that path like it's a dark and spooky tree-lined Walk of Doom.
We will be moving into a new house sometime before the middle of January. Yay. A house. I'm exited for the open floor plan, superfluous closets and two car garage!
That exclamation point took a lot out of me. You'd think that because I'm so tired, I'd be able to sleep, right? Apparently not.
And I'm becoming aware of just how loud my keystrokes are, with my little ones sleeping almost peacefully not 10 feet away. Perhaps I should try another go at sleeping. I'm just concerned that I will merely continue the parade of theatrical judgement and so forth that thus far has kept me from sleep's sweet respite.
Oh that my mind would turn off; that I might be in my own bed, listening to my husband sleep and the heater click on an off periodically. My parent's apparently have a real gor'ram DRAGON under the stairs to serve as their furnace! Seriously! Every twenty minutes or so, this incredible belching grumph interrupts an otherwise close-to -silent environment. My heart does hopscotch - missing a beat - and then my brain tries to make sense of the feeling. "What the . . .!?" And despite that, despite the monster bellowing and roaring to life: my hands and toes are like little dexterous icicles. Okay, my hands are. My toes are regular ice blocks, not being very dexterous at all.
And yet, if and when I lay down, I quickly become overheated which - as most of us know - causes a normal nose to stuff up. Great. Now my back is cramping AND I can't breathe. Ugh.
I am meant to wake up and begin my day in one hour and twenty minutes. 6:30am to those of you not keeping track of the time. How will I be able? Suck it up and move forward, I guess.
Take the boy to school, clean the house . . . it's likely I'll be able to fit in a nap after the boy returns from his futile half-Wednesday. I mean really, if one is going to award a half-day to children, shouldn't it be on a FRIDAY so we can begin the weekend early? A Wednesday just messes everyone up!!
Meh. It's not like anyone listens to me. Particularly not during or through a ranting, incoherent and barely cohesive cognitive rambling at 5:12 in the morning.
I suppose it would behoove me to try again. If I fail, there is always "V" on Hulu. I haven't watched past the first episode. And I've just given up on FastDumbward. If I wanted to be spoon-fed a "Lost" type show, I'd just watch those horrible two hour ABC recaps. At least it'd be over in two hours!
Fine, you don't like me cranky-funny and sleep deprived? neither do I. I thought this would turn into a beautiful and majestic geyser of creativity . . . but it's just not. So . . . whatever.
also, if anyone knows what movie my title comes from, I will be most impressed."
Sunday, November 15, 2009
A Story - Based on Actual Events
The Mystery of the Missing Legos
While cleaning his room Saturday morning, my son made a grisly discovery.
“Mom!” he screamed from his room.
I ran to see what the problem was, “What?” I asked as I burst through the door.
I was met with large, wet, blue eyes brimming with tears. My son was squatting next to his most precious possession: a canister of 500 Lego’s he had received last year for Christmas and on his face was a look of pure anguish. “My Lego’s are missing!”
I made a face, “No they’re not. I’m sure they’re all in there. Remember how even when we opened it for the first time, it was only full halfway? That’s just how they do it.”
“No!” He yelled in protest. I could see he was both frustrated and hurt that I didn’t believe him. “Look!”
Rolling my eyes at his dramatic flair, I moved closer and looked into the plastic box. He was right. There were maybe 100 Legos inside. And they were all tiny. Where were the rest? I looked up at him, “Holy cow!” I said, “Where are the rest?”
Now it was his turn to roll his eyes, “I don’t know. If I knew, I would go get them!”
My son was only 6.5 years old, and even at his age he was not one for losing things; especially not his Lego’s. It was nearly Thanksgiving, and he hadn’t lost a single one out of 500 in the eleven months since he’d received them. I had never stepped on Legoes in the night, I had never vacummed up a stray block. From Christmas morning till now, he had taken care of each and every one like they were tiny bars of gold.
“Well, where could they be?” I muttered under my breath. By now I was searching my memory banks to remember if I had seen 400 stray legos lying around anywhere. I had. But it was days ago.
“Hey Lemur, remember on Monday, when you came home from school?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you remember seeing the Legos when you came home that day?”
His eyes lit up with a 6 year-olds rage and then narrowed, “RIVER!!” He yelled his sister’s name just as I looked over to her in the adjoining Family room. She jumped a little at the sound.
“What?” she answered, surprised but unbullied by his tone.
He stood and stomped over to her. I followed. “Where are my Legos?!” he demanded.
“You don’t need to yell at her, Liam,”I chided.
While cleaning his room Saturday morning, my son made a grisly discovery.
“Mom!” he screamed from his room.
