playing the game

I absolutely LOVE Monday mornings.

I know this is not a sentiment often heard, but for me, it's the truth.

Long before the sun stretches from its slumber and warms the morning sky, I eagerly spring from my bed into uniform: one ribbed, power-blue, long-sleeved shirt, which swims beneath a lived-in, loved on Pepperdine t-shirt. I don a pair of used-to-be-black Capri pants, which loosely hang from drawstring at my waist, and two red-banded, stretched-out heather gray socks, which swallow my calves and limply pool around my ankles. Tightly tied around my head is a sky blue, paisley bandanna, which almost matches my undershirt and secures loose tendrils in place that threaten to escape from the coif atop my head. My feet are shod with house slippers that almost match the faded, muted, black(ish) of my pants. Finally, two tiny white pearls, which conspicuously stand against the ebony backdrop of my earlobes, accentuate a sporadic spattering of head-to-toe bleach stains and pull together the perfect outfit for one of my favorite occasions: cleaning day!

My Mondays begin with a tall glass of water and hearty bowl of oatmeal, and they proceed with a second precious commodity: time - time to think, time to write, time to read, time to pray, time to work out, and finally, time to clean.

Paul is on deck to hustle with the bustle of 7 a.m. (a.k.a. groggy, empty bellied, pint-sized, caramel latte kiddos longing to be loved, fed, groomed and dressed), so I – gloved from fingertips up to elbows with squeaky, yellow rubber and equipped with sponges, brushes, rags and an assortment of cleaning products – am carefree and poised to tackle another Monday as the sun and my children arise.

Almost immediately, I am swept away on the tides of a to-do list through the paradise of Pine Sol to the universe of my thoughts. I frolic through lush landscapes of laundry and get lost - in audiobooks and dreams and gratitude. I wash and rinse; I get down and dirty, and I have grown to love it. High on life (and fumes), I feel thankful for toilets to scrub, carpets to clean, clothes to fold and the time and space in which to get it done. As I complete tasks, I delight in the simple pleasures of productivity, efficiency and teamwork. Awestruck, I get to witness the systematic transmutation of chaos to temporary order – of night sky to morning sun - and it is beautiful.

This particular Monday, as another outstanding morning of cleaning neared its conclusion, I ascended the stairs enveloped in my thoughts with a growling vacuum in tow.

SSssssWWHHHOOoooooooshhhh.

I was stripped from my ethereal Eden and wisked back to Westminster, as a red blur whizzed by my face and brought me back to the present.

Screams… the thunder of running feet… discord… my son barrel rolls over the back of the couch and lands to the floor with a thud.

Just then, another projectile – orange this time (I think) – is launched from the lower level of my house over my head, and strikes the ground with a second thud.

Chortles and giggles squeak from behind the couch.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maya, with the grace and silence of a jungle cat, slink across the living room from the coat closet to the shelter of the TV hutch. Immediately behind and in contrast to her, Cole bellows a tribal roar as he springs from his hiding place and leaps back onto the couch. This time, he is struck squarely in the chest with a black, foam ball. He shrieks, clutches his chest and drops to the cushion below, as a chorus of hearty belly laughter erupts from the couch, from behind the TV and from the family room.

Aha… Dodge Ball. The only rule is that the game is over when somebody cries.

As I watch the game play out from the stairs, still delighting from another delicious Monday morning, my cup runs over. I can’t help but to join in the chorus; I laugh until I cry.

The vacuum drones on.

On this particular Monday, I feel especially thankful that the Monday mornings of old – dreary, bleary and drab – are long gone. Today they are a colorful, creative, chaotic… and clean. I am thankful for the one-sided world in which I delight - of cleaning days and quiet times and story times and quality time, of sunshine and good nutrition, of museums and parks, of bike rides and of long hikes. I am equally thankful that Paul periodically rescues us with moments of commotion and clutter, of adventure and dance parties. He brings peanut butter and jelly and side ponytails and dodge ball to Monday mornings, and they are just beautiful.

Shortly after I climb and clean the last few stair steps, I emerge triumphantly on the landing. I look down just as my teammate - my husband, my best friend and my partner - assumes his pitcher’s stance, and looks up. I grab hold of his gleaming baby blues on this particular Monday, and I hold on tight. He smiles, and my heart races. I am in love.

I smile back, round the corner and head for the showers.

dawn

Arise, you who slumbers.
Oh you who sleeps, awake.
It is dawn, oh silent one.
Let your voice be heard. Let your light shine.
For a new day is born.

Dormant dreams, find wings.
From ashes, rise up.
From death, arise.
Fly. Soar.
For a new day is born.

