Difficult road

The effects of the formidable course I've been navigating for the past month are starting to show. Cracks in the surface, stamina stumbling again and again, unshakeable, inescapable fatigue that feels like gnarled, vicious hands grasping for every ounce of my qi. It'd be one thing if it were just my path, my obstacles; at least then I could own those and go with that, adjusting where possible or necessary. But I'm also travelling on behalf of my boys, and that means I can't just jump off and press pause for a needed pit stop. For the first time in a long while, I have, recently, felt choked. Bearing things privately, in such a solo fashion, isn't my usual take on "crisis management," so to speak. At times I feel I will surely burst; at the least into a soggy puddle of tears. Did you see any of last Saturday's SNL skits? They weren't that great, but one, about this bizarre DJ, Andy Samberg, who drives crowd members to an orgasmic brink by teasing them with when he'll press the "Bass button," kinda made me laugh. One by one, their heads explode because they just can't take the anticipation anymore. That's rather how I feel.

I'm certainly not in crisis nor worried that my head will burst, but you know when things feel like they're snowballing so rapidly that no matter what you do, you're definitely going to get swept up? I'm in mid-ball, hurtling down the face with the avalanche.

Some of it's the normal crap of life: our washing machine, dryer, toothbrush and my car's rear brakes broke in the same month, and we recently learned we need to replace part of our roof due to the spate of heavy snows and rains in the past few years. And I found this morning that Nutmeg has been using the peace lily I've tended for the past four years (I got it as thanks for being a room parents when J was in PK so it's damn special) as a second litterbox. Uh, no!

Some of it is surely this time of year which has everyone ducking for cover or running for the hills. It's downright lunatic, people, the End Times for anyone who doesn't thrive on schedule-based mayhem. I truly cannot believe the state of affairs of my own calendar until June 6. No one should open or even cast eyes upon it. You'll end up like that crazy idiot in Raiders of the Lost Ark whose certitude that he's special results in him melting away like Icarus' wings. Yes, yes, their downfalls were not over-scheduled lives but, rather, hubris, but the outcomes resemble one another in a terrible way.

But most of it is just how truly, extraordinarily, mind-blowingly, all-encompassingly hard parenthood is when a wrench clogs the spokes of your ride. I sometimes think of motherhood as an uphill ride on a pedal bike with two speeds and a half-flat tire. You'll make it but it won't be easy and you can't slack off in any big way. For most of the trip, coasting is a pipe dream. It's fulfilling and exciting but simple it is not.

When challenge steps in, popping the chain or blowing a tire completely in the midst of this incline, your ride gets a hell of a lot more onerous. It's more stressful, more tiring, more demanding than it already was. Then winter comes and the next thing you know you're rolling back from whence you came in a cold white ball and blind.

I can't stop, I can't get out. I can only keep going, soldiering on and drawing on reserves and strengths previously unknown to me, hoping that I'm closing in on the foot of the mountain with hefty replenishment stations waiting near a spa and a cocktail bar.

Pictures worth a thousand words

I dare say these two recent photos -Ol at Jack's baseball game last night, and a creation by Jack- are exactly the sorts for which that phrase was coined. At some level, I truly feel these images capture my children's personalities completely. Ol, fratastic Ol, will always find a nice way to chill, and Jack will forever make brainy mischief with words. I love it. Doesn't The Buttington Farter sound perfectly British? In the best way? It's possible it's the most accurate name for our homestead. And Oliver stayed like that for quite a while; no, he was not asleep.

Oliver went home with a buddy today, and I just received yet another PWATW (see title of this post) from buddy's mother. These two are soon to be "Strong Men" in the PK Circus, the annual show the PK class puts on at school, and here they had crafted a barbell from paper plates, masking tape and a pick-up stick and were lifting with mighty strength. Do you love the look of groaning support on friend's face?? And Ol's shirt tucked into his undies? I could die. Yes, he dressed himself this morning, and yes, orange and green are his favorite colors.

Meanwhile, J and I went on a date during which he downed stroopwafels (pron: strope-waffle) do you know of this Dutch delight? They are cookies made of thin wafers with caramel sandwiches in between. When T and I lived in Amsterdam, I learned that the cookies are this size because they fit nicely atop a warm mug of tea; that way, the caramel softens and your treat becomes even better in the resultant gooeyness.) and a drink, we bought three Big Nate books (the newest series obsession) and I assuaged tears of sadness due to our inability to find a Japanese calligraphy set. It's a hard life that boy lives.

Finally, I am on my couch, Percy wedged into a crack of his burrowing which is really a previously nonexistent space between my thigh and a cushion. I forgot to plate yesterday's watermelon and feta salad atop all the arugula I'd washed so enjoyed it tonight instead. Leftover yogurt chicken (this recipe was awesome; try it), avocado, garbanzo beans, tomatoes and feta + a mustardy red wine vinaigrette made for a delicious meal.

Hmm- a sermon on what?

Friends, we all slept or stayed quiet until 7am this morning. Unprecedented and utterly fabulous. We actually had to wake Jack up! Will wonders never cease?! Anyway, it's another gorgeous day here and I am spending pretty much all of it at home, cleaning, organizing and resting. Sounds like heaven to me. It's possible that I had an illicit dream involving Jon Hamm, January Jones and myself last night that I can mull over during all that...

On the way home from drop-off this morning, I passed a neighborhood church whose sign lets everyone know the upcoming sermon titles. This Sunday, parishioners will be hearing about "God as a hard-working maid."

People, on a number of levels this strikes me as a title they need to rethink.

For starters, the word maid sounds both pejorative and antiquated, like oriental. The undertones just don't seem positive. I think housekeeper sounds nicer. Also, it's my opinion that most "maids" are hard-working; I mean, the job is laborious, plain and simple. So do we need the disclaiming adjective in the sermon name? Furthermore, if I were God it's possible I would find the likening of myself to a maid a bit bothersome being that I made the universe and all. I have an immense amount of respect for housekeepers, but creator of all the world and maid of it don't seem to fit hand in hand to me. Might God not have folks he can delegate to?

I'm just sayin.