I ran to see what the problem was, “What?” I asked as I burst through the door.
I was met with large, wet, blue eyes brimming with tears. My son was squatting next to his most precious possession: a canister of 500 Lego’s he had received last year for Christmas and on his face was a look of pure anguish. “My Lego’s are missing!”
I made a face, “No they’re not. I’m sure they’re all in there. Remember how even when we opened it for the first time, it was only full halfway? That’s just how they do it.”
“No!” He yelled in protest. I could see he was both frustrated and hurt that I didn’t believe him. “Look!”
Rolling my eyes at his dramatic flair, I moved closer and looked into the plastic box. He was right. There were maybe 100 Legos inside. And they were all tiny. Where were the rest? I looked up at him, “Holy cow!” I said, “Where are the rest?”
Now it was his turn to roll his eyes, “I don’t know. If I knew, I would go get them!”
My son was only 6.5 years old, and even at his age he was not one for losing things; especially not his Lego’s. It was nearly Thanksgiving, and he hadn’t lost a single one out of 500 in the eleven months since he’d received them. I had never stepped on Legoes in the night, I had never vacummed up a stray block. From Christmas morning till now, he had taken care of each and every one like they were tiny bars of gold.
“Well, where could they be?” I muttered under my breath. By now I was searching my memory banks to remember if I had seen 400 stray legos lying around anywhere. I had. But it was days ago.
“Hey Lemur, remember on Monday, when you came home from school?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you remember seeing the Legos when you came home that day?”
His eyes lit up with a 6 year-olds rage and then narrowed, “RIVER!!” He yelled his sister’s name just as I looked over to her in the adjoining Family room. She jumped a little at the sound.
“What?” she answered, surprised but unbullied by his tone.
He stood and stomped over to her. I followed. “Where are my Legos?!” he demanded.
“You don’t need to yell at her, Liam,”I chided.
“But she TOOK them - without asking! - and now I can’t find them!”
I turned his face to look at me, “But you don’t have to yell.” Then I took a deep breath and he followed my example. “River was building with daddy," I reminded him, "so don’t get mad at her. Let’s just ask if she knows where they went.”
I squatted down next to my 3 year old daughter who was playing with a Weebles treehouse, “River-bottom, do you know where Liam’s Lego’s went?” She ignored me, “River.” She looked up, “Remember when you played with Daddy the other day, and you played with Liam’s Legos?”
“Uh-huh. We built a castle.”
“Oh, yes.” I said, remembering the super-awesome dollhouse/castle my husband had built for his daughter out of his son’s Legos. Come to think of it, super-awesome doesn’t do it justice . . . anyway, I asked, “Do you remember where you put them when you were done?”
She sniffed absently. She said “Nope,” and went back to playing.
“Hmm.” I said, “I’ll go call Daddy and see if he remembers.”
I opened the phone and went up the stairs, hoping that I would just see the Lego’s displayed somewhere higher than the kids normally looked.
“Hey honey.”
“What’s up?”
“Do you remember the castle you built with River on Monday?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“You mean now?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
I heard a scream downstairs. “Because your son has noticed that about 400 Legos are missing from his box and is now screaming like a banshee at your daughter whom he blames for the loss.”
“Ah.” He started laughing.
“It’s not funny,” I chastised half-heartedly.
“Yes it is. Cause you’re home and I’m not,” he said, giggling.
I chuckled a little as well, until another bout of screaming wafted up the stairs. “You seriously don’t remember cleaning them up or something?”
“No. Did you check – “ and then he listed about fourteen of the most obvious places in the house, each of which I had already given the once-over.
“I don’t know what to do. He’s going crazy!”
“Just tell him it’s a game of Hide and Go Seek and the Legos’ are hiding.”
“See, this is why I call you,” I said with a sigh, “because I was about to go out and buy him more!” I laughed, but my husband didn’t see that it was funny.
“No, don’t do that.”
I laughed harder. “I won’t. Thanks. Love you.”
I returned back down the stairs to find my son crying on his bed, his sister standing in the doorway to his room with her hands on her hips yelling, “No. I. Didn’t!”
“YES YOU DID!” He screamed.
And back to the job.
“Okay, you two. Knock it off.”
River had the decency to look up at me with regret (for yelling or for being caught – it didn’t matter to me), but my son continued to cry even after I sent River out to play in the family room.
I sat beside him on the bed, prepared to implement my husband’s idea.
“Hey Lemur. Let’s pretend that the Lego’s are hiding, and we have to find them.”
“But we don’t have any clues!” He wailed through slowing tears.
And then it hit me. Not Hide-and-Go-Seek!
“Well, it is a mystery . . .” I began, hoping he’d take the bait.