From pain. From dust.
Oh, pearl. Come forth.
Rise up. Choose life.
Hope and dream and love once again.
For a new day is born.

Yesterday is gone. Today is anew.
Dream. Dream again.
Hope. Hope again.
Love. Love again.
For a new day is born.

Hear not that which you once heard.
See not that which you once saw.
Let that which was spoken be your guide
Then feel and burn and breathe once again.
For a new day is born.

Arise.
Awake.
Speak up.
Shine bright.
Rise up. Rise up.
For a new day is born.

shampoo

After years of damage, of trying to make my hair something it was never purposed to be, it was broken.

I pressed it. I curled it. I straightened it. I processed it. I cut it. And then came the ever important moment: the decision. Eventually I had no choice but to capitulate, to give my hair some room to breath and to heal and to be what it was meant to be. The salve followed: first Cathy, then Ed, then L'Oreal Professional Absolut Repair.

For the last few years, I have used my product faithfully, and my hair has been nurtured back to health. It has been redeemed. Restored. Transformed. The damage of the past is in the past, and it has been replaced with brilliance, vitality and hope. Yet, I have continued to repair.

I have committed to health. I continue to make good choices. I am willing to do the necessary work to sustain and maintain. I visit Ed every seven weeks, and I invest in my product - Absolut Repair - when the time to restock returns. Still, I have continued to repair.

But when I visited Ed last October, he, like I, was out of Absolut Repair. I knew I couldn't leave his chair empty handed, so I sought his counsel for an alternative. I was open, and he provided. L'Oreal Professional Age Densiforce.

I hadn't purposed to procure Age Densiforce, but thankfully Ed was out of what I went to receive. Thankfully, I had determined to receive. I was unable and unwilling to leave empty-handed. I needed more shampoo, so I have washed my hair with Age Densiforce ever since.

As I digested the words on the bottle of my "density-enhancing" shampoo for the first time this morning -- "this shampoo leaves hair feeling renewed with more body and radiance for a more youthful appearance..." (and that's just the shampoo! Don't get me started on my conditioner... ahem... density-enhancing masque) -- that my hair has never looked or felt or been better. My new shampoo is not designed to repair, but to fortify and to give body, color and shine.

This is not about shampoo.

What once was is no longer. Yet, I... you... we continue to repair; we are trying to fix that which is no longer broken. Yesterday's manna will not suffice for today. Yesterday's manna will not suffice for today. It is time to move forward, to move beyond, to move ahead. Yes, we will always remember. We must ALWAYS remember the lessons of yesterday, which were instrumental in shaping who we are and who we will become, but we are destined to become stagnant if we continue to live on the milk of our infancy.

Today is a new day. Stop repairing, and move on. Do away with the product of the past and be renewed. Open your mind and your heart and your hair to receive a fresh, new density-enhancing, Omega-6 enriched shampoo. And then, radiate.

tiny threads

This has been one of those days. It has been one of those months.

December began where November left off: with a broken dryer and wet laundry strewn about nearly every surface of my house. Thankfully, a high-rolling co-ed spent two full days and nights out on the town and generated some much-needed income for 303 Sedan. The unfortunate thing is that he paid with a stolen credit card. Yeah.

It's been COLD lately. I mean high temperatures in the teens cold. Not the best time for the heater to break in Sally (one of the town cars). Well, as you may have guessed, it did. Then last week, after we received news from down the street of another lay-off and from California of yet another untimely death, the fuel pump in Mabel (my truck) - the fuel pump we have put off fixing for nearly a year - it died too. Again, not great timing with bills to pay, mouths to feed, Christmas around the corner and virtually NO money coming in.

Nevertheless, I've kept my head up. I've tried hard not to be distracted by what isn't and to focus on what is. I've been optimistic, creative and resourceful. I've had faith. I've believed. And I've watched God provide.

Then today, I lost my wallet.

After two-and-a-half hours of hoping, retracing and obsessing - on an empty stomach in December's bitter cold - the perspective, the optimism, the resilience - it all went out the window. I returned to Betty (our last-car-standing), and I cried. No, I sobbed.

"Lord, I'm all done. I can't do this any more," I wailed through tears and snot and sadness. "I want to believe. I want to hope. I want to persevere. But what else? How much more?"

I can't believe I lost my wallet. I can't BELIEVE I lost my wallet.

I have to believe there is goodness, right? I have to continue to have hope, don't I? If I don't, what else do I have? So in the depths of me I've been clinging to the tiniest of tiny threads. Tonight, I haven't been making and wrapping the last of our Christmas gifts as I had originally planned. Instead, I've been talking to God (and to bankers and to creditors and to customer service folks). Deep down I've been wishing and hoping and praying for a miracle.

