I have a great nemesis. Now perhaps the word 'nemesis' conjures up thoughts of Marvel Comic villains such as Lex Luthor or the Joker. Or maybe it brings to mind that girl back in high school who always seemed to be able to 'one up' you in every possible way. But for me, my great and formidable foe is a heaping basket of unmatched socks.
My nemesis lurks in the laundry room, daring me to take him on. It is not a challenge I take lightly. Many a day I have sought to defeat this mortal enemy only to retreat in utter despair. He seems to laugh at me as he produces one mismatched sock after another, wearing me down with the sheer enormity of his arsenal.
I have tried many a tactic to outwit my worthy rival. I started out trying to buy each boy a very distinctive style of sock...short black socks for this boy, tall white socks for another, and something with a colored heel for the third. That should have made partnering them up quick and easy. But somehow both socks never ended up hitting the laundry at the same time. The random stray would later be found under the couch or tucked inside a shoe. His perfect match would then take up residence in that blasted basket.
For a while, I tried to make sure only mated pairs went into the washer. It was a huge inconvenience, not to mention a big irritation, to sort through dirty socks and hold on to the unmated ones until their counterparts revealed themselves. But even going through such painstaking efforts didn't guarantee getting mated pairs back at the end. I was fairly certain my great adversary and the dryer were in cahoots on that one.
So with four males in the house, all wearing the same size socks, I decided I would just buy them all the same socks so everything would match everything else. It sounded like the perfect plan to me. But somehow, even two white socks fail to mate when one is white as snow and another is dingy brown from going through who knows what.
And then there's the dress socks. One blue. One black. One brown. One with stripes. One argyle. But a common theme among them all...just one of each. All of them coming together in one place...that infernal laundry basket!
Unfortunately, it isn't only unmatched socks piling up against me. That one dreaded laundry basket has become a depository for a plethora of old soccer and football socks. I don't know how many pair of thick, knee high, never-to-be-worn-again athletics socks he has taken possession of, but he does so to my chagrin. It isn't that anything is 'wrong' with these orphaned socks. But one year on the red team and another one on the green team times three boys times multiple sports has produced a lot of socks over the years. Many have made their way to Goodwill but many still have taken up residence with my archenemy.
But last week, with Christmas coming and new socks on the way, I waged an all out war against my great opponent. With reckless abandon, I overturned him, spilling his sizable accumulation of form fitting footwear onto the living room floor. I gave everyone in the house a minute...maybe less...to quickly pluck from the pile anything they deemed worthy of saving. And then, with no regard for whether anything else might be salvageable (which has been my downfall on many a prior occasion), I made one final brutal assault against my longtime opponent. With a sigh of relief and a feeling of victory deep in my belly, I scooped everything up and threw it all away. Having left my former foe completely decimated, I smiled with delight and proclaimed a new day...a new day for laundry at our house.
From now on, every man, woman and child in this house is responsible to wash, dry, fold and put away his or her own socks. We have each been doing our own regular laundry for quite some time so this seems like a very reasonable, even ingenious solution to my sock problem. However, I know from past experience to never underestimate this great nemesis of mine. I will definitely keep my guard up...and my laundry sorted.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Saturday, December 25, 2010
The Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future
Merry Christmas!
When I was a little girl, our big family Christmas festivities took place at my Grandma Hudson's house. Even though my siblings, cousins and I were all small at the time, the house was still filled to the rim when we all gathered together. There was music and food, and Grandpa's ribbon candy. The tree was always half swallowed up by the pretty wrapped packages piled all around it. It was loud with the sounds of laughter and warm with the caress of love.
By the time the wrapping paper stopped flying, not an empty spot was left to be found. I honestly cannot remember a single a gift I received in all those years, but I remember the feelings I had. Grandma's house was just the place to be. Christmas or just an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, it didn't matter. When I was Grandma's, everything was okay.
I was probably around 12 or 13 when the Christmas gathering moved to my parents' house. It was really just a matter of necessity. None of us were getting any smaller, and Grandma's house wasn't getting any bigger. At first it was odd to not be at Grandma's house. Even though all the same characters were there, the whole event felt different on a new stage.
