Spent the day cleaning the house.
While poor, tired wife chipped away in the quarry called work and royal imp painted spider webs at school, I readied my arsenal of tooth brushes and household chemicals.
I am Donald Rumsfeld with a vacuum in my hands. Nothing is safe or sacred when I unleash my anal retentiveness on a weeks worth of crumbs, dog/cat hair and soap rings.
every time I finish cleaning the house I tell myself that I need to start reading the "advisory statements" on the chemicals I use to make my world so perfectly sterile and white. When I finished today I realized that the noxious mixture of fumes I had been inhaling for most of the morning had cooked the cold right out of my swollen lungs and aching sinuses.
So, that's how I ended up with the post-cleaning Marlene Dietrich voice-
But, no mildew on our shower curtain, no two-day old turmeric stain in the sink, no dust bunnies skipping through the palace.
"Falling in love again..."
Ah, Max Richter, Gruner Veltliner and thou, oh lovely blog.
That's as good as it gets because the sickly girls are about to doze off together. I love it when they do that. I go in and look at them, curled together like the archetypical mother and child.
I love it even when I think, "hey, what about me!?"
Well, then it's Total Gruner baby.
Tonight was the kind of night that I wish for all week. Cooked a yummy feast for the girls, watched them chase each other around our tiny palace, laughing hysterically -the littlest runner naked and beaming- while I washed dishes and scrubbed countertops. Then the sound of bedtime stories in the other room, sniffles, a little cough and the eventual "snap" of the bedside lamp switch.
Thanks to Jeanne, it's starting to rain again.
Someone will stagger out of her bedroom in a few minutes and ask me for a drink of water, even though she has a full glass next to her bed, fresh and cold just like she likes it. She'll settle for a hug and a kiss instead and then stagger back into the darkened room and Mama's warm arms.
Crave poor, tired wife's company, but know I'm last in line.
Poor, tired wife and kingdad always step to the back of the line for our royal treasure.
It's supposed to be this way, right?
...And on the eleventh day, kingdad created blog.
Sometimes its hard enough just to get through a day, why should I sit down and rehash it?
The girls are both sick. Poor, tired wife caught whatever royal vector has been sneezing and coughing onto the doorknobs and pillowcases these last few days. Little germ machine has an ear infection now. Found this out when she woke from her nap screaming and holding her ear.
After a hasty trip to the doctor -the same ill assed old doctor that treated me when I was little kingdad- and some obnoxious pink medicine, she seems to be recovering.
Poor, tired wife is a different story. She's just starting to come down with the crud. Sore throat, runny nose, a hint of a short fuse.
The makings for a long weekend here at the palace.
Otherwise, the weather is cooler, my moon flowers are blooming and it's cider time. Between the long hours and household chores I've managed to read a few books. The last of which was The Lovely Bones
Still trying to read or put down Atlas Shrugged
. Either approach makes me feel like a failure. Thanks Ayn.
Kingdad and poor, tired wife often poke fun at Life's Winners
.* You know, folks that have three houses, three cars, two kids and many huge accounts to mind.
Kingdad was born into the one house, two bedrooms, one used car clan. My poor, old parents think that kingdad, poor, tired wife and royal imp have really arrived since we have two cars and an array of credit cards on which to spread our souls over. It's all a matter of perspective I suppose.
Oh yeah, by the way, I have this great new perspective. I want to be one of Life's Winners. I want my herniated disc to be massaged by the loving fingers of Mercedes Benz each morning as I sit in traffic. I want to ride out life's little storms on the front porch of my beach house. I want to think about our bills about as much as I think about what Oprah is reading these days.
Yes, I have crossed over. To quote the tiny, royal tyrant-
"I want it. Let me have it- NOW!!!!"
Maybe it's time I put down Atlas Shrugged
It was one of the most stunning days of the year. The kind of day that you wished for as August came to it's scorching end.
The morning was cool. A cloudless, pale blue sky framed the sun perfectly. As people adjusted their seats, opened their books, stared out of their windows and settled into a days work, Poor, not-so-tired-then wife and kingdad were just getting ready to go have our first ultrasound.
