There's a Frisbee on the Roof

Unexpected visits send me into panic mode. If you've ever seen a mobile home park after a twister sets down you get the general idea of what our house looks like on a day-to-day basis. It's not that I don't try to contain the clutter. I do. It really is more powerful than I am. By the time I work my way down from the kitchen through the living room, past the 8-year-old's LegoLand/chemistry lab/lockerroom, into the hall bath, through the 10-year-old's fashion mall/distressed bedding room, there is nothing left. No energy, no time, no oomph.

Last week the new neighbors came over to say hello. I turned and looked at the living room with fresh eyes and saw a hip-high vinyl blue therapy ball abandoned in one corner, toss pillows tossed everywhere but on the sofa, three pairs of shoes staggering in odd directions, partially gnawed rawhide chews nestled in the unfolded laundry, and at least three days worth of unread newspapers scattered on the coffee table. The bright afternoon sunlight did its best to illuminate the shockingly thick layers of dust on the entertainment center and the fingerprints dotting the TV screen. Inviting it was not. The kitchen contained a bouncing fur-coated creature we affectionately consider a dog but secretly believe is an atomic-powered hybrid since surely no living being can jump so high for so long. The foyer was a safety zone, baby-gated from the dog/robot creature on the left but in full-on view of the living room and the boy's disaster area to the right. The only real choice for these unexpected guests was a prolonged and painful chat in the foyer or a hasty retreat to the front yard, my personal favorite but an as yet to be tried option. Wouldn't anyone rather sit outdoors on a glider? It wasn't even raining.

Part of the agony for me is the endless, thankless nature of the work. One more load of dishes, one more bundle of clothes and I know I'll retch. If the clothes or dishes remain unclean, no one who inhabits the house with the exception of myself ever really notices the difference. I know this because I've conducted painful experiments. Painful because I'm the only one who suffers, and when I can't take it anymore I'm the one who caves in and cleans like a banshee. There's the Dirty Sock in the Middle of the Hallway experiment (3 days, no one noticed); Book Left on the Sofa (okay, I could see how it might have looked like someone was returning but really, 4 days?); Cup of Cocoa in the Living Room (you don't want to know); and Pots in the Sink (still waiting). Or No Clean Clothes for a Week. Bathrooms Unscrubbed for Ten Disgusting Days. Just imagine the lack of response to a Really Clean House, and further imagine how quickly it disintegrates back into clutter.

Yesterday I found a frisbee in the garden and tossed it carelessly towards the front door. It landed on the roof. On the roof is where it now resides. No one has noticed it and I'm betting no one will until I point it out. We will soon be known as The Frisbee House.

Some things are normal, like the goldfish in the bathroom (what better place?) and the skateboard in the van (we're ever-ready for the skate park). You might question the portable massage table tucked away in the bedroom, the sewing machine in the living room, the laptop in the kitchen. Are we just confused about room function or seriously stressed for space? Am I a lazy homemaker or too busy to clean? Lazy and busy, I think.

Today I'm torn between putting all the rooms to rights and curling up in bed for a cozy nap. Instead, I'm drinking Peet's next to a dog who is napping while the laundry is chugging along. And I'm writing. Every day I'm writing. Let the house take care of itself, I say, I'm going to take care of the internal clutter.

Growing Up in the Time of Fear

They look at me with all the emotions kids have for their moms: embarrassment, exasperation, bemusement, impatience. Yep, they've given me the Eyeball Roll-Up, the Evil Stare Down, the You're Invisible! Blank Glance and my favorite, the Oh, Are You Still Here? Eyebrow Raise. Little do they know I perfected each and every one of those facial expressions eons ago and could even give them a few pointers, should they just ask. They don't know what a master I was at torturing parents, especially the soft-hearted variety.

The other side of growing up is there, too. Not long before Christmas I wanted to attend a reading at our church. It was held at night and had all the appeal, to children, of a midnight dental cleaning. There was some protesting but I held fast and bundled them up in the car. The reading was dramatic, the church lit only by candles, and it didn't take long before both children were stretched out in the pew, heads resting in my lap, asleep. That was the first taste of Christmas for me, I think, attending an Advent reading with reluctant children who only came because they loved me. Warm love was what I felt surround me as I rested a hand on each child with the evening chill setting in.  Yes, they are growing up and learning to do more than receive love.

Right now I'm typing in bed for no other reason than it is late and the heater is near. Both kids have found their way into the bed and are sound asleep. Again. Feel my power: I am She Who Induces Sleep! There are days when our home can pass for The House of Yell and Bark (and I just know the neighbors must wonder what we shout about all the time) but today wasn't one of them. Today we spent a rainy Sunday together. Mass (one doughnut each, which Danny prayed for when we drove up to a new church and didn't know if it was on the menu); a family stop at Peet's for lattes and cocoa (separate tables, please!); and a day ensconced at home, safe from the rain.

We live in the golden land of potential devastation, one rumble away from what Haiti is enduring. We send our prayers across the miles of land and water, earnestly wanting to end the grief and pain. This week the 10-year-old is involved in a school fundraising drive, learning about offering support to those who need it most. And I think, right now, these two sleeping children beside me need the peace they have found. Tomorrow we will try to save the world, get straight As and see how far the parents can be pushed without suffering the consequences.

Loving Marian

The bones in her beautiful face hurt. Already the cancer beast has gnawed its way through her spine and ribs, leaving her skeleton with a fearsome lace-like elegance on x-ray images. Now it is attacking her skull. She told me when she first learned of the new mets it never occurred to her that her skull included her face.

Marian has lived with breast cancer for nearly a decade. The second time 'round brought her back to the Bay Area. She's a few years younger than I am, has a 21-year-old son, a husband. We met two years ago at Commonweal's Cancer Help Project in Bolinas, California. Marian was attending Cancer Camp for the second time and was accompanied by her father. I attended solo. That week I formed some of the deepest friendships of my life: Marian, Wayne, and Tom, who left the earth one year ago today. Marian was in a lot of pain during the retreat and still her presence was serene, funny, wise. I wanted more than anything to know her.

Yesterday Marian allowed me to care for her. She is at home in the house she decorated with her husband, her mountain of a Newfoundland, Bessie and Len's sweet Mona. The hospice team visits but does not stay with her and she is alone between friends, family and caregivers. At 9:00 am I arrived with Peet's coffee and bran muffin, as requested. I learn that sometime before I arrived Marian may have shattered a bone in her shoulder or arm while reaching for something over her head. That's all it takes when cancer has made piecemeal of your skeleton. She's in horrible pain yet going to the emergency room is discussed and with the nurse's phoned-in advice, postponed. Instead, we increase the pain medication and use a heating pad. The visits from these friends are too important and the benefits from the hospital trip uncertain.

The day passed in a whirl of friends, oxycodone, calls to the hospice for advice, make-up application, chatting, hugs, foot massages, a special-order lunch run, and so much more. How honored I am to be part of my friend's transition. Is it enough, I wonder?

She tells me she would really like me to help in the evenings, from 9:00 - 12:00, so she can get ready for bed and watch movies while Len can get some rest. She needs help with this, and with getting upstairs to bed. I'm willing. Len's not so sure.

At 6:00 I know I must leave. Marian is weary; she has done too much but could not have been stopped. The next day she has planned to visit her niche at the San Francisco Columbarium. I will join her. But first, I have to return to my children and husband, who have played plumbers all day, installing a new toilet and repairing an old one.

The drive between the two homes ticks by quickly. When I arrive home the relief at being in my house, with my family, is washed away by the weariness of the day. There's very little room to feel anything else.

I'm asleep before 10:00.