Maybe it was just that we weren't going anywhere. We were just staying home and letting everyone come to us. Maybe that took some of the excitement out of the day. Maybe it was just the subtle differences between Mom's entertaining style and Grandma's. Maybe it was just me. I wasn't little anymore. The anticipation of Santa was gone. Not to mention, clothes and cash didn't hold the same thrill as Easy Bake ovens and Barbies.
When we all started marrying and having our own little families, the big family Christmas changed again. It wasn't everyone all in one place anymore. Instead, it was my parents and siblings and our little families having a Christmas gathering completely separate from from the rest of the family. I understand these kinds of changes are a natural part of the growing process, but still, something was lost for certain when the transition from one big family all together became two separate families each doing their own thing.
Now we stand on the cusp of another time of metamorphosis. The days of my siblings and I having little kids is quickly phasing out. My kids and my nieces and nephew aren't, for the most part, exactly little anymore. In fact, two of my children are in their twenties and likely to be marrying and starting their own families in the next few years. And with growth, both in physical size and numbers, the stage has changed once again.
This year, for the first time, my husband and I hosted the big family Christmas get together. It was grand. A fabulous time. My little family of five plus my sons' girlfriends, my parents, two sisters, a brother, two brothers-in-law, a sister-in-law, a nephew and three nieces all came together to celebrate Christmas right here in our home.
It was different than being at Mom and Dad's...fantastic but different. I wonder how it felt to the kids. Did they have those same feelings I did back when we went from Christmas at Grandma's to Christmas elsewhere? I wonder if the change in atmosphere took anything away or if it possibly added anything to the night. Will they remember this Christmas with any special fondness...the first Christmas at Aunt Tam's instead of Nana and Papaw's? And how about my siblings? Was anything lost or gained by the new stage set for them? Or is it possible, that as adults, it's only having the same cast that really matters.
I take a moment to pause at that thought, because the truth is, the cast is ever changing. Before much longer, as the 'kids' all become adults and marry and have children of their own, it's likely there will be more 'little' Christmases than 'big' ones...each little family within the the bigger one opting to have their own celebrations. The more we multiply, the more dividing becomes inevitable.
When the day comes that each of my siblings elect to have their own Christmas celebrations with their own kids and their own grandkids, it will be among the most bittersweet days of my life. How deeply I will miss the moments of utter joy that can be found across a table of tasty treats and candid conversation...the laughter that fills a room when a mediocre joke is delivered beautifully by a thirteen year old niece...the contentment of knowing that no matter how much or little we have to exchange, we are incredibly rich in all the ways that matter....the sheer delight of seeing the people I love the most love each other. Oh how precious these days are. How I savor them, knowing that as quickly as the days come, they are over. And while I know that what lies ahead for each of us is sure to be as wonderful as what lies behind, still I will miss it when it's gone.
To my family...each of you individually and all of you collectively...thanks for the memories. May we make many more together and be genuinely happy for each other as we make our own memories apart from one another. Merry Christmas!
When I was a little girl, our big family Christmas festivities took place at my Grandma Hudson's house. Even though my siblings, cousins and I were all small at the time, the house was still filled to the rim when we all gathered together. There was music and food, and Grandpa's ribbon candy. The tree was always half swallowed up by the pretty wrapped packages piled all around it. It was loud with the sounds of laughter and warm with the caress of love.
By the time the wrapping paper stopped flying, not an empty spot was left to be found. I honestly cannot remember a single a gift I received in all those years, but I remember the feelings I had. Grandma's house was just the place to be. Christmas or just an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, it didn't matter. When I was Grandma's, everything was okay.
I was probably around 12 or 13 when the Christmas gathering moved to my parents' house. It was really just a matter of necessity. None of us were getting any smaller, and Grandma's house wasn't getting any bigger. At first it was odd to not be at Grandma's house. Even though all the same characters were there, the whole event felt different on a new stage.
