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Tonight our dryer broke.

“Oh, what a shame,” you think.

But you think wrong.  It’s not a shame.  It’s a *$%*&@#*&*!! TRAVESTY.  You don’t realize the enormous and far reaching implications of this.

I’ve got wet laundry that I had to hang on the line we have jerry-rigged in our basement.  And I have a service man coming tomorrow to work on the Dryer.

The Dryer in the basement.

Where the clothesline is.

And my big-butt undies are hanging there now.  There is no way on God’s green earth they will be dry by the time the service guy gets here tomorrow.

I don’t want to re-wash them all again, so I can’t throw them back in a pile while they are wet. So I did my best to camouflage them in between shirts and pajamas and socks that are also on the line.  But let’s not kid ourselves.  You really can’t camouflage big-butt undies.

I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time a service man has seen big-butt undies dangling from a clothesline in a basement.  But it would be the first time he had seen my big-butt undies.  And that is just too gosh darn personal for me.

And I’m shy.

This is going to cause major psychological stress for me.  After all, we all need a certain degree of privacy in our lives.  I’m fairly sure it’s somewhere in Maslow’s Heirarchy:

1. Physiological Needs
2. Safety Needs
3. Love and Belonging
4. Big-Butt Undie Privacy
5. Esteem
6. Self-Actualization
7. Self-Transcendence

Several years ago, my daughter, who was way too young to appreciate diplomacy, or sensitivity, or even, kindness to her tired mother, was watching me dress in my bedroom and out of the blue in her sweet little sing-song guile-less voice stated, “Mommy, you look better with your clothes on.”

There was no point in arguing, she had me on that one.  So I said,

“Yeah, I know, I’m squishy.”

and she replied, “I like you that way. Please don’t get skinny.”

In the same year, my son came off the bus, visibly upset.  When I asked him why, he told me a bigger boy on the bus had called him a ‘pencil.’ And then he added indignantly, “Mom, that’s not all!  He called you fat.”

Again, there was no point in arguing.  So I said, “I am fat.  So what?”

It took the wind right out of his sails.  Stopped him short.  I won’t ever forget the look on his face.

“I’m also funny and smart and a good cook, and very loving.  If my fat is all that kid can see, that shows his limitations, not mine.”

He told me he still wanted to kick him.  I didn’t chastise him.  Call my son a Pencil.  Hurrrumph.

But the lesson then and onwards is that we do not have to accept other people’s definitions of us because they are so inadequately limited.

Especially since life is so dynamic.  We never stay in one spot long enough to be definable.

I am not a ‘nerd’, but I certainly have nerdy moments.  I’m not a ‘genius’, but I’ve been pretty darn smart occasionally.  I’m not a ‘hero’, but I’ve had many a save.  I’m not a ‘perfect mom,’ but I’ve managed to raise some fabulous little people.

I don’t feel the need to label or define myself.   Or deny truths when they come along.  So I’m overweight; So I look better with my clothes on; So I have to take her word for it when the lady at the nail salon tells me my toes look good (unless I bend waaaaay over).

So what?

Back to my son that day he came off the bus.  That night as I was cuddling him to sleep,  I said, “Hey, you know how that kid called you a Pencil?”

His little body tensed and he whispered, “Yes.”

“Well, ARE you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you a Pencil.”

“No Mom!” he laughed, and his little body relaxed against mine.

“Then why do you care what he said?  You know who you are.  Why would you care what he thinks?”

“Because I’d rather be a Marker.  A red marker.”

***sigh***

It’s hard to be a philosopher in a family of pragmatists.

Some evenings it’s hard to settle down into ‘go to sleep’ mode.  Especially for my Critter.  After a full day of school, basketball, and running amok in general as 9-year-old boys should do, it’s hard to downshift.

Some people drug their children.  I know more than one parent who has used Benadryl for purposes other than its anti-histamine properties.

Some people make their kids lay in the dark, eyes open, hating every moment of non-sleepdom in the dark.  (That’s when kid’s creative minds are at their best…especially when it pertains to what may or may not lurk under the bed or in the closet.)

I prefer to employ other resources at my disposal.

For my Varmint, she does well reading herself to sleep.  She’s like her Mama that way.

But for Critter, I sometimes have to pull out my secret weapon:

I call it the Sleepinator.

You just take a wound up boy, and expose him to this:

And direct the child to rub the Sleepinator’s ultra-soft tummy:

And let the awesome powers of the diabolically soft widdle belwie begin to pass into the child.  Slowly, lulling the unknowing child into sleepiness.

Nothing.  Nothing can withstand the Sleepinator.

And that, my friends, is working smarter, not harder.

Nightie Night!

Today we had our last two basketball games for Critter and Varmint.  It was bittersweet, because none of us wanted the season to end (though softball and track are right around the corner!).

All I have to do as a spectator is sit on the bleechers and cheer and/or commiserate.  There isn’t a lot of energy in that, necessarily.

Unless you’re me.

But today I was rather quiet.  That’s a big deal.  In fact, someone ought to give me props for that.

Well, except for the one moment I came down on a player for yelling back at their coach.  I don’t stay quiet for that.  Uh-hunh. Not acceptable. Not on my watch. Especially a coach who has volunteered so much time and invested so much effort into a team.  So yeah, I may have been less than quiet on that one.

Regardless, other than making a kick-butt Quiche for breakfast (with sausage, mushroom, onion, broccoli, cheddar and cream cheeses…what’s not to love?), then fighting with helping the kids to get ready for their respective games, and driving all over creation to watch said games, I really didn’t do anything strenuous or taxing today.

Yet when we got home, one of the couches called to me.  “Come to me, o weary one.  Come rest on my soft velour cushions.  Come bask in the warmth of the fading sunlight.”

So I flopped.

I mean, I hit that couch with a thud.

Cushions bounced up.

Cat’s Scattered.

It was very dramatic.

And baby, I sacked out.   I mean, I was gone.  GONE.  Mommy was in La-La land for a while, visiting her Happy Place.

For nearly 2 hours.

I woke up with a start, ‘Wha? Wha? Where? Who?”,  confused, but refreshed, and raring to go.

Varmint, however, had chosen to spend that time finishing a Nancy Drew Mystery, writing two reading responses, editing a comprehensive report on the implications of economic dysfunction in third world countries, flossing both cats, and doing the taxes.  And SHE was one of the ones who actually physically exerted herself in a basketball game.

Where did she get that energy?  Does she not know how to properly use/waste a Saturday afternoon?

How can she possibly have come from my womb?