Well, about an hour ago he showed up at my front door.

With my wallet.

and while we're on the topic...

I decided to devote some time yesterday to writing... yeah. Well, now it's today and here I am with thirty minutes, a tall glass of water, a desktop computer and my thoughts - my random, precious and constant thoughts...

Oatmeal.

That's what's on my mind; that's what you get.

Now, this is no meaningless post about a bland breakfast food. To the contrary, this is a post about one of the greatest rediscoveries of my adult life. I'm serious. I hated it too when I was a kid, but thankfully I threw those instant, brown, sugar-laden packs away, and I gave it another shot. I encourage you to do the same.

I had a bowl of Oatmeal for breakfast today. Again. And a good bet is that it will likely accompany whatever I decide to eat tomorrow... and the day after that. I literally have to force myself to eat something else every few days; I absolutely love the stuff. LOVE it. It is warm and hearty and healthy and tasty, and it is an exceptional way to start the day. Almost every variety tickles my fancy - thick oats, rolled oats, steel cut oats, Irish oats (oh my!). Just steer clear of the instant, one-minute kind (it's a texture thing).

Boring? I think not. I just change up the company. A half grapefruit and a hard-boiled egg. A mandarin and two veggie links. Plain yogurt with mixed berries. Ricotta with strawberries and bananas. A little turkey-bacon and fresh melon... I could go on.

And then there is the oatmeal itself. The possibilities are endless. Lauren likes to add canned pumpkin. Throw in some nutmeg, pumpkin seeds and a touch of honey (yum!!). My kiddos are big fans of applesauce and cinnamon or peanut butter, milk, flax seeds and raisins (cranberries... not so much!). Paul periodically enjoys a trail mix blend with raisins, nuts and seeds, and my absolute favorite (write this down) is a half-cup of good ole' Quaker oats, a cup of water, a good shake of cinnamon, a pinch of Celtic Sea Salt and two and a half minutes on high in the microwave (make sure your bowl is big enough). When it's all steamy and dreamy and cooked, add two tablespoons of raisins, a tablespoon of flax seeds, a tablespoon of Udo's oil blend and a little more water. OH MY GOODNESS... I'm salivating.

Now, I love scrambled eggs as much as the next girl. Cereal? Yeah, I'll do that on occasion too. And believe you me, I make a mean breakfast sandwich or breakfast burrito. But Oatmeal? In my humble opinion, it is the true breakfast of champions - good for your heart; good for your soul. I'm definitely sticking to it.

Two minutes left, and now I'm hungry. I think I'll go. But for all you cereal-devotees out there, who gave up on oatmeal long ago or who insist there is not enough time, may I urge you to give it another try? FIVE MINUTES is all you need.

Here's to breakfast. Off to make lunch...

a breakfast story

In the quiet and darkness of this morning, I peeled back my sheets, got dressed, folded a load of laundry and went to the gym. Nearly eight hours ago, my day humbly began – with silence. With laundry.

“How was your workout?” Paul asked with a kiss, as I returned home to find that the darkness and stillness from earlier this morning had faded into the hustle and bustle of mid-morning pre-preschool. He, still in his jammies, and my cutely-dressed kiddos were on their way upstairs to brush hair and teeth.

“It was good, REALLY good. I’ll make breakfast.”

With a growling stomach, I hung up my jacket and headed for the kitchen.

FRIDGE: Two packed lunches, four-and-a-half bottles of milk (thank you Longmont Dairy Farm), four eggs, a little block of cheese, one slice of bread, two mandarins, homemade cranberry sauce, leftover Thanksgiving gravy (into the sink you go), orange juice, assorted vegetables and condiments, lots of condiments.

PANTRY: cereal… gone; tomato sauce, mushroom soup, olives, artichoke hearts, brown rice, wild rice, whole wheat pasta and a king-sized bag of rolled oats.

Money’s been tight. Pickins are slim. Oatmeal it is.

“Momma, I’m hungry.” Cole said as he appeared from nowhere.

Upstairs I heard running water and the thud of the shower door. “Cole, will you run upstairs and ask dada if he would like breakfast?” He went.

OK, breakfast. Here we go…

Piping hot oatmeal - sprinkled with cinnamon and a dash of salt - soaked in dairy-fresh milk and topped with fresh mandarin-cranberry sauce and oven-toasted walnuts. On the side, an egg, hard-boiled and sliced to perfection, coupled with a tall glass of orange juice, straight from the dairy farm bottle… Beautiful.

