"Surviving Myth Conceptions of Posmodern Parenting...through Good Times and Bad "

Myth
"My Home Will Be Organized"

I used to be an optimist. You know, a glass-half-full kind of person. Now I'm not quite sure what I am. I'm not a glass-half-empty. I'm more of a please-don't-break-the-glass person. I guess that translates into being a realist. It's not what's in the glass I'm thinking about, it's whether or not I'm going to be the one who cleans it up when it falls.

My mother is a neat person. According to her she has been neat and tidy all her life. She has a system. Everything in her house is organized. She boasts labeled boxes. She has folders for different papers. She has all the pieces to puzzles. She even has one of those boxes you store wrapping paper in. This is not so at my house. I had one of those wrapping paper boxes once, but my kids filled it with water and mud and housed a turtle in our back yard.

It's not that over the years I haven't tried to organize. One time I bought one of those file cabinets with the hanging folders inside. I labeled all of the folders with headings like: Car Repairs, Bank Statements and Medical Information. I meant well. The problem was that I found that I didn't have the time to actually PUT the papers in there. I decided that piles on top of the fridge, and on the kitchen table, and basically, anywhere in the house where a shelf made itself handy, was more convenient. I mean who has time to organize when you're bringing home a kid with a 104-degree fever from the doctor, and the child is throwing up all over your husband's easy chair.

"Hold on honey! I'll hold your hair back as soon as Mommy alphabetizes her medical information file folder!"

That's just not the way the real world works. Except for at my mother's house.

In her basement, she has labeled shelving units upon which labeled boxes sit, and in those boxes are the items that actually appear on the label. I have to kick things out of the way just to get to my washing machine. She has all the original boxes that her Christmas ornaments came in. I have a cardboard box with no lid that has the lights, garland, and all my ornaments in it, just loosely thrown in. Every year when I blow the dust off the top, I figure if an ornament is broken, that it just wasn't meant to be. Mom has a bulletin board in her kitchen with every phone number she could ever possibly need, neatly written on it, organized by category. I have ripped pieces of paper hidden under my computer's keyboard. She has an actual phone book too, and what's more, she knows precisely where it is. My phone book disappeared shortly after we got it. I think it turned into a paper machŽ project. She has one of those little plastic drawer units with things like safety pins, and paper clips in it. When one of my kids comes to me and asks for a safety pin, a wild frenzy ensues.

"Well, did you check under the toaster? I thought I saw one there last month! Or how about the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, next to the pile of toothpaste? I think one got stuck in there a while ago."

In the end, I tell the kids that I think I know where the stapler is, and maybe that will work. At least our disorganization has led to one good thing: ingenuity. When I can't find something, I always seem to have a clever idea of what to use in its place. Like when your child can't find her toothbrush, and you tell her to use her finger instead, just for tonight. And then when you tell her the next night to use her finger again because, somehow, you forgot to put the toothbrush on the list for your midday shopping trip.

Until the therapist starts to move down my arm, and discovers my watch.

I figure that it doesn't matter, until I feel the therapist start to fiddle with the clasp. Only it's not the clasp. It's duct tape. Super-glue-bonded duct tape. So I start to say something, until I think about what to actually say.

"Oh, don't worry about getting that off, it's duct-taped to my arm!"

What's worse is that the therapist has now discovered the duct tape, and I have to go into the "I duct-taped my watch to my wrist" speech anyway, and at the same time, fumble for my sheet, which has fallen on the floor.

Months later, I am fully recovered from the embarrassment of the duct tape-massage incident and have almost stopped thinking about what the massage therapist must think of me.

The other day over coffee, I thanked my sister for the massage and made sure she understood what a generous gift I thought it was. But afterward, I told her that next Mother's Day, I would prefer a new watch instead. If not, perhaps a new roll of duct tape.

 

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Motherhood Exposed
Chapter 2 "The Birds"

Motherhood Exposed
Chapter 11 "Venus Flytraps and Party Balloons"

Oops! And then the weekend comes, and you still haven't remembered the toothbrush, and your daughter gets invited to a sleepover.

"Did you pack your toothbrush?"

"No, mom...remember I don't have one anymore."

"Alright, then don't forget to pack your finger!"

Clever stuff like that.

One thing we use consistently in our house is duct tape. If your button falls off, use duct tape. If your daughter's favorite horse loses a leg, duct tape will fix it right up. If the kitchen faucet springs a leak...duct tape.

Last month my sister took me to get a massage. She gave the massage to me as a Mother's Day gift. I had never been to a massage therapist, but she told me it would be very relaxing. It started out that way.

The problem began when the massage therapist came into my room and told me to take everything off, and get under the sheet that was lying on the table. This included my jewelry. Now the month before the massage, my watch clasp had broken and rather than buy a new watch... you got it...duct tape. I simply cut a very thin strip of duct tape and taped the clasp shut. I even wound it around the clasp a good eight or nine times, just to make sure it wouldn't come open. The silver of the tape was almost identical to the silver band of my watch, and so I marveled at my own creativity.

But now, I'm standing in the middle of a spa, completely naked except for my watch. I cannot remove the duct tape. After several showers, and countless number of dishes washed, my duct tape has formed an impenetrable bond. I decide to just leave it on, because if I don't get under the sheet soon, my therapist will march in to find me standing there naked.

Well, my massage starts, and it is indeed everything my sister said. There is a CD playing in the background, with little birds chirping and a waterfall sound and quiet music. The lights have been dimmed and I am truly feeling relaxed.

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