The Big O is Home from Switzerland

As you can see, Oliver got home from Switzerland with a hell of a lot of Swiss chocolate. Added to the Christmas crap that is, literally, everywhere, I can say confidently that I live in a Christmas and Chocolate Shop. I haven't even seen The Big O this morning as he is sleeping, still, at 2:00 in the afternoon. I'm trying to take down Christmas and simultaneously declutter. I've begun in the dining room, and in between opening cabinets and drawers and tossing what I don't want or need or am sick of, I pop one of those chocolates you see up there, clustered in a pile to the right. I'm being fueled by chocolate and incredulity at the amount of crap I have. January 3rd seems like as good a day as any to be ruthless, but don't think it isn't hard for me to part with some stuff. There's a three-drawer cabinet in one corner that has long been The Art Cart, and it's filled with art supplies -- markers, pencils, paper, stamps, watercolor paints, drawing pads, and various odd stuff like pipe cleaners and popsicle sticks.

Here's the thing. No one in my house is remotely crafty or artistic in the manner of The Art Cart, although we have riffled through the contents over the years for school projects, lemonade stands, etc. I really am loathe to get rid of The Art Cart, though, with that nagging premonition that the moment I do toss it, I'll need something from it -- why the hell did I throw out that Frida Kahlo coloring book? -- and have regrets. During hour three of the purge, I took a break and rode over to the post office to mail something and mulled over the art cart, the difficulty of getting rid of stuff, what that means in a psychoanalytic way and other psychic-shattering things.

Reader, I actually thought this thought:

The Art Cart could stay there and maybe when I have grandchildren, they'll appreciate the stuff inside of it. 

I'm going to wake Oliver up and pop some more chocolate.

Housekeeping

Grant Park, Chicago

I'm back and have hit the ground running. This morning, Henry observed that I was a tad obsessive about cleaning the kitchen, Mom. He and I are up first every morning because he goes to school in the deep, dark Valley, and we need much preparation before our journey. I was spraying the microwave down and then the cupboard doors before moving on to using the stainless steel spray on the fridge door. Watch that pile! I might have cried out as Henry walked over to the counter to get a spoon for his gigantic bowl of cereal that fortifies him for the journey ahead. He was about to kick the stuff that I'd swept up, the detritus of a weekend without me. Jeez, Mom, he said between mouthfuls, as I wiped at the newspaper smudges all over the door molding. I'm not upset, I said. I'm cleaning for my own sake. Because that's how I like it.  My days of resentment have cleared away for the most part. It took many years to get that way, but I'm, if not proud then relieved, to feel diligent more than aggrieved, content by my actions more than enraged by the lack of theirs. At worst, I feel slightly superior. Henry downed a glass of milk and got up to go finish his toilette and pack his provisions for the journey. I wonder how long I could go without cleaning anything around me, he said. Maybe two weeks? Or three? He was, if nothing else, equally as self-satisfied as I.

Henry, Pedicures, Medical Marijuana Update Number 31,276,459 and the Full Moon

That's my beautiful boy, getting ready to jump down and pick up the screen that fell out of the window. He came home early from school today, and I can't even begin to tell you how E A S Y it is to hang out with him.

I did some hard-core cleaning today -- mainly in the boys' bedroom. They have an incredible amount of stuff -- let's be honest and call it shit -- piled in every nook and corner, so I got a big box and literally swept it off the shelves and into the box. I'm going to tell them to go through the box and only remove the things that they really, really value. Something tells me that most of it will appear, again, on the shelves or in the drawers or under the bed, but at least, now for one day, the room is pristine.

I also walked around the corner and got a pedicure. I splurged and did the hot stone treatment, and while my legs and feet were being massaged with hot black rocks, a woman called me and we talked for the rest of the time about medical marijuana, about CBD butter and tinctures and how it's helping her son and how everything, everything is moving toward it. We're going to meet next week, and she's going to let me try what she has been using for her eight year old son quite successfully.

The universe is abundant.

The Pediatric Cannabis Therapy of California Facebook group has a whole thread of comments about the upcoming full moon, Santa Ana winds and increased seizures in our kids.

The universe is strange.

I might be insane, but as I told a friend, I'm calmly insane.

The universe is constantly trickling through my fingers, and I can't hold onto it which is probably just right.

Good lord, part two and parenting for cash

I heard a couple of punches fly and then Oliver came into the kitchen and put an icepack on his arm. I hated to, but I asked him what happened and he told me that he'd been beaten to death, again. I made inquiries and understood that spit had flown previously to the punch.

Here's what I said,

From now on, if a punch or spit flies, I get $5. Effective immediately.

I stood there, in the doorway, and collected $15.00.

Not a bad day's work.

Reader, tell me your effective parenting strategies. I'm all ears and filled pockets.

Loaves and Fishes, Ali Baba's Cave, Barbie and Ken

This is my closet, so small that I call it The Barbie Closet:

Today, on the eve of my 49th birthday and in lieu of doing laundry, I decided to clean it out. Because it only holds as much as Barbie might wear, I do this quite often; in fact, I believe I did a thorough cleaning out just three or four months ago. Astoundingly, I had stacks and stacks of clothing that I haven't worn in years, shoes that were smashed up toward the back, what appeared to be hundreds of wire dry cleaner hangers, crushed up purses and sweater belts rolled into corners. The thought crossed my mind that since it's Sunday, and the eve of my birthday, perhaps the universe was telling me something a la Loaves and Fishes style. Or maybe the Barbie Closet is really Ali Baba's Cave, filled with treasures, so many that a spoiled woman has no idea of the riches inside.

I organized the treasures into bags to be given away, thrown away and worthy of selling. Those worthy of selling will be moved into the back of my car with the other Worthy of Selling items that I culled from the cave three months ago where they will probably travel along with me for another several months.

Whose University of North Carolina letter jacket is this? It's rather small, so I can't imagine it was an old boyfriend's. I believe it belongs to a long ago room-mate who played on the golf team at UNC. I've lost touch with her. Catherine? Are you there? Is this yours?

The hangers are obscuring a pile of clothes that I need to iron. These have been sitting there for almost the entire last half of the summer, another indication that I have too many possessions. The dog is Valentine who is a Standard Poodle and who recently got shaved down because of fleas. God forbid Valentine should stand in an area away from me. Perhaps she's just marveling at the endless amount of fish and loaves that keep coming out of the Barbie closet.

What do you notice in the above photo? Here, I'll zoom in on one side:

To be fair, Ken's closet is located in Henry and Oliver's room, and they are fairly squished together into their own room. But the state of affairs on one side of the room is shameful. I'm not going to tell you who's who and what's what, though, as that would be bad parenting and perhaps suggest that I favor one child over the other. But I'd love it if you guessed.

So I woke up to rain, beautiful rain which meant the baseball games were cancelled and no sunny weather guilt (you should be out, outside, enjoying this weather), and it's still raining but I've cleaned out the linen closet, the tiny closet in the hallway that somehow accumulated thirteen years worth of ratty towels, fabric scraps, a moldy quilt, Christmas advent calendars and port-a-crib sheets. It was hard to get rid of the port-a-crib sheets, I must admit, and I buried my nose in them, trying to find that smell, those smells of babies, The Little Prince standing on his planet, his sober gaze under my nose. I filled a bag with all of it except The Little Prince and a mobile, shoved a few baby blankets back in a corner (would I use these one day for grandchildren, Ms. Moon?)