Pleased and proud, I summoned my kids to the table, placed the masterpieces upon it and then turned on my heels back toward the kitchen.

Silence.

I turned back to discover my children now sitting at the table: Maya, ruddy-faced with welling eyes, and a dumbfounded Cole staring into his plastic bowl. No, this wasn’t mom-you-are-amazing speechlessness. And no, these weren’t tears of profound joy and thanks. Rather, this was “what-about-our-vitamins” silence and “I-don’t-like-nuts-in-my-oatmeal” tears.

SERIOUSLY?

After a swift scolding, my children chimed in unison, “Thank you for breakfast momma.”

Right. It was hard to hear past the crescendo of my rapidly boiling blood and grumbling belly.

“It’s not a big deal,” I silently quelled myself, and returned to the kitchen to gladly and selflessly prepare breakfast for my husband.

TAKE TWO: Piping hot oatmeal - dusted with cinnamon and a dash of salt - soaked in dairy-fresh milk, delicately drizzled with agave nectar, and lovingly topped with fresh mandarin-cranberry sauce and oven-toasted walnuts. On the side: a hard-boiled egg sparingly seasoned with sea salt and coupled with a tall glass of ice-cold orange juice, straight from the dairy farm bottle. Yes, that does it. Now, perfection.

In walks a freshly showered, shaved and sweet smelling Paul toward the table.

“What’s this?” he asked with a contorted face, as if on cue.

“It’s oatmeal,” I responded.

“Yes, but what’s on top of it,” he continued.

“Cranberry sauce,” I replied matter-of-factly, with my back now to him.

“Do you mind if I take it off. I don’t like cranberries,” he explained.

Beside myself, I push the door of the microwave closed (a little harder than necessary) and forcefully cleared the remnants of my handiwork into the sink.

“You guys are AWESOME.” I sardonically mumble.

We exchanged a few more words, before I left the kitchen and headed for the shower. “Thank you for breakfast,” I think Paul said at some point.

Defeated, I stood in the shower, and let my mind stew on all the snotty things I could have, should have said: “Oh, me? I'm fine, thanks for asking... Oh that? Don’t mind the noise, that’s just my stomach… Gosh, I wonder where the kids get it? You know what would be really fantastic? Why don’t you leave all your dirty dishes in the sink, or better yet, how about on the table?!”

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?!

My day started out with washing and folding the last of yesterday’s SEVEN loads of laundry. This particular load was comprised of too many urine-soaked shorts and sheets (Cole had FOUR accidents in one day) and cleaner-soaked rags and towels to count. I get home to hear everyone whine about being hungry, yet no one has happened to notice that I’ve been up for over three hours and haven’t eaten a thing! Now, I’m in the shower – pissed off and starving – and they are all downstairs , nourished and fed by MY GROSS OATMEAL!!! I don’t even know what to do with myself.

I think I’ll blog.

I returned to the sight of the debacle a bit ago to find a cleared table and an empty sink. So here I sit – laptop in lap and my house silent once again. Now, a little perspective…

So, they didn’t like my oatmeal.

Yes, I cleaned all day yesterday, and I woke up early this morning – by choice. I didn’t have to find places about my house to hang damp laundry. Instead, I enjoyed an extra hour of sleep and got to fold “piping-hot” clothes out of a newly fixed dryer – the one I have gone without for nearly two weeks. My son – WHO NO LONGER WEARS DIAPERS – is going through a crappy (literally. OK, not literally-literally… you know what I mean) phase, that will end as quickly as it began. He has clothes to wear, a bed in which to sleep and at age three, he knows the value of vitamins and healthy breakfast. My daughter is attuned, astute and she almost always remembers to say thank you (even if it is a little late). She came to say goodbye before she left for the day, then returned to give me an extra hug and kiss before she braved another Tuesday at preschool. She loves to learn. She’s growing. She’s FOUR!! My husband stayed with the kids this morning – as he does almost every morning – so that I could get a workout, a really good workout. He got the kids ready and dressed, he made our bed (hallelujah), he took our kids to school and now he’s out working so that we can eventually restock the pantry and fridge… in my huge kitchen… in my warm, beautiful and blessed house. And now I sit – with a warm cup of tea, after a warm shower and a warm (delicious) breakfast – writing.

It’s oatmeal, Abi. Oatmeal.

You know what would have been better? A little apricot... or raisins. Maybe nutmeg? Ginger? Darn it, I forgot to give Paul his orange juice. I bet it’s still in the fridge… Yep.

I’ve got to put away the rest of Cole’s laundry.

Tomorrow.