His crying stopped. He looked at me with wild joy in his wet eyes, “Like a real mystery?” the excitement in his voice was obvious.
I nodded. I had a feeling this would work better if it was entirely his idea. He actually needed no further prodding.
He literally jumped off the bed, tears forgotten and pain behind him. He was in the throes of imagination. “We can find clues!” he exclaimed. “We have to question witnesses and keep a log!” He scurried to his desk and found a tiny Spiderman notebook, “Here, you write everything down. Let’s solve the case!” He put his hand out toward me. The excitement was catching. I put my hand on his, he put his other one on mine, and my other hand made the top of the pile. “Real Mystery!” he shouted.
“Let’s get going!”
“Okay, first things first,” I had taught him that platitude about four months ago when he began having chores. He loved to use it.“When did they go missing?”
“The last time Daddy or River saw them was on Monday, before Kenneth came over for dinner.” I said.
He was pacing in front of me as I sat on the bed, with one arm behind his back and his other hand stroking his chin, “We had better call Kenneth and see if he saw it,” he surmised.
“Good idea.” I took out the phone and began dialing.
“You intrerrogate him,” he instructed.
My eyes lit up in surprise. I didn’t know he knew that word. “Okay,” I answered.
Kenneth picked up after the third ring. “ ‘ello ‘ello.”
“Hey minion.”
“ ‘ello! Mrs. Muad’Dib!”
“I’m on assignment,” I said, my tone formal.
“Really?”
“Liam and I are on a case. And we need your help. You are a witness.”
“Oh, am I?” He sounded downright gleeful.
“Yes. Will you help us?” Liam was listening with baited breath, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Always as ever I can, Sayyadina.”
I smiled at the use of my multiple Dune-themed nicknames, “Thanks. You came over for dinner on Monday night, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And what time did you get here?”
“We arrived shortly after 5:30 pm,” He answered with a clipped tone. I knew he was doing it for Liam, for full dramatic effect. And it was working. Liam was intent on the conversation.
“And what did you see as you entered the house?”
“Uh . . .” He seemed confused, “You want me to describe everything?”
Liam interjected, “No! Did you see my Legos?!”
Kenneth and I laughed. And he answered, “No I don’t remember seeing any Legos. I did see the kids sitting at the pirate table, and they were watching Enchanted.”
“They would have been built like a house or castle?” I offered, hoping to jog his memory.
“Nope. Only clean house smelling of wonderful chowder-y goodness.”
Liam looked disappointed and we were silent for a moment.
“Does that help?” Kenneth asked.
“Yes. Thanks. We better get back to the investigation.”
“Anytime. Bye.” And we hung up.
Liam flopped on the bed, face first, his legs dangling off the edge, “That didn’t help at all!” he moaned.
“Oh yes it did.”
He rolled over to look at me, “It did?”
“Yes.” I began writing what we learned in the Log as I spoke, “It means that the Lego castle was cleaned up BEFORE Kenneth came over.”
“So we know it couldn’t have wandered outside, and that Kenneth didn’t see it, so he didn’t want to steal it,” Liam offered.
I nodded my head slowly, “uh, yeah. That, or it means that either Daddy or you or River cleaned it up.”
We were quiet for a moment as I finished writing.
Liam suddenly jumped up, “Return to the scene of the crime!” he exclaimed.
“Do it!” I said.
We ran happily through the family room and up the stairs, into the living room. Liam circled the room before coming to a stop in front of the couch under the window.
“Give me the log,” he said.
I did and he began drawing a sketch.
When he finished, he handed it back to me saying, “Here is what my lego’s looked like last time I saw them.” He had drawn a tall house, with an arrow pointing up along the side with the measurement “400 Legos” written next to it. “This,” he said, pointing to the arrow, “Means that it was 400 Legos tall.” Then he had drawn the inside of the house, with its two staircases and benches, and the lightning rod on the top. After I had perused the drawing, he took the log back, flipped the page, and began sketching again.
This time it was the room as he remembered it when he came home from school. He drew the couch and everything else in relation to it: River’s table, the mini DVD player, and the Legos. He even drew an arrow to show what direction he traveled after he came in.
(From the Log:
Scene of the crime: Living room.
Witness: Liam said he saw the castle on River’s little grey plastic table, which was in front of the couch. River was watching a movie, and the DVD player was on the couch. “I was surprised when I came in. Then I was mad. Then I came over in this direction. )
“Okay, honey.” I said as I prepared myself to write his answer, “What time did you get home?”
“Uh . . .” I remembered he couldn’t tell time.
“Was it a short day or regular day?”
He thought. “Regular.”
