Poop Patrol

I try not to gag as I jiggle the last pair of underwear in the toilet, wishing I had a pipe connected to the washing machine as I wring them out. "Your going to have a to wear a diaper for a while, all your underwear is dirty" I inform my three year old son, Logan. "I WANT UNDERWEAR!!" the cherubic dictator informs me
"Well, there aren't any left," I point to the growing pile of soggy underwear and pants sitting next to the toilet. Reasoning with this cherubic little dictator is like having a tea party with a terrorist. He screams and begins failing around on the floor. I wrestle him to the ground trying to put on a diaper. Then I follow him around for fifteen minutes putting it back on before he finally relents and wears it. I get up sweating and grab my weapons a pack of wipes and a can of disenfectant. I begin the procedure for Project Decontamination which by now I have down to a science. Floors mopped? Check. Walls scrubbed? Check. Hand sanitized? Check. The rug in this bathroom hasn't made it more than four hours without being targeted. By now the minute it hears the pitter patter of little feet it probably starts shivering and tries to hide, with good reason.
I knew that toileting could become an issue when my husband was deployed but I didn't know I was going to be put in as a full time recruit for the PP-Poop Patrol. I feel like I am constantly in radar mode-trying to second guess my son's digestion. I stand outside the bathroom door trying to promote mission success with preventative measures with some success but often at the price of a forty minute tantrum.
Operation TTOL (Toliet Training of Logan) hasn't got a specific time line for completion. Spirits at this point are high for the opposition (Score Logan 50, Mom, 0). I try not to be bogged down by the status reports by the Logistics Dept., that reminds me we have been working on this mission for over a year now. It can be a little exhausting when you are running the 50 pound carpet cleaner every couple of hours....on a daily basis. I finally began just leaving it in the hall because I had to keep dragging it back out of the closet. The morale of the Poop Patrol has been running a little low due to the number of casualties on the carpet, walls, towels, rugs, floor etc.

I take a deep breath as I kneel in a puddle of something wet. Water spilled from a cup would be welcome but a short sniff confirms my suspicions. "Now hear this, now hear this, FLASH FLOOD WARNINGS are now in effect in area 3B!! Duty calls for PP gotta run, poncho anyone?

Looking for Christmas....

It happened when I was unpacking the boxes of Christmas decorations. I looked for the star everywhere I could think of for it-the shelves in the garage, the top of the freezer, through every Christmas storage container I owned, grumbling to myself about how I lose everything because I am so unorganized. This was not just any tree topper but one that I had been looking for and wanting for several years now. Last January I managed to purchase it on clearance and had tucked it away during the summer…somewhere.

Sigh. So I went to put on some Christmas music and realized that I was missing about ½ of my favorite Christmas CD’s . By now my mood was beginning to match the Grinch, and I was feeling very sorry for myself, here it was Christmas and my husband was gone and all I wanted was a little Christmas cheer.

I moodily went about my day being very unpleasant to be around and trying to continue to prepare for Christmas. A few hours later as I was wandering through the house I heard a little voice singing Away in a Manger and my little girl called to me "Mommy, mommy come look!" She was pointing to the baby Jesus from one of the Nativities I had set up during the night. "Oh Mommy, look at baby Jesus he is SO beautiful!" At that moment I was thoroughly humbled as I realized I had almost pushed Christ right out of Christmas. This year, there is no star on top of our tree. It is bare, but instead of getting upset when I look at it I am humbled by the example of my child. We have made Him room, and Christmas has come again. Let Earth receive her King…Merry Christmas!

A House of Order

The pristine corridors of the temple feel therapeutic as I tiptoe to the locker room. I exult in the lean long white lockers with not a handprint anywhere. I breathe deep as I listen to the sound of silence after closing the locker door, where no one screaming at me. The marble floors are spotless and I didn’t trip on a single Lego.

When I used to read the admonition to “set your houses in order”, and that “cleanliness was next to Godliness” I took these admonitions as my mantra regarding my home. I spent my days endlessly following my children around like a maid gone mad. I would not let myself do ANYTHING until my house was in perfect order and all the housework was done.

My second child grew up looking more at my backside than any body part as I cleaned, vacuumed, and scrubbed, only to wake up and do it all again the next day. Being a maid for two summers in college can make you a bit obsessive about what a house should look like. It took baby number three, several promptings from the Holy Ghost and many pep talks from my husband before I began to understand what order could really mean.

As I peek around the computer to glance around my living room it looks like the local landfill. There is a trail from the front door to the kitchen table beginning with a jacket, papers, dirty socks, and a splattering of school supplies. A lone cracker lies smashed into the table, sticky from the pool of milk puddled nearby, jostling with the peanut butter smeared into the chairs for my attention. The sliding glass door is covered with handprints and there is an explosion of dirty shoes in a pile of sand and dirt on the floor. This all occurred since I logged on thirty minutes ago, and this is just two rooms of the house.

Please don’t get me wrong, at least once a week (or a month) I finally launch into cleaning mode and my house will look great, spotless even. But I have come to grips with cleanliness lasting as long as it takes two toddlers to dump a full bottle of canola oil onto my linoleum, six people to devour lunch and leave, and eight children to have a fight with the six bags of “shredded” mail sitting in the hallway.

