Outside the Law

Eva and I have used the Men’s public restroom on three separate occasions recently.  I’m entirely disgusted by the idea of this but laziness convinced me to do it.  In case you’re thinking that I’m repulsive, let me clarify that we didn't use full-size restrooms with urinals and stalls, we frequented the one-person-at-a-time variety with only a toilet and a door that locks.

The first time we disregarded the posted Men’s sign was when we were having lunch at a beautiful farm.  The bathrooms were outside and Eva decided the urgency to go was appropriately announced at the very moment I was taking that first delicious bite of my sandwich.  I hesitated for a moment while I considered the ramifications if I ignored her pleas and continued eating my sandwich.  It was a tough call but I opted to take her to the bathroom.  (I should insert here that Eva has recently taken to preferring me over Michael.  She has always preferred her Daddy to me but the tides have now shifted.  I wish they hadn’t.  I was always grateful at potty time in public when she asked, “Daddy take you?”  Now it’s, “Mama take you?” even though I pretend I’m not there.)  I reluctantly put my sandwich down and walked her over to the bathroom while Michael continued to savor his warm sandwich.  We arrived at the facilities and, of course, there was a line to the Ladies' room.  We were standing on asphalt in the blazing sun and my sandwich was shriveling with each passing moment.  And there was the Men’s room, as empty as my stomach.  Persuaded by my hunger, I made the choice to use the Men’s room.  I figured that if we emerged to a man waiting to enter, I could use the excuse that my young daughter couldn’t hold it.  I could say it was an emergency and he would be thrilled to look the other way because Eva and I make a really cute pair. 

We exited the bathroom with complete impunity.  No one was around waiting and I was pleased with myself for successfully skirting the law.

This scenario has since repeated itself two more times.  Although, the third time was really out of necessity and not convenience.  We waited patiently for a few minutes in the hallway for the Ladies' room to be vacated and no progress was made.  Sometimes you can hear the shuffling around and the toilet flushing but it was utterly quiet in there.  Then the entire hallway filled with the choking scent of someone who’s housing a dead animal in their intestines.  I certainly wasn’t going to wait for her to finish and then walk into the mushroom cloud.  I can't have my hair singed off; I’m growing it out and it’s a very tedious process.  So we used the Men’s restroom instead.  Success again.

I don’t want you to think that I enjoy this game.  I do not.  In fact, the idea of using a public Men’s restroom makes me shiver with disgust.  Men are gross.  Eva and I washed our hands twice on each visit to these germ communes.  But I do enjoy the feeling that I’m getting away with something.  Being a housewife is predictable but disregarding posted signs and trespassing into the Men’s room is kind of fun.  

Please don’t notify the authorities. 

THAT Guy

In case you were wondering:

Yes, we are trashy enough to have an inflatable pool in our yard.

And yes, our dog drinks from it.

Oh, and we’re also trashy enough to eat directly from the serving bowl at dinner.  In our swimsuits.

Won’t you join us for a poolside dinner tonight?  We’re having Pork n’Beans with sliced hot dogs mixed in - I call dibs on the raft of “pork” floating at the top of the can.

We are THAT family.

Summer!

I love summer.  I look forward to summer as though I’m in school or have kids in school.  Neither of which is true, but I still feel excited when summer arrives.  I love everything about it; the sunshine, the popsicles, the sun setting late, not having to slow down for school zones, and the freedom that is inherent in the summer months.  We have been enjoying the arrival of Mother Nature’s goodness and the tan line on my feet from my sandals is looking exquisite.

We’ve been:

Playing in the sprinklers.

  

Lounging with friends.  (I’d better not catch Eva doing this as a teenager.)

Wearing rain boots.  I don’t understand my child.

Going to the zoo.

And rowing our boat down the twisty river.

 

The best part is all the fruit that’s in season.  Michael and I ate 4 pounds of Rainier cherries in 2 days.  The bloating was totally worth it.

Happy summer!

Sentimental

I went to the park the other day with some friends.  It was a park I haven’t been to for awhile and as I was pushing Eva on the swings, I started to feel a little nostalgic.  You see, we were at the same park where I had my first play date of my life when Eva was only a baby.  We had just moved to Oregon and I was still feeling homesick and lonely.  The 2 women who invited me to the park that day have since become my closest friends in Oregon. 

I was thinking about this as Eva went back and forth on the swing shouting, “Wheeee!” and I couldn't help but feel sentimental.  And grateful – for sweet friendships that keep me from dwelling in a cave of loneliness.

Here’s Eva at that first play date:

And here’s Eva now:

I feel in my heart a pang of sadness when I reflect on how quickly she has grown.  I also simultaneously feel an enormous amount of joy that I am engaged in the most precious work of my life.  I am continually astounded at how much I love my baby girl and they way she has made our lives meaningful.  The experiences we have had over the past couple of years have only been possible because of Eva. Though sometimes I complain about the humdrum world of a housewife, there’s no other occupation I’d rather have.

Well…except maybe a professional ice cream eater.  Or chocolate eater.  Or potato eater.  Ok, maybe I’d just be a food-eater in general.  Is that a job?    

Picasso

I am a terrible artist.  I’m so terrible that I think even using the word artist is blasphemous.  I’m a terrible drawer-person.  I love art and I appreciate talent.  How I wish that I was talented!  My mommy and some of my siblings are incredible artists.  My main talent, however, is growing hair on my body and face in unwanted places.  I suppose it’s sort of an art. 