“Did daddy take you to the store first, or did you come straight home?”
“Straight home.”
I seemed to remember asking Caleb to pick up some potatoes and milk from the store, “You sure?” I asked.
“Yes!” he said, with that little burst of child attitude.
“Okay! So. That means you got home around 3:30 in the afternoon.”
“That sounds about right,” he conceded.
“I didn’t start dinner until 4 pm. So, there are 30 minutes where you and River didn’t have to clean up . . . did you play with her?”
He was pacing the floor again, deep in thought. “Yes. I remember that I was mad, but then wanted to help her build a tower. She was playing with her little dolls.”
“Good.”
“Oh!!”
“What?!” I asked, excited by his “aha” tone.
“River stopped playing because she was intent on Enchanted. She was only watching that. Then I got intent too.”
“Intent?” Who was this boy and how did he learn these fantastic words and know how to use them in every day conversation?! I tried to keep my pride and surprise to myself, so as to not make him feel self-conscious.
“So at 4:30 when Daddy and I asked you to clean up, who cleaned up the Legos?”
His face fell and he stopped pacing. “I don’t remember.” His sadness pulled at my heart. We had hit a mental dead end.
New tactic.
“Let’s search the area for clues!”
“Okay,” he said. He flopped on the ground and began looking under the couch.
Ten minutes passed as we quietly searched the living room for clues. Nothing relating to the case was found. I could see Liam was becoming discouraged and distracted, and frustrated that he was getting distracted.
“Okay!” I exclaimed, jumping up from my spot on the floor by the recliner, “I have a plan.”
His eyes lit up again, “What? WHAT?!” He was good at building his own excitement.
“Let’s begin a full scale search!”
He looked confused.
“Start in one corner of the house and systematically search every nook and cranny until we find either a clue or the Lego’s themselves!”
“What’s stestematicalily?”
“Oh, uh . . .” I searched for a way to describe my big girl word, “It means in order. Like in a system. System-attic-ly.”
“Oh.” He nodded and I could see he completely understood. “Let’s go!”
We picked up the Log and the box of stuff we had found in the living room – though it had nothing to do with the Legos – and walked to the hallway between my room and my daughters.
“Which room should we start with first?” I asked.
“River’s,” he said authoritatively, “because it is farthest south.” I loved his reasoning.
“Alright!” I placed the log and the box on my bed and we entered River’s room.
Liam picked up the Log, “Wait!” he said. I froze in place for comedic affect.
“What?”
“I have to draw it first, so we remember what it looked like.”
That was an ominous suggestion, and I wondered how he thought it would look when we were done.
He spent a few moments sketching the room. There was a vanity with no mirror on the south wall, and next to it was a wire bench, and in the west corner sat an ABC toy chest/bench where all her toys were kept. He drew her daybed on the west wall, and the cedar chest next to her bedside table on the north wall. “Okay.” He declared when he was done. “Start searching!”
He walked over to the ABC bench, “This is the most south corner of the whole house. We start here.”
“Done!” I said
He opened the toy chest and rifled inside. I leaned over the chest to look behind, as it was set at an angle and there was a nice triangle of space between it and the corner. There was a pink pool noodle standing on it’s end, a 3ft stuffed Dora doll, a baby blankie and . . . I started laughing.
“What?” Liam demanded, “What is it?!”
From behind the chest, I lifted out the Castle of Legos.
Liam began jumping up and down, and only stopped long enough to grab it out of my hands. “WE FOUND IT!!! We SOLVED the Mystery!!!”
I added my laughter to his excitement and we jumped around together for a moment or two. It wasn’t important how it got there – whether it was put there by Mom because she didn’t want it taken apart and who then completely forgot about it or not– most importantly, it was found! After a while, Liam stopped celebrating and looked at the building lovingly.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“Good detective work.”
I smiled. “You too, son.”
“Let’s go take this thing apart.”
And so ended the mystery of the missing Legos.
November 14, 2009
I turned his face to look at me, “But you don’t have to yell.” Then I took a deep breath and he followed my example. “River was building with daddy," I reminded him, "so don’t get mad at her. Let’s just ask if she knows where they went.”
I squatted down next to my 3 year old daughter who was playing with a Weebles treehouse, “River-bottom, do you know where Liam’s Lego’s went?” She ignored me, “River.” She looked up, “Remember when you played with Daddy the other day, and you played with Liam’s Legos?”
“Uh-huh. We built a castle.”
“Oh, yes.” I said, remembering the super-awesome dollhouse/castle my husband had built for his daughter out of his son’s Legos. Come to think of it, super-awesome doesn’t do it justice . . . anyway, I asked, “Do you remember where you put them when you were done?”