But as I try to listen to the Holy Ghost, my mind can gain a sense of what order could really mean. I find a different kind of order in my days than I would have once imagined. No, the socks are not arranged in rainbow order in the drawers, my kitchen counter is rarely visible and my children are clean for about five minutes after their baths. The dust bunnies are conjugating as we speak, and the kitchen will probably be condemned soon by the health department, and the cordless phone is ringing somewhere.

I find order as I take the time to study my scriptures and really pray, even though I am already behind, and it is only 6 AM. I sense order as I let my children play in the mud and the sandbox because I know they love it. I find order as I kneel with my small son in prayer so he knows best how to begin each day, even though he wants breakfast NOW. I find order as I take an hour to play with my toddlers before plunging into THE LIST.

I feel order as I cheer a friend who needs a boost, even though I’m tired and need to go home. I find order as I go outside in the sunshine to play soccer with my son, instead of cleaning up the kitchen.

This is the kind of order I think that Heaven wants to me bring, order that places first things first-God, Family, Friends and then Self in the proper alignment each day. Yes, my house may not look like much-don’t open that closet door, (it could be hazardous to your health) but I am beginning to learn what makes a house of order.

What helps you sense what matters and what doesn’t? How do you keep a sense of order and still live life? What have you learned to let go of as unimportant?

Every Light is the House is On

I am the nervous type who could expect something to pop out of my closet at night. I don't ever hang my feet over the bed and it is hard for me to handle the covers untucked at the bottom of the bed. I could never watch horror movies, or anything even close to it as a teenager because my mind was far too active and imaginative. Despite little exposure to the drama available today, I have always slept with a light on.
This preoccupation with leaving a light on continued when my husband went to drill and we were left home alone on the weekends. Now that he is gone for a year it would be fair to say we have taken this to a whole new level. Call me a little crazy, but some part of my pysche liked to think that this somehow mades our house safer. At first, it was just the light over the kitchen sink, but then it extended to the back porch. Then, I started leaving the garage light on. Next I randomly began switching the bathroom/ bedroom lights on in the middle of the night if I got up to use the restroom, just to let the world at large know--I AM AWAKE! It seemed there was some psychological power in flipping the lights on and off in random rooms as if to say-HA-- just TRY and catch ME sleeping!
Apparently, some part of my pysche liked to think that this somehow made our house safer, and apparently my children agreed with me. So even though it might be three AM, the lights are on. Not just a few lights, but every single bulb in the house is burning bright. My children are out cold (some under the covers) with bulbs humming away, yet we are managing to get some sleep.
It was after a neighbor called to ask if we had been sick the night before because she had noticed the blazing lights that a new thought occurred to me. Having all the lights on could be mean something else too-poop, pee, puke and plenty of trouble. So much for the illusion of power, I guess I'll go back to my night light.

All the Things I Didn't Know

I had a bike as a kid I think to myself, how hard can this be?
I am staring down at the hot pink mini two wheeler as the chain is dangling off something important (the hub maybe or is that a shaft?) I confidently walk to the tool box and find the right wrench. I then proceed to try taking the training wheels off to fix the chain and put it back together. Apparently this DIY is beyond the intellectual capacity and the analytical skills of this particular college graduate, because after reassembling it for the eighth time without success I FINALLY give up.
"You'll have to wait for Grandpa," I tell her, but she is not amused.
"Why can't you fix it? she asks me.
"I'm really not sure" I tell her, wondering why if I managed to learned to read, write and do math this should be so difficult..obviously I have a screw loose, a bolt wrong or something...

As I am climbing up onto the lawn mower I try to remember which lever, button, or gear to pull first. If I can drive a car, I should be able to drive the lawnmower right? After about twenty minutes of randomized sequences of various gear, button, and lever pushing I start it, and realize I am not sure what I did to engage the motor. Driving out of the garage I almost take out the van, but manage to make the turn. Moving around the grass gives the neighbors free entertainment as I lurch around in the grass trying to drive. Like a student trying out the pedals in the driver's ed car I lurch, stop, squeak, and grind my way around the lawn trying not to get whiplash and maintain at least a little dignity. In between driving I try to make swipes at the grass, but instead of neat rows our lawn is covered with serpentines and funny lines with trianglular patches in between that are missing. I manage to re-mow most of them, but there are large patches next to the house and fence because I figure long grass is cheaper than replacing broken bricks or cracked vinyl if I get too close (is that the brake?)
Running the Weed-wacker reveals new food for thought about my shoulders and arm width. For once in my life my long arms are too short to reach something, the two handles. Eight years of hoisting babies and toddler doesn't help much either since I have to hoist it onto my hip to lift it off the ground. Can I use a baby sling with this thing I wonder, but conclude that could possibly be dangerous. I opt to keep going since it is already up and running. While trying to move along the corner of the house I discover the unknown danger of getting close to the Internet cable as it grabs the cable and begins looping around the Weed-wacker like a swinging jump-rope. I frantically hop around on the grass screaming as I try to unwind the Weed-wacker and jerk the cable free without cutting it. I have to turn it off and spend the next several minutes allowing my heartrate to return to normal. I look cautiously around wondering if anyone has seen the cable and I playing jump-rope. Later as I move around the house I either cut the grass in a crooked wave or manage to drop the end annihilating the grass to show bare dirt. After waiting two summers to for the grass to fill in, I have my doubts about how much my efforts at "edging" are helping the lawn.
Yes, I really didn't know how little I really knew about bikes, lawnmowers and Weed-wackers...until now.