Eva likes to play a game where you draw something and she guesses what it is.  Michael is great at this game.  I am not.  Whenever I draw something for her, she stares at my picture and inquires, “What’s that?”  When Eva asks me to draw for her I stick to the things I’m really good at; a turtle and a pine tree.  Then the game is over.

 

Anything beyond that and Eva questions what the heck I’m trying to draw.  Like my rendition of an elephant.

And a duck.  Yes, ducks have four legs.

I work with the 12 and 13 year-old girls at church.  Last night for our mutual activity one of the other leaders gave us an art lesson. The finished painting was going to be two silhouetted lovebirds illuminated by a moon.  I started out feeling very confident in my painting abilities because we were just swirling the paint around in a circle. Then it was time to draw a branch and birds.  This is where everything nosedived for me.  Our instructor demonstrated how to paint a delicate bird.  She described it as drawing a semi-circle for the head and an upside-down teardrop for the body.  It looked very easy but when I loaded my brush with paint, I had no recollection of what a semi-circle or a teardrop look like.  And my attempt at leaves was deplorable.  My painting was looking like it was crafted by something without opposable thumbs.

There was supposed to be 2 birds on the branch, seeing as how they were lovebirds, but my first bird was so plump there wasn’t room for a lover.  My bird was neither delicate nor bird-shaped.  He was lumpy and round like a microwaved marshmallow.  The birds were also supposed to be all black with no definition.  My black bird was a blob that looked like I had spilled the paint when trying to pick it up without any opposable thumbs.  I improvised and added features to make it look like a bird: a beak, an eyeball, a mohawk.  Our instructor said my painting was fantastic but I could tell she was just being nice.  Craptastic was more fitting.

Here’s my finished piece of art:

By itself it doesn’t look too bad but it looks nothing like what it was supposed to.  I’m going to hang it above my computer anyway so I can remain humble.  I guess I’ll just stick to the things where I truly excel.

Which reminds me, I need to wax my moustache.   

Up All Night

I don’t know if you are aware of this but I cherish sleepy time.  Michael can operate on 4 or 5 hours of sleep a night but I need a solid 8 hours.  9 is even better.  When Eva was a newborn I would cry in the evenings because I couldn’t bear the idea of another night without sleep.  I love sleep so much that I get angry when I have to get up before everyone else in the house.  Thankfully this doesn’t happen often.  Sometimes I feel self-conscious that my husband is an early riser yet I detest setting the alarm for anything pre-7:00.  Whenever these feelings sneak in I just roll over and go back to sleep.  The guilt is fleeting that way.
 
Early this morning, when it was still dark outside, I was jolted awake by a little person standing next to my bed exclaiming, “Good morning!”  She was about an inch from my nose and I thought for a moment that Chucky had arrived to slay me.  Eva is very lucky I am not a violent person because this arousal was worthy of a punch in the teeth.  I was very tired any only partway through my requisite 8 hours so I quickly dragged her into bed with us and told her to go to sleep.  Sleep, she did not.  She kept shouting, “Good morning Mama, Good morning Daddy!”  She tried to snuggle up next to Michael and he instantly lunged out of bed and went into the guest bedroom.  I was secretly hoping he would return Eva to her own room but he didn’t take the bait. It was every man for himself and I was left in the foxhole with chatty-chatterton.

Eva kept talking and asking me questions as if it really was morning outside.  I kept telling her it was still nighttime and to go to sleep but she completely ignored me.   I really wanted her out of my bed but I didn’t have the fortitude to remove her.  My laziness was hindering my ability to get back to sleep.  It seems counterintuitive but there I was.  At one point Eva asked in a loud voice, “Do you like Dora?”  I responded with a calming, “Shhhhh.”  She then whispered back, “Do you like Dora?”  That’s not what I meant by Shhhhh.

She wouldn’t stop chatting.  I gave up and rolled over with my back to her.  I awoke a couple of hours later with Eva’s head crammed in my side and her arms flopped over my body.  She was sound asleep and looked very peaceful.  I watched her for a moment then I did what any normal, emotionally mature person would do.  I put my face an inch from her nose and shouted, “Good morning Eva!”

I feel much better now.

39 Big Ones

I just realized that I’m an inconsiderate oaf and didn’t acknowledge that my sweet husband had a birthday a few weeks ago.  I’ve accomplished this slight with impunity since Myke is old now and has dementia.  He hasn’t noticed that I snubbed him – or he’s polite and didn’t mention it.  I’m leaning toward my dementia theory. 

It was strange to witness Michael turning the dial to 39 this year.  We met when he was only 25 and had six-pack abs.  He was incredibly handsome and I felt an embarrassing amount of giddiness whenever I was around him.  Now his dark hair is riddled with gray and he has a larger pack of abs.  But he’s still incredibly handsome and I still experience bouts of giddiness when I’m around him.  I hope I never get tired of the guy because I sure love him.  That, and I’m too old and chubby now to snag another husband.  It better work out with this one.


We had a nice day of celebrating.  Myke’s dad and stepmom were in town and we spent the day enjoying the sunshine.  Then Myke opened presents:

And so did Eva:

His parents actually brought presents for all of us.  It’s a practice that I totally approve of.  After gifts we indulged in Myke’s favorite chocolate cream pie.  In fact, I indulged in 2 slices.  It’s super delicious and I make it for him every year on his birthday and every other holiday that seems prudent: Flag Day, Columbus Day, Boxing Day, Wednesdays.

Here’s to 39 big ones.  Happy Birthday, Michael!