She sniffed absently. She said “Nope,” and went back to playing.
“Hmm.” I said, “I’ll go call Daddy and see if he remembers.”
I opened the phone and went up the stairs, hoping that I would just see the Lego’s displayed somewhere higher than the kids normally looked.
“Hey honey.”
“What’s up?”
“Do you remember the castle you built with River on Monday?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“You mean now?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
I heard a scream downstairs. “Because your son has noticed that about 400 Legos are missing from his box and is now screaming like a banshee at your daughter whom he blames for the loss.”
“Ah.” He started laughing.
“It’s not funny,” I chastised half-heartedly.
“Yes it is. Cause you’re home and I’m not,” he said, giggling.
I chuckled a little as well, until another bout of screaming wafted up the stairs. “You seriously don’t remember cleaning them up or something?”
“No. Did you check – “ and then he listed about fourteen of the most obvious places in the house, each of which I had already given the once-over.
“I don’t know what to do. He’s going crazy!”
“Just tell him it’s a game of Hide and Go Seek and the Legos’ are hiding.”
“See, this is why I call you,” I said with a sigh, “because I was about to go out and buy him more!” I laughed, but my husband didn’t see that it was funny.
“No, don’t do that.”
I laughed harder. “I won’t. Thanks. Love you.”
I returned back down the stairs to find my son crying on his bed, his sister standing in the doorway to his room with her hands on her hips yelling, “No. I. Didn’t!”
“YES YOU DID!” He screamed.
And back to the job.
“Okay, you two. Knock it off.”
River had the decency to look up at me with regret (for yelling or for being caught – it didn’t matter to me), but my son continued to cry even after I sent River out to play in the family room.
I sat beside him on the bed, prepared to implement my husband’s idea.
“Hey Lemur. Let’s pretend that the Lego’s are hiding, and we have to find them.”
“But we don’t have any clues!” He wailed through slowing tears.
And then it hit me. Not Hide-and-Go-Seek!
“Well, it is a mystery . . .” I began, hoping he’d take the bait.
His crying stopped. He looked at me with wild joy in his wet eyes, “Like a real mystery?” the excitement in his voice was obvious.
I nodded. I had a feeling this would work better if it was entirely his idea. He actually needed no further prodding.
He literally jumped off the bed, tears forgotten and pain behind him. He was in the throes of imagination. “We can find clues!” he exclaimed. “We have to question witnesses and keep a log!” He scurried to his desk and found a tiny Spiderman notebook, “Here, you write everything down. Let’s solve the case!” He put his hand out toward me. The excitement was catching. I put my hand on his, he put his other one on mine, and my other hand made the top of the pile. “Real Mystery!” he shouted.
“Let’s get going!”
“Okay, first things first,” I had taught him that platitude about four months ago when he began having chores. He loved to use it.“When did they go missing?”
“The last time Daddy or River saw them was on Monday, before Kenneth came over for dinner.” I said.
He was pacing in front of me as I sat on the bed, with one arm behind his back and his other hand stroking his chin, “We had better call Kenneth and see if he saw it,” he surmised.
“Good idea.” I took out the phone and began dialing.
“You intrerrogate him,” he instructed.
My eyes lit up in surprise. I didn’t know he knew that word. “Okay,” I answered.
Kenneth picked up after the third ring. “ ‘ello ‘ello.”
“Hey minion.”
“ ‘ello! Mrs. Muad’Dib!”
“I’m on assignment,” I said, my tone formal.
“Really?”
“Liam and I are on a case. And we need your help. You are a witness.”
“Oh, am I?” He sounded downright gleeful.
“Yes. Will you help us?” Liam was listening with baited breath, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Always as ever I can, Sayyadina.”
I smiled at the use of my multiple Dune-themed nicknames, “Thanks. You came over for dinner on Monday night, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And what time did you get here?”
“We arrived shortly after 5:30 pm,” He answered with a clipped tone. I knew he was doing it for Liam, for full dramatic effect. And it was working. Liam was intent on the conversation.
“And what did you see as you entered the house?”
“Uh . . .” He seemed confused, “You want me to describe everything?”
Liam interjected, “No! Did you see my Legos?!”
Kenneth and I laughed. And he answered, “No I don’t remember seeing any Legos. I did see the kids sitting at the pirate table, and they were watching Enchanted.”
“They would have been built like a house or castle?” I offered, hoping to jog his memory.
“Nope. Only clean house smelling of wonderful chowder-y goodness.”
Liam looked disappointed and we were silent for a moment.
“Does that help?” Kenneth asked.
“Yes. Thanks. We better get back to the investigation.”
“Anytime. Bye.” And we hung up.
