I: The Humbuggery
Saturday mornings slide into us sideways, wild and without mercy, just like the Monday through Friday that come before it. Technically, we have an extra hour or so to prepare for takeoff, and our destinations are dance and kung fu versus work and school. However, the routine (I am using this term loosely) is much the same…rude awakening, feeding frenzy, clothing crises, cursory calendar reviews, terse task passing, search for keys, and rounding out with a grumbling and fumbling roll out of the door. A few weeks ago, Little Syd crept into our room breaking the day well before the sun ever had a chance. She pitter-pattered across the hardwoods and gingerly kissed my nose. I half-dreamed she was a butterfly or an angel, but then the sweetness soured as she jammed the arms of my glasses right into my eyeballs and summarily stripped me of the comforter and sheets. She clasped her throat with one hand and fake-gasped that she was starving and dying of thirst. To avoid her trademark paroxysmal fury (and thus the potential for sparking full-bore pandemonium in the Petty home), I caved. I climbed out of bed, whisked her into my arms, and dragged and stumbled down the stairs.
I cocooned Syd in a green fleece blanket, piled her into a soft, swiveling chair and turned on a Phineus and Ferb, hoping to placate her long enough to make coffee – lots of it – and pour her cereal and milk. I went through those motions of mollification, knowing well that I was running counter to conventions of today’s high-quality, hands-on mothering. I eyed the clock and noted that we had two more hours before dashing off to Dance Masters. About that time Eli moseyed into the kitchen, perched on the stool, and ordered up eggs, bacon and an “English.” Jonathan strolled into the scene with the newspaper tucked under his arm, and take-it-easy ideas of sinking into the other swiveler to thumb through the news. Before any first light pleasantries could sing from his lips, a venomous, soon to be violent, spat broke out between brother and sister over the coveted first chair. Threats of parental wrath and a toy-less Christmas quashed the quarrel, at least temporarily.
In our second take, so to speak, I filled our cups full with the darkest brew and slid fork-split muffins into the toaster, while Jonathan manned the scramble and sizzle of two skillets. We were a breakfast symphony of sorts. For a split second, what was once the calamitous cracking of dawn flowered into a Norman Rockwell American family portrait of rising, shining, day-breaking goodness. I relished this tiniest sliver of still-in-our-pajamas time, this welcome leave from the packed agenda, the bullet points and to dos. As surely as I hummed and harmonized in my head, the universe blasted the proverbial Mr. Bluebird from my shoulder. This time it wasn’t blunt force trauma to my eyes that stole my vision. With a cartoonish BANG! SPLASH! and THUD!, Eli’s glass toppled over splattering and spraying orange juice in all crevices of the countertop and floor tiles, and almost simultaneously Syd spilled out of her chair. Convulsive crying and compulsive cursing jumpstarted the blame hurling and the I am sorry swirling, which leveled the languor of our almost chill Saturday morning. Somehow in less than a minute, the once buoyant banter about shuttling dancers and young masters, blowing the leaves, and later trimming the tree to holly-jolly tunes twisted into this urgent, pressing debate about dealing with the undone, messiness of our clutter-y, clatter-y, clumsy lives. We fell into line, soldiering onward into the timeslots, checkboxes and tasks outlining our days. The girls went one way, and the boys went the other. I heard Faith Hill crooning, “Where are you Christmas? Why can’t I find you?”
II: The Humbling
Syd and I split and sped off with an extensive list of humdrum have-to-dos, while Jonathan stayed behind laboring in the backyard with our boy. Around noon and at my husband’s request, I rang up my friend Amanda and asked if her son William could come over to break the monotony of this year’s Great Rake. Instead of just one little boy, she sent two (William and Raine), plus her husband Ed and his blower (and yes, we howled as we spun and spiraled down every inappropriate joke about blowing). Thanks to a neighbor’s colossal oak, leaf removal is an Everest-like achievement. I think Jonathan and Eddie raked, blew, and dragged the tarp to the curb for four hours, maybe more. And for this same amount of time, I think three six-year-old boys let their imaginations stretch to the far reaches of the cosmos, inside our house – fairly unattended, well, self-policing, I should say.
