Foot Notes

My mom and dad came to visit last week and we talked systems. We brainstormed over how I could minimize the chaos and the clutter and the difficulties of getting six people launched in the morning with lunch.

The upshot of that discussion; six pairs of shoes are currently safely tucked in the shoe closet; kids have laid out their clothes for tomorrow, including mated socks! Banana bread and blueberry muffins have been made in advance of breakfast. The sink is empty, the dryer is finishing the last load and the refrigerator is stocked with the snacks and meals for the week.

It's ten-thirty p.m. I have nothing to do. I can write! Hot diggities.

Except, without the element of chaos from which to draw inspiration, I got nothing. The basement is in nominal shape. Coats are hung up. My five year old took on folding the towels and his bathroom is completely tidy. He's offered kindly to do mine. My daughter changed the sheets this weekend. My oldest did the dishes. Try as I might, there isn't a vignette to craft, a bon mot to share or a grouse I can nurse into a story. I'm stuck with the curse of a clean house and an empty mind.

Naturally, I turned to my beloved spouse who had aided in the clean up for the day by folding while watching the playoffs.
"I need your help." I started.
"Sher, I thought you were writing..."

"I can't. It's the moment every writer dreads. They look at the blank page. The blank page looks back and there is no love. Help!"

"When you can't fall asleep, giving me a rub always makes you yawn. So maybe, if you gave me a foot rub, you'd think of things to write."

"This is a con to get a rub."
"Yes it is; but it might work, it does for insomnia."

I went back to the page. The page was still dull as could be. I had the gift of time, but it seems the need to procrastinate was another source of inspiration. My husband helpfully presented his ankles for a good crunching.

The things I do for my art.

The True Rewards of Laundry

Frustration is good for the soul.

This is what I tell myself when twelve loads of laundry in a day are insufficient to produce the required gym shorts for all three girls. I try to be flexible. My eight children however, aren’t always nearly so accommodating.

“Those are my shorts.”
“Do you need a pair for today?”

“No.”
“Then let your sister wear them.”

“No.”

Now, the maternal gene does protect against the natural human reaction to such situations. Still, to deal with the work load, my husband and I have created systems. Laundry systems designed to prevent this sort of wardrobe malfunction from disrupting the morning routine.

Everyone has a laundry bag. Even the baby. There is a bag for the towels and a bag for dry cleaning too. Note to self, never get those last two mixed up ever again.

There shall be no mixing of laundry bags so that the wash/dry /fold tasks do not include sorting according to size or child, only color. It’s been working pretty well except for the final part of the job, the kids doing the wash. I’ve taught the top five how. They view washing their clothes as something you do like quarterly taxes.

So I was finishing up the last wash of the day. My husband had worked late himself and looked at the twelve neat piles, whistled and asked “So, the system is working well?” He picked up a few socks and mated them. I conceded, it had cut back on some of the work. This was insufficient praise for the economy of the system as envisioned by the designer. “So even if you never get additional help doing all the laundry from the kids…”

“Stop. Do Not Even Finish that sentence.”

“…Would you like a foot rub?”
"Ooh. Yes."

“And a bowl of ice cream and a diet coke.”
"That would be great!"

“And I’ll finish this load shall I?”

“Thank you.”

The system works.