The porcelain god

Have you ever noticed just how graceful a toilet's s-curve is? I hadn't, until this morning. What I'm calling the s-curve, because I do not know much about toilet anatomy, is the swan's neck at the bottom rear. This curve was a fabulous invention because it blocks the smell of sewage that might otherwise pervade your loo. 

Toilets take care of so many unsavory problems. What would college campuses be like without flushables? Homes full of potty-training and sick children? Hospitals? We're lucky I tell you. Thank you, Sir John Harington, for your inspired invention.

I became intimate with not one but three toilets this morning. Before 9:30am. Happy Monday to me!

Oliver is sick and though he tends to be a real puke-and-rally champion who makes it to the porcelain god on time and has great aim, such has not been the case during the past twelve hours. That sweet boy bedecked not only his bathroom's john but also those in the basement and main floor with all manner of that which should have stayed in.

For extra fun, Nutmeg joined the game and booted all over the basement floor but at least chose tile versus carpet.

After bringing Jack to school and nestling Ol onto the couch with blankets and Gatorade, Indiana Jones on the screen before him, I donned plastic gloves, got out every disinfecting product I own, grabbed old rags and paper towels and got to work. I'm not a real germaphobe, but my house this morning was a serious Code Red.

As I ran a soapy cloth over the cool, shapely curves, I thought about what a lovely material porcelain is and how easy it is to clean and make shine. Aren't we lucky, in many ways, to live in the age of modernity? Can you imagine bedpans and outhouses? For a great number of people, that remains reality. 

I considered the aesthetics of today's toilets and those who design them. I appreciate functional objects being made visually pleasing. And why not? Going to the bathroom is humbling enough. It can be downright gross, really, but since everyone goes, why not make the experience as nice as possible? 

A smooth seat is nice, a gentle flush that doesn't mist the user's legs is a must. I love the efficient sound of low-flow toilets taking only what's needed. Those slow-close lids? The best. 

My bathrooms now sparkle like the gleaming star off a Ken doll's tooth. They look and smell clean which is a welcome change from two hours back. Scrubbing the loos was meditative; despite a lack of sleep last night, I feel rested. Off to refill our diminished Gatorade supply.

The same smooth path

Today, all day, I felt like a good mom. The boys listened. We laughed. No one lost it. Homework was a breeze. Dinner was easy.

The machine was well-oiled and ran thus.

I believe that I am a good mother, but that conviction is sometimes harder to both feel and experience than it is to know. Take, for instance, the times another person praises your child for his manners, her leadership, his kindness, her creative spirit. In those moments, you see your child as others do rather than through the many possible lenses that day or week has placed in front of your eyes: ungrateful or authoritarian behavior, obstinance, yet another unapproved "science experiment" that's laid waste to your kitchen.

When you're battling over inane crap like toothpaste and pancakes and mediating sibling bicker fests about the number of raspberries per plate or the correct name of the Plus Plus toy; when you scream despite your best efforts or because you simply need to be heard...it can be hard to pat yourself on the back and believe in your maternal goodness. 

But on some days, the stars align and you find yourselves all walking the same smooth path together, hand in hand. 

And it's as lovely and simple and satisfying as you imagine it could be. Should be. Perhaps wish it were more often. Maybe will be tomorrow too.

For now, I'm staying present, stewing in the thick deliciousness of watching their crawls come along at swimming lessons and them dance their way to the parking lot afterwards. Of treating them to a surprise trip to the bookstore and beaming as they picked out one small book each, thoughtfully and gratefully. Of hugging them close when they thanked me so sincerely for the new books and being their mom.

Days like today can seem like sparkling bits of heavenly ephemera, but boy can they fill a mom's bucket.

Tuesday, Tuesday

Tonight I'm feeling manageably frazzled. Like, busy but productive, tired but accomplished, overwhelmed by the children but fully amused by them. Which is a preferable state to some of the grayer days I've had of late. Those days that feel like someone shut your storm window and nailed a dirty screen in front of it for good measure. You want to see the horizon, you want to feel the fresh air, but you can't quite do either. 

I'm drinking a lovely glass of Italian red wine. The bottle is nearing the ten year mark, and the wine's woody tannins hug my tongue like a corset you willingly wear. A salad of roasted butternut squash with allspice, lentils cooked with a bay leaf, and crunchy-bitter dandelion greens stands at attention on the sidelines, waiting to be called up for dinner. It's studded with chunks of young chèvre and has yet to be dressed. I'm thinking about that and what best suits it.

Jack is reading, Ol is tucked in bed. It's early but they are still so tired from the Halloween-Daylight Savings weekend. You'd think a zombie apocalypse struck our home. I don't know why they're so sensitive and susceptible to minute time differentials, but they are. 

They have, this afternoon, vacillated between hyenic laughter and snotting tears. They adore and despise each other. They chase and pants each other and think that's both hilarious and worthy of the rack. Jack suggested that Oliver was a "premium anus." Oliver demurred but then seemed to cotton to it. 

You just never know.

I finished planting all my spring bulbs, saw some good friends, and thought about how much I'm enjoying tennis. Mostly, though, I thought about how grateful I am for the blue days on which the sun shines bright, for the strength and sense of self I've secured after years of devoted spelunking, and for the people I've encountered along the way who like that unearthed self just fine.