While some combination of outdoor progress and indoor obliteration went down back at the ranch, Syd and I trudged about town, dutifully scratching off our line items, intermittently listening to Lady Gaga (her request), Sharon Jones (mutually agreed upon) and The Black Keys (my 2010 obsession band). Finally, we landed at the Azalea Garden Center where together we wandered an Evergreen labyrinth in search of a Christmas tree, shorter and thinner than in years past so as not to overwhelm the space of the living room, per realtor staging instructions. While usually I might be bent by such boundaries, the family that runs the nursery greeted Syd and me with gigantic smiles, bear hugs, well wishes and quickly joined us in the search for this year’s Charlie Brown tree. When we found our slim, yet full Frazier Fur, our friends gave her a fresh cut and even attached the stand, which to me seemed a most masterful maneuver to stabilize far more than the tree. I think Christmas stands and light strands threaten wedded bliss just like putting cribs together, installing car seats and getting lost do.
As the girls hurried home, my grip on the wheel relaxed, and I joined Syd in singing the jazzy, jolly jingles streaming from the all-holiday-all-the-time station, and I knew that bumping into buddies and laughing with lit up people scattered throughout our day had de-Grinch-ed and un-Scrooged me. Ho-hum was more ho-ho-ho, and Saturday felt more like Saturday, and ‘tis the season sank into us. When we arrived at 4501, Syd and I burst through the front door harking and heralding news of the tree. Eli and his two pals, shirtless and shoeless, froze with their grubby hands jammed into a Frito bag, a Goldfish box and a bowl of Pirate’s Booty, respectively. A quick scan revealed that they had at a minimum unfolded, hung and tied nine blankets to create a wicked, cool fort in the living room. Using every piece of rope and twine, including wrapping paraphernalia, they had woven a web through the chandelier and banister (and incidentally they were trying to stifle snickers as I had tripped into their trap upon entering the house). Shoes, socks, shirts, hats, gloves and other accessories littered the floors of three rooms. The scene was stunning, Animal House stunning. My little Deltas’ attention to destructive detail was unmatched by anything I had yet to encounter in my six years of motherhood, my four years of college, really my thirty-six years of life, but at the same time I knew I was witnessing joy – all-in-all-out joy.
I strolled out back to check in with the dads, who having finished their blowing and put down their tools, were shooting the breeze and drinking beers by the fire pit. I recruited Jonathan to drag the tree in so the frat boys and princess could adorn and bedazzle it. I lugged the decorations and lights up from the basement, one box at a time. Before I laid down any laws about the fragility of some ornaments that dated back to my early childhood, one of Eli’s friends dropped a glass ball filled with some powdery snow (probably of the toxic variety) and sent shards in all directions. Shocked at the shattering, Syd who was holding one of those Christopher Radko museum ornaments dropped hers, too. To avoid the unavoidable outcome of bare feet and broken glass, I placed each half-dressed child in a chair so I could sweep away the wreckage (and my sentimentality). As I cleared the carnage, Eli’s other friend crashed a cup of milk into the powder and shrapnel. His eyes grew wide and he struggled anxiously, “Tall Syd, please don’t…please don’t be mad. We don’t have to tell my mom, do we?”
We continued this way, breaking things, falling off step stools, hanging too many balls, snowmen and Santas on single branches, and not evenly spacing lights until the little tree could bear no more of our decorative abuse. In the midst of a ransacked, tossed house stood our little tree, beautiful, full of friendship, full of color and light. In the midst of our mess, stood our life, beautiful, full of friendship, full of color and light.
---
Dish out some happy and be kind, good people. More later.
---
Dish out some happy and be kind, good people. More later.