Maybe it was just that we weren't going anywhere. We were just staying home and letting everyone come to us. Maybe that took some of the excitement out of the day. Maybe it was just the subtle differences between Mom's entertaining style and Grandma's. Maybe it was just me. I wasn't little anymore. The anticipation of Santa was gone. Not to mention, clothes and cash didn't hold the same thrill as Easy Bake ovens and Barbies.
When we all started marrying and having our own little families, the big family Christmas changed again. It wasn't everyone all in one place anymore. Instead, it was my parents and siblings and our little families having a Christmas gathering completely separate from from the rest of the family. I understand these kinds of changes are a natural part of the growing process, but still, something was lost for certain when the transition from one big family all together became two separate families each doing their own thing.
Now we stand on the cusp of another time of metamorphosis. The days of my siblings and I having little kids is quickly phasing out. My kids and my nieces and nephew aren't, for the most part, exactly little anymore. In fact, two of my children are in their twenties and likely to be marrying and starting their own families in the next few years. And with growth, both in physical size and numbers, the stage has changed once again.
This year, for the first time, my husband and I hosted the big family Christmas get together. It was grand. A fabulous time. My little family of five plus my sons' girlfriends, my parents, two sisters, a brother, two brothers-in-law, a sister-in-law, a nephew and three nieces all came together to celebrate Christmas right here in our home.
It was different than being at Mom and Dad's...fantastic but different. I wonder how it felt to the kids. Did they have those same feelings I did back when we went from Christmas at Grandma's to Christmas elsewhere? I wonder if the change in atmosphere took anything away or if it possibly added anything to the night. Will they remember this Christmas with any special fondness...the first Christmas at Aunt Tam's instead of Nana and Papaw's? And how about my siblings? Was anything lost or gained by the new stage set for them? Or is it possible, that as adults, it's only having the same cast that really matters.
I take a moment to pause at that thought, because the truth is, the cast is ever changing. Before much longer, as the 'kids' all become adults and marry and have children of their own, it's likely there will be more 'little' Christmases than 'big' ones...each little family within the the bigger one opting to have their own celebrations. The more we multiply, the more dividing becomes inevitable.
When the day comes that each of my siblings elect to have their own Christmas celebrations with their own kids and their own grandkids, it will be among the most bittersweet days of my life. How deeply I will miss the moments of utter joy that can be found across a table of tasty treats and candid conversation...the laughter that fills a room when a mediocre joke is delivered beautifully by a thirteen year old niece...the contentment of knowing that no matter how much or little we have to exchange, we are incredibly rich in all the ways that matter....the sheer delight of seeing the people I love the most love each other. Oh how precious these days are. How I savor them, knowing that as quickly as the days come, they are over. And while I know that what lies ahead for each of us is sure to be as wonderful as what lies behind, still I will miss it when it's gone.
To my family...each of you individually and all of you collectively...thanks for the memories. May we make many more together and be genuinely happy for each other as we make our own memories apart from one another. Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Raging bull
I can be a bit of a raging lunatic sometimes. Occasionally, I feel the overwhelming need to just let it all go. Spout...rant...rave...just completely blow my top and let all the steam come out. When one of my many hot buttons gets pushed, I quickly and freely let my thoughts, feelings and frustrations fly. My husband thinks I am too quick and free with my fury fanned words and aggravation fueled behavior. I often think he is too slow to respond or react. I suppose we balance each other out enough to keep our kids from being manic messes themselves.
It isn't like I go off for no reason at all. Typically, my irritation driven tirades come after repeated discussions or instructions have been given on a particular subject. For instance, if someone needs to use the washer and/or dryer but find they are not empty, do not throw those items into a laundry basket for someone else to worry about at some later time. I say, just go ahead and fold the clothes no matter who they belong to or move that wet laundry over to the dryer. Many a time, I have been so generous as to wash, dry and fold clothes that do not belong to me. It really isn't that hard and it honestly doesn't hurt to just take a minute or two and do it the right way. Few things irritate me more than finding a heaping basket full of towels that need folding or socks that need mating because whoever needed the dryer last couldn't be bothered and just piled them up for someone else, who almost always ends up being me, to do.