Liam flopped on the bed, face first, his legs dangling off the edge, “That didn’t help at all!” he moaned.
“Oh yes it did.”
He rolled over to look at me, “It did?”
“Yes.” I began writing what we learned in the Log as I spoke, “It means that the Lego castle was cleaned up BEFORE Kenneth came over.”
“So we know it couldn’t have wandered outside, and that Kenneth didn’t see it, so he didn’t want to steal it,” Liam offered.
I nodded my head slowly, “uh, yeah. That, or it means that either Daddy or you or River cleaned it up.”
We were quiet for a moment as I finished writing.
Liam suddenly jumped up, “Return to the scene of the crime!” he exclaimed.
“Do it!” I said.
We ran happily through the family room and up the stairs, into the living room. Liam circled the room before coming to a stop in front of the couch under the window.
“Give me the log,” he said.
I did and he began drawing a sketch.
When he finished, he handed it back to me saying, “Here is what my lego’s looked like last time I saw them.” He had drawn a tall house, with an arrow pointing up along the side with the measurement “400 Legos” written next to it. “This,” he said, pointing to the arrow, “Means that it was 400 Legos tall.” Then he had drawn the inside of the house, with its two staircases and benches, and the lightning rod on the top. After I had perused the drawing, he took the log back, flipped the page, and began sketching again.
This time it was the room as he remembered it when he came home from school. He drew the couch and everything else in relation to it: River’s table, the mini DVD player, and the Legos. He even drew an arrow to show what direction he traveled after he came in.
(From the Log:
Scene of the crime: Living room.
Witness: Liam said he saw the castle on River’s little grey plastic table, which was in front of the couch. River was watching a movie, and the DVD player was on the couch. “I was surprised when I came in. Then I was mad. Then I came over in this direction. )
“Okay, honey.” I said as I prepared myself to write his answer, “What time did you get home?”
“Uh . . .” I remembered he couldn’t tell time.
“Was it a short day or regular day?”
He thought. “Regular.”
“Did daddy take you to the store first, or did you come straight home?”
“Straight home.”
I seemed to remember asking Caleb to pick up some potatoes and milk from the store, “You sure?” I asked.
“Yes!” he said, with that little burst of child attitude.
“Okay! So. That means you got home around 3:30 in the afternoon.”
“That sounds about right,” he conceded.
“I didn’t start dinner until 4 pm. So, there are 30 minutes where you and River didn’t have to clean up . . . did you play with her?”
He was pacing the floor again, deep in thought. “Yes. I remember that I was mad, but then wanted to help her build a tower. She was playing with her little dolls.”
“Good.”
“Oh!!”
“What?!” I asked, excited by his “aha” tone.
“River stopped playing because she was intent on Enchanted. She was only watching that. Then I got intent too.”
“Intent?” Who was this boy and how did he learn these fantastic words and know how to use them in every day conversation?! I tried to keep my pride and surprise to myself, so as to not make him feel self-conscious.
“So at 4:30 when Daddy and I asked you to clean up, who cleaned up the Legos?”
His face fell and he stopped pacing. “I don’t remember.” His sadness pulled at my heart. We had hit a mental dead end.
New tactic.
“Let’s search the area for clues!”
“Okay,” he said. He flopped on the ground and began looking under the couch.
Ten minutes passed as we quietly searched the living room for clues. Nothing relating to the case was found. I could see Liam was becoming discouraged and distracted, and frustrated that he was getting distracted.
“Okay!” I exclaimed, jumping up from my spot on the floor by the recliner, “I have a plan.”
His eyes lit up again, “What? WHAT?!” He was good at building his own excitement.
“Let’s begin a full scale search!”
He looked confused.
“Start in one corner of the house and systematically search every nook and cranny until we find either a clue or the Lego’s themselves!”
“What’s stestematicalily?”
“Oh, uh . . .” I searched for a way to describe my big girl word, “It means in order. Like in a system. System-attic-ly.”
“Oh.” He nodded and I could see he completely understood. “Let’s go!”
We picked up the Log and the box of stuff we had found in the living room – though it had nothing to do with the Legos – and walked to the hallway between my room and my daughters.
“Which room should we start with first?” I asked.
“River’s,” he said authoritatively, “because it is farthest south.” I loved his reasoning.
“Alright!” I placed the log and the box on my bed and we entered River’s room.
Liam picked up the Log, “Wait!” he said. I froze in place for comedic affect.
“What?”
“I have to draw it first, so we remember what it looked like.”
That was an ominous suggestion, and I wondered how he thought it would look when we were done.
