I feel kind of chagrined that my husband did not mow the lawn before putting up our "Obama - Biden" sign - but I'm not irritated by this because, did you hear the part where I said he mows the lawn? Still, I'd like to look a little more "respectable" and less, oh, "welfare-recipient lazy Democrat", and lawn care being a source of pride for many in Grays Harbor, I fear we fail in this regard.

I should confess here that I have never once mowed a single lawn (princess alert!) except one time, pregnant with our first child, when my husband taunted my expressed desire to cut our knee-high backyard with our old school push mower. For some reason (pregnancy hormones?) I took this as a slight and proceeded, in the sun, red-faced, to finish the job. It looked horrible of course, like my cat's shabby ass when she's been chewing on it during flea-season. Turns out those non-electric mowers are meant for the types who apparently always have short, trim yards and just walk about going snip-whisper when it's 1/4" above code (I picture some foppy overly-posh kind of a lifestyle when I think of this). In any case one of the reasons I haven't mowed a lawn, besides being disinclined in this regard, is my fear of those whirling blades and rocks or whatever they might dislodge. Directly at my eyes.

Yesterday a woman stopped over for help with her sewing machine. On walking in she exclaimed, "What a beautiful home!" I was a little surprised, because I felt my home looked a little messy and disorganized (including children in underwear, not in school, playing on the floor) but I said, "Thank you." My home has been complimented on its order and appeal but what most people don't realize is their experience is not one of "nice things" but one of "less stuff". Now, I'd been to this woman's house and it was full of furniture, clutter, dogs and dogs' detrietus - in other words, a typical American dwelling. Oh and I must say, a tremendous amount of McCain Palin signage in the yard... something I almost brought up because I have been loving political discourse lately. But I was first concerned with A. getting her machine fixed if I could, and B. getting my kids dressed and out on the bike.

Now that I think about it, in light of my ever-pressing desire to simplify, I guess one solution for the lawn is, possibly, pouring a ginormous slab of concrete.

Labels: "home improvement", chores, politics, Ralph

One of the chief universal aspects of parenting - very intense at least in the first, oh say decade of caring for young children - is the constancy of revolving concerns around the "Mouth-Gut-Anus"; shopping for groceries, preparing food, cleaning food up, a few years of diapers (an endeavor I didn't much mind then but would like to avoid here on out), the various maladies and preferences our children display in their relentless puppy-like growth spurts. In today's example I am privileged to work around the rare scenario where used foodstuffs are expelled the atypical way: yes, vomiting. Painstakingly shaking out pillowcases outside then washing in cold then hot water - ad infinitum, scrubbing the floor, taking off a mattress cover and shampooing the foam underneath.

More unpleasant than today's activities cleaning the bedding, blankets, and clothing aftermath was last night, listening to my son every couple hours groan, awaken, cry and scream while choking on his own vomit. I alone knew something like this was coming; I sensed an illness within him yesterday when he woke up. His head was hot, his nose slightly runny but congested, his mannerisms peevish. By turns last night Ralph and I were up with him in that kind of effortless strength parents are provided, running baths, getting clean underwear, snuggling and reassuring the child. I remember, dimly, from my own childhood being kept up with an earache and the presence of my parents, the knowledge they were always there for me when I suffered.

Nels sleeps now (it's after 11 o'clock) and I feel glad for his restorative powers (my children seem to possess in hardiness rarely seen in adults). Upon his waking I'll bundle him up, mittens and all, for a bike ride out in the brisk clear autumn day.

Labels: chores, illness, Nels

This morning a little after 8 my husband, daughter, and son rode off in my girlfriend's minivan. Sophie to school, Nels and Ralph across the state to see about a wallaby.* As soon as I'd had my half cup of coffee I did the following:

Swept / vacuumed all floors
Watered and weeded the garden
Hung laundry
Re-washed stank laundry and threw out offending stank-gear that stanked the laundry up
Washed dishes, cleaned table, cleaned cupboards
Cleaned rat cage and tidied kids' room
Took a bath and packed my bike for a roadtrip**

All of this done by 10:30 so I could go about the rest of the day.

My friend Shannon calls the work we domesticiles do "the Cinderella Chores". At about day five in a row of backbreaking housework one can choose to die inside or decide, somehow, this work is worth it. It must be nice for the people who don't do this sort of work, or don't do it very often because their spouse does it, or they don't have children to care for and who have conveniently forgotten they were once infants who had others do this work for them. You could trick yourself into thinking you were smarter or more accomplished or hardworking than, say, people like me and Shannon.

But of course then you'd come over and have dinner with us and think, wow, this is a nice family and Kelly's a good cook and somehow family life is just easy and falls together. And you'd be a totally wrong asshole to think so.

For this morning: biking with my mom in the sun and against the wind, protecting oneself with sunscreen.

* Mercedes sedan we are interested in purchasing.

** In light of the weather's caprice I packed gear to change into should it rain; of course today was a record high and so hot I wished I could have spent the day in my back yard, naked and cowering under an awning.

Labels: bike, chores, weather