Turning off lights is another hot button for me. We live in house that literally sucks up money. It's an old house with a lot of room for improvement. There is always something that needs fixed or updated. And all of our do-it-yourself projects end up costing more than we expect. While little things may not make a big difference, I'm fairly convinced they make some difference. To waste electricity just because we can does not sit well with me. I do not know how many times I have said..."The switch works just as well in reverse"...when one of the boys have left the lights on in a room. It isn't just lights either. It's television sets, space heaters, video games. I'm constantly getting on someone about turning something off. I guess what bugs me most about this is how practically effortless it is, and how even after being nagged mercilessly their whole lives about it, it's still an issue.
"I'm not your maid" has been the opening line to many a hysterical diatribe unleashed on the people I live with. So has, "Am I the only one who knows how to ______", fill in the blank...do a dish, run a sweeper, let out the dog, make an appointment, answer the phone. The list is virtually limitless. Unfortunately, sometimes that feeling of it never getting better or people never learning or wondering if I'm just beating a dead horse or worse, banging my head against the wall gets to be too much. That's when it happens...the gasket blows...I take leave of my sanity and the verbal spewing begins.
I say all this to tell another story. The other day I came in like I do most every day after my paycheck producing job to begin my second job as wife and mother. We have a different routine here than most families in that my husband works second shift. So as I'm ending my work day, he's preparing to begin his. For me, that means I immediately start making his afternoon meal and packing his lunchbox for the evening. It's something I honestly don't mind doing. My husband works hard and does so much for our family. To cook for him actually gives me great pleasure. But some days, I'm just tired myself, and this continuum of work work to home work gets both exhausting and exasperating. In those moments, little things have a way of setting me off. So when I saw that someone had done the forbidden by microwaving canned pasta in a good plastic bowl, well, that lit my fuse. I launched into an adult-sized temper tantrum, vilifying the culprit as though he had committed a criminal offense. How dare someone do this dastardly thing, ruining a perfectly good piece of $2 plastic ware like that!
My husband went about his business as he usually does when I'm having one of these insanely exaggerated, over-the-top outbursts. But little did he know he was about to get a double dose of my outrageous ranting. As I opened the microwave, I discovered the wild red splattering of what appeared to be pasta sauce. Oh, no, it couldn't be! They wouldn't dare! Everyone in this household knows nothing is to be nuked without being properly covered to prevent such senseless messes in my...I mean our...microwave. Without missing a beat, I leapt from the stained bowl to the filthy microwave oven. "I am not cleaning this. Whoever did this is going to clean it up!" Since none of the logical three choices for who that might be were home at the time, I went about the task of cooking my husband's lunch, still moaning and complaining under my breath as I did.
So imagine my shock when just moments later my husband took it upon himself to begin cleaning out that spaghetti sauce splattered microwave oven. I was right down indignant. How would the boys ever learn if he did everything for them? Why would he spare them from having to clean up a mess they created? Did he think me too harsh in my determination to have the guilty party pay for their misdeed with a little lecturing followed by a few minutes of scouring out the microwave?
"What are you doing?" I asked, my annoyance more than obvious. "Whoever made that mess should clean it up."
To my great surprise, he replied, "Whoever made this mess is cleaning it up." Quite dumbfounded, I just looked at him. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Funny how with just a grin, none of it mattered. I guess it never really did anyway.
"I suppose you are the one who didn't fold the towels either."
"Could be." We both laughed, that laugh that comes from knowing we both had been in the wrong but all was right again.
I'm just thankful my husband understands that anything under pressure needs a release valve or it will explode. He doesn't mind me letting off a little steam from time to time. And truth be told, I don't really mind folding towels or wiping up messes in the microwave....much. <g>
It isn't like I go off for no reason at all. Typically, my irritation driven tirades come after repeated discussions or instructions have been given on a particular subject. For instance, if someone needs to use the washer and/or dryer but find they are not empty, do not throw those items into a laundry basket for someone else to worry about at some later time. I say, just go ahead and fold the clothes no matter who they belong to or move that wet laundry over to the dryer. Many a time, I have been so generous as to wash, dry and fold clothes that do not belong to me. It really isn't that hard and it honestly doesn't hurt to just take a minute or two and do it the right way. Few things irritate me more than finding a heaping basket full of towels that need folding or socks that need mating because whoever needed the dryer last couldn't be bothered and just piled them up for someone else, who almost always ends up being me, to do.