He spent a few moments sketching the room. There was a vanity with no mirror on the south wall, and next to it was a wire bench, and in the west corner sat an ABC toy chest/bench where all her toys were kept. He drew her daybed on the west wall, and the cedar chest next to her bedside table on the north wall. “Okay.” He declared when he was done. “Start searching!”
He walked over to the ABC bench, “This is the most south corner of the whole house. We start here.”
“Done!” I said
He opened the toy chest and rifled inside. I leaned over the chest to look behind, as it was set at an angle and there was a nice triangle of space between it and the corner. There was a pink pool noodle standing on it’s end, a 3ft stuffed Dora doll, a baby blankie and . . . I started laughing.
“What?” Liam demanded, “What is it?!”
From behind the chest, I lifted out the Castle of Legos.
Liam began jumping up and down, and only stopped long enough to grab it out of my hands. “WE FOUND IT!!! We SOLVED the Mystery!!!”
I added my laughter to his excitement and we jumped around together for a moment or two. It wasn’t important how it got there – whether it was put there by Mom because she didn’t want it taken apart and who then completely forgot about it or not– most importantly, it was found! After a while, Liam stopped celebrating and looked at the building lovingly.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“Good detective work.”
I smiled. “You too, son.”
“Let’s go take this thing apart.”
And so ended the mystery of the missing Legos.
November 14, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
I really should have built an ark back in December.
My wake up call this morning?
"Mom, there's another flood."
For a moment I thought I was dreaming. "Wha?" I mutter sleepily.
"Mom. Mom! There's another flood with lots of water. Just like the last one."
It was my son. Was he speaking Biblicly? Was I about to drown with other sinners for not building an ark? I tried to shake the sleep from my head. "What do you mean?"
"Downstairs. The carpet's all wet. Like last time."
I was awake quick as a flash. Muad'Dib struggled a bit more and groggily grumbled, "Yagattabekiddinme!"
"Mom, come see!"
I followed my son down the stairs, expecting to feel the sickly slosh of water oozing up from carpet on the landing, but it was dry. Maybe I was dreaming after all. I carefully walked in front of the T.V., the cases which housed our beloved books, and the couch. Nothing. My heart began to return to it's normal rhythm.
"No, mom, over here."
I could hear the awful sucking sound of his foot lifting off the wet carpet. Just in front of the bathroom and laundry room, a dark spot was spreading. I stepped into it myself, hoping it was just a little damp. No such luck. Soaked. Standing water only. I ventured into the office, but it was dry as a bone. Lemur's room as well would continue to be a water free haven. But the last two rooms weren't so lucky. The bathroom and laundry room both had about a half an inch standing water. Ugh.
By this time Muad'Dib had dressed and come downstairs. We destroyed my perfectly packed closet, removing everything from the crib to the christmas decorations. The sump pump seemed to be doing it's job. My office is in upheaval to prove it. We then moved the washer and drier from the wall, hoping to understand what was happening. We found more than our fair share of socks and hair elastics, but no leak. Lemur was kind enough to point out that it was wet by the Rock Band stuff, which led to the discovery that the ENTIRE NORTH WALL was wet as well, with a gap already visible between wall and baseboard. Double Ugh.
My hunny and I moved all the furniture affected by the liquid onslaught, and were grateful again to have at least a dry corner for the couch and entertainment center. Lemur was just excited to have the LovSac in his room again.
The best part of the morning was when Rivulet joined us, happy to apprise us of the situation. She solomnly strolled around the basement, announcing her findings as she went: "A little wet here. It's much wet here. More water than over there. Yep, it's wet right here." She's so cute.
The landlord has come, but is unsure what is causing the inconvenience. From past experience, even AFTER the problem is diagnosed and a resolution is reached, it will be a week before we are dry enough to put anything back where it belongs. This revelation in mind, please note the following exchange between me and Muad'Dib as we ascended the stairs after moving our furnitureto a dry corner of the basement:
Me, under my breath (think Yosemite Sam): "Dirty filth and filthy foul, gribble grumble grouse-y pheasant!!!"
Muad'Dib, laughing: "Why are you so funny when you are mad?"
Me, whining: "I don't know!"
Muad'Dib laughs harder. Somehow my whining is also funny when I'm mad.
On the upside, Lemur is getting over the flu. He had a fever for three days, as well as being achy, ULTRA tired, coughing and enduring a sore throat. The first day he was sick, he took THREE two hour naps. This from a boy who hasn't taken a midday nap since he was 2 1/2!
We've enjoyed playing games, cuddling, and watching Daffy Duck's Quackbusters. Lemur's favorite part is when a possessed lady duck is floating in the air and recites the following rhyme, while changing into a demon half-way through: "Mary had a little lamb but I ATE it!" He just laughs and laughs.