It was time to see our handiwork.
Like so many others, we sipped our coffee, skimmed through the paper and gazed out into the flawless heavens as we made our way to our destination.
The parking lot was full. We were excited, and for once didn't mind circling around looking for a space. We were late too. This however was not unusual for us.
We checked in and were instantly ushered into the lobby. I looked for a magazine while poor, not-so-tired-then wife disappeared into the long hallway carrying a little cup to fill.
Is there a doctor's office out there free of golfing magazines? In a perfect world perhaps. CNN was blaring. I could always watch that. But why was everyone gasping and crowding around the TV?
A plane? The World Trade Tower?
Everything stopped. No schedule was kept, no one remembered why they were there. There was no distinction between patient and doctor. The phones stopped ringing and no one said another word.
We all stood a little too close to each other in the anemic light of the lobby. A second plane streaked across the screen.
I don't know when, or why really, but someone decided that it was time to pretend that everything was ok, and that appointments must be kept and the world must keep spinning and it was time for our ultrasound.
There she was, peering out of her murky abode. An alien astronaut gazing out of her safe capsule, wondering what was happening. She moved towards the soundwaves that cascaded across her.
We still have the print outs. They look like something generated in the sonar room of a submarine. The date on the top right corner of the printout reads 09/11/01. Beneath it the time is a minute and a few seconds shy of the collapse of the second tower.
The nurse that administered the ultrasound was crying the entire time that she worked. She said she would always remember the luckiest, safest soul on the planet that day. I don't know if poor, not-so-tired-then wife felt the nurses tears as they fell onto her. Strange that I have never thought to ask.
True to the nurse's word she did remember. Every visit we made to that office she would ask about "that very special little being."
I wish we could always keep her that safe. Just like the families of all of the people that were just going to work, just starting another day that spectacular September morning wished, when they said goodbye at the airport or handed someone a briefcase and said, "see you for dinner?"
As we walked along the beach today I could not help but to think of that morning. The sound of each shell her tiny hand tossed into the faded green bucket seemed more precious than it did yesterday.
And that's pretty hard to imagine.
This morning I discovered the perfect spot for coffee- The Atlantic Ocean.
The cool water raced across my bare feet as I stared off into a copper hued sunrise. Both hands wrapped around a warm mug. The sun had just risen above the sea’s far off spine, and was just beginning to trace the gently arched backs of the low violet clouds with its fiery golden fingertips.
The girls were still asleep. So was most everyone else on this little strand of coarse sand and tall sea oats. The waves tore away at the beach and tossed it back again. The wind chased clots of foam from the water’s reach and sent them speeding away, tumbling down the long, wheat colored shoreline, towards the darkened houses over the dunes.
I heard a magnificent voice in the water and in the wind, whispering through the long fine tresses of the sunrise as it spilled across my face.
Without a thought my soul quietly answered.
That’s right. We are enjoying a few days seaside.
Just cooked one oh-so-yummy dinner for the family. In attendance: one poor, tired wife, one royal sunbeam, one mother-in-law, one sister-in-law and one slightly combative 18 month old niece.
The niece used to be docile and somewhat aloof. Now she is a little Mike Tyson, biting earlobes, gouging eyes and making unitelligible war noises as she manhandles her former royal oppressor. She's quite a show.
The ladies, and there were lots of them -and yes they were quite a demanding bunch- enjoyed:
Pan fried flounder with a lemon caper vinaigrette
Fresh field peas cooked slowly with a dollop (one stick) of butter
Heirloom tomato salad tossed with cilantro, cracked green
peppercorns, extra virgin olive oil, pomegranate vinegar and
Some of us enjoyed a table worthy French merlot/cab blend
After dinner the ladies retired to the mall. I stayed behind in the toddler free zone to wash the dishes. Neubauten
's Perpetuum Mobile
shook the windows while I scrubbed away.
I kept laughing at a question poor, tired wife posed to the dinner table. Just how far would battling toddlers go if allowed. Imagine baby Gladiator. What would they be capable of if there was no one there to stop them?