Turning off lights is another hot button for me. We live in house that literally sucks up money. It's an old house with a lot of room for improvement. There is always something that needs fixed or updated. And all of our do-it-yourself projects end up costing more than we expect. While little things may not make a big difference, I'm fairly convinced they make some difference. To waste electricity just because we can does not sit well with me. I do not know how many times I have said..."The switch works just as well in reverse"...when one of the boys have left the lights on in a room. It isn't just lights either. It's television sets, space heaters, video games. I'm constantly getting on someone about turning something off. I guess what bugs me most about this is how practically effortless it is, and how even after being nagged mercilessly their whole lives about it, it's still an issue.
"I'm not your maid" has been the opening line to many a hysterical diatribe unleashed on the people I live with. So has, "Am I the only one who knows how to ______", fill in the blank...do a dish, run a sweeper, let out the dog, make an appointment, answer the phone. The list is virtually limitless. Unfortunately, sometimes that feeling of it never getting better or people never learning or wondering if I'm just beating a dead horse or worse, banging my head against the wall gets to be too much. That's when it happens...the gasket blows...I take leave of my sanity and the verbal spewing begins.
I say all this to tell another story. The other day I came in like I do most every day after my paycheck producing job to begin my second job as wife and mother. We have a different routine here than most families in that my husband works second shift. So as I'm ending my work day, he's preparing to begin his. For me, that means I immediately start making his afternoon meal and packing his lunchbox for the evening. It's something I honestly don't mind doing. My husband works hard and does so much for our family. To cook for him actually gives me great pleasure. But some days, I'm just tired myself, and this continuum of work work to home work gets both exhausting and exasperating. In those moments, little things have a way of setting me off. So when I saw that someone had done the forbidden by microwaving canned pasta in a good plastic bowl, well, that lit my fuse. I launched into an adult-sized temper tantrum, vilifying the culprit as though he had committed a criminal offense. How dare someone do this dastardly thing, ruining a perfectly good piece of $2 plastic ware like that!
My husband went about his business as he usually does when I'm having one of these insanely exaggerated, over-the-top outbursts. But little did he know he was about to get a double dose of my outrageous ranting. As I opened the microwave, I discovered the wild red splattering of what appeared to be pasta sauce. Oh, no, it couldn't be! They wouldn't dare! Everyone in this household knows nothing is to be nuked without being properly covered to prevent such senseless messes in my...I mean our...microwave. Without missing a beat, I leapt from the stained bowl to the filthy microwave oven. "I am not cleaning this. Whoever did this is going to clean it up!" Since none of the logical three choices for who that might be were home at the time, I went about the task of cooking my husband's lunch, still moaning and complaining under my breath as I did.
So imagine my shock when just moments later my husband took it upon himself to begin cleaning out that spaghetti sauce splattered microwave oven. I was right down indignant. How would the boys ever learn if he did everything for them? Why would he spare them from having to clean up a mess they created? Did he think me too harsh in my determination to have the guilty party pay for their misdeed with a little lecturing followed by a few minutes of scouring out the microwave?
"What are you doing?" I asked, my annoyance more than obvious. "Whoever made that mess should clean it up."
To my great surprise, he replied, "Whoever made this mess is cleaning it up." Quite dumbfounded, I just looked at him. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Funny how with just a grin, none of it mattered. I guess it never really did anyway.
"I suppose you are the one who didn't fold the towels either."
"Could be." We both laughed, that laugh that comes from knowing we both had been in the wrong but all was right again.
I'm just thankful my husband understands that anything under pressure needs a release valve or it will explode. He doesn't mind me letting off a little steam from time to time. And truth be told, I don't really mind folding towels or wiping up messes in the microwave....much. <g>
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Meet my middle aged husband
I have what I consider the greatest husband in the world. We have literally grown up together, having first met in Mrs. Tupper's kindergarten class at Elwood Haynes Elementary school. Of my 40 years on this earth, I have been either dating or married to Dan for twenty seven of them. That is a long time!