Also my sister went to see Muad'Dib in BandtheB on Saturday, after which she stayed the night and all day Sunday with us. I sure like my sister.
So, in the face of this flood . . . I'm deciding not to let it ruin my day. I still have the upstairs. The books aren't ruined. Nothing in the laundry room could get ruined, because I had the foresight to clean it out on Saturday afternoon. Go me.
I just had to write it out, give it that "I am so funny when I'm mad" twist, so when I look downstairs, I can remember: anybad thing that happens today will be a funny thing to laugh at later.
"Do you remember the time my basement flooded three times in a year?!"
No. It's too soon.
"Mom, there's another flood."
For a moment I thought I was dreaming. "Wha?" I mutter sleepily.
"Mom. Mom! There's another flood with lots of water. Just like the last one."
It was my son. Was he speaking Biblicly? Was I about to drown with other sinners for not building an ark? I tried to shake the sleep from my head. "What do you mean?"
"Downstairs. The carpet's all wet. Like last time."
I was awake quick as a flash. Muad'Dib struggled a bit more and groggily grumbled, "Yagattabekiddinme!"
"Mom, come see!"
I followed my son down the stairs, expecting to feel the sickly slosh of water oozing up from carpet on the landing, but it was dry. Maybe I was dreaming after all. I carefully walked in front of the T.V., the cases which housed our beloved books, and the couch. Nothing. My heart began to return to it's normal rhythm.
"No, mom, over here."
I could hear the awful sucking sound of his foot lifting off the wet carpet. Just in front of the bathroom and laundry room, a dark spot was spreading. I stepped into it myself, hoping it was just a little damp. No such luck. Soaked. Standing water only. I ventured into the office, but it was dry as a bone. Lemur's room as well would continue to be a water free haven. But the last two rooms weren't so lucky. The bathroom and laundry room both had about a half an inch standing water. Ugh.
By this time Muad'Dib had dressed and come downstairs. We destroyed my perfectly packed closet, removing everything from the crib to the christmas decorations. The sump pump seemed to be doing it's job. My office is in upheaval to prove it. We then moved the washer and drier from the wall, hoping to understand what was happening. We found more than our fair share of socks and hair elastics, but no leak. Lemur was kind enough to point out that it was wet by the Rock Band stuff, which led to the discovery that the ENTIRE NORTH WALL was wet as well, with a gap already visible between wall and baseboard. Double Ugh.
My hunny and I moved all the furniture affected by the liquid onslaught, and were grateful again to have at least a dry corner for the couch and entertainment center. Lemur was just excited to have the LovSac in his room again.
The best part of the morning was when Rivulet joined us, happy to apprise us of the situation. She solomnly strolled around the basement, announcing her findings as she went: "A little wet here. It's much wet here. More water than over there. Yep, it's wet right here." She's so cute.
The landlord has come, but is unsure what is causing the inconvenience. From past experience, even AFTER the problem is diagnosed and a resolution is reached, it will be a week before we are dry enough to put anything back where it belongs. This revelation in mind, please note the following exchange between me and Muad'Dib as we ascended the stairs after moving our furnitureto a dry corner of the basement:
Me, under my breath (think Yosemite Sam): "Dirty filth and filthy foul, gribble grumble grouse-y pheasant!!!"
Muad'Dib, laughing: "Why are you so funny when you are mad?"
Me, whining: "I don't know!"
Muad'Dib laughs harder. Somehow my whining is also funny when I'm mad.
On the upside, Lemur is getting over the flu. He had a fever for three days, as well as being achy, ULTRA tired, coughing and enduring a sore throat. The first day he was sick, he took THREE two hour naps. This from a boy who hasn't taken a midday nap since he was 2 1/2!
We've enjoyed playing games, cuddling, and watching Daffy Duck's Quackbusters. Lemur's favorite part is when a possessed lady duck is floating in the air and recites the following rhyme, while changing into a demon half-way through: "Mary had a little lamb but I ATE it!" He just laughs and laughs.
Also my sister went to see Muad'Dib in BandtheB on Saturday, after which she stayed the night and all day Sunday with us. I sure like my sister.
So, in the face of this flood . . . I'm deciding not to let it ruin my day. I still have the upstairs. The books aren't ruined. Nothing in the laundry room could get ruined, because I had the foresight to clean it out on Saturday afternoon. Go me.
I just had to write it out, give it that "I am so funny when I'm mad" twist, so when I look downstairs, I can remember: anybad thing that happens today will be a funny thing to laugh at later.
"Do you remember the time my basement flooded three times in a year?!"
No. It's too soon.
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