Over the course of this lifetime together, he and I have changed in practically every way possible. We went from being boy and girl to man and woman. From young and free to married with children. From living for the moment to making a whole life together. The transitions have not always been easy. Growing pains are an inevitable part of any maturing process. But as we find ourselves firmly entrenched in our middle ages, I see my husband fighting it much harder than I.
With all his might, Dan is battling to stave off getting older. However, no matter how he tries, the war is getting harder and harder to win. Used to be, he could play basketball for hours on end and give just about anyone a run for their money on the court. He claims he still can hang with the big boys. The only difference is the big boys can still walk upright the next morning. He loves to point out the gray hairs I have, insisting he has none of his own. But his gray hairs are just choosing to sprout out his ears and nose instead of his head. At least I can color mine!
For this man who has been living in sheer and utter denial, this week was a tough one. Something happened that made my husband come smack dab face to face with just how middle aged he really is. While getting his routine annual eye exam, the doctor gave him two pieces of not so pleasant news. First off, he needs progressive lenses. Back in the day, those were known as bifocals. And while the technology has come a long way, the reason for needing it hasn't. Old eyes. Now Dan tried to deny that, but let's face it, there aren't too many twenty years olds who need progressive lenses.
And that wasn't the worst of it. The doctor also told my husband his high blood pressure was going to have to be addressed. Dan generally avoids our family doctor at all costs. It isn't that he doesn't like her. He does. The problem is that every time he goes in, she finds something wrong with him. And this time, he already knew what that something was going to be. Nonetheless, he had no choice so it was off to the doctor he went. And he was none too happy to come back home with a daily medication to take. He said, for the first time ever, "I am getting old."
Somehow this little pink pill was able to do what nothing else had to this point...push Dan over the hill. He is becoming painfully aware that no matter what he does, the middle ages will have their way. It doesn't mean that he's giving up the fight. Knowing him, he'll deny he's old even when his teeth are in a cup and our grandkids are in college. But rest assured, I'll always be here to gently remind him that he isn't getting any younger either.
Over the course of this lifetime together, he and I have changed in practically every way possible. We went from being boy and girl to man and woman. From young and free to married with children. From living for the moment to making a whole life together. The transitions have not always been easy. Growing pains are an inevitable part of any maturing process. But as we find ourselves firmly entrenched in our middle ages, I see my husband fighting it much harder than I.
With all his might, Dan is battling to stave off getting older. However, no matter how he tries, the war is getting harder and harder to win. Used to be, he could play basketball for hours on end and give just about anyone a run for their money on the court. He claims he still can hang with the big boys. The only difference is the big boys can still walk upright the next morning. He loves to point out the gray hairs I have, insisting he has none of his own. But his gray hairs are just choosing to sprout out his ears and nose instead of his head. At least I can color mine!
For this man who has been living in sheer and utter denial, this week was a tough one. Something happened that made my husband come smack dab face to face with just how middle aged he really is. While getting his routine annual eye exam, the doctor gave him two pieces of not so pleasant news. First off, he needs progressive lenses. Back in the day, those were known as bifocals. And while the technology has come a long way, the reason for needing it hasn't. Old eyes. Now Dan tried to deny that, but let's face it, there aren't too many twenty years olds who need progressive lenses.
And that wasn't the worst of it. The doctor also told my husband his high blood pressure was going to have to be addressed. Dan generally avoids our family doctor at all costs. It isn't that he doesn't like her. He does. The problem is that every time he goes in, she finds something wrong with him. And this time, he already knew what that something was going to be. Nonetheless, he had no choice so it was off to the doctor he went. And he was none too happy to come back home with a daily medication to take. He said, for the first time ever, "I am getting old."
Somehow this little pink pill was able to do what nothing else had to this point...push Dan over the hill. He is becoming painfully aware that no matter what he does, the middle ages will have their way. It doesn't mean that he's giving up the fight. Knowing him, he'll deny he's old even when his teeth are in a cup and our grandkids are in college. But rest assured, I'll always be here to gently remind him that he isn't getting any younger either.
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