Curse the Calculator

I sat down to do some math today and figured out that, over the past three years, I have spent 267 hours looking for sippy cups.

That's over eleven full days and nights of walking laps through my house, overturning couch cushions and digging around in toy boxes. Eleven days of scouring the cupboards, the pantry, the bookshelves and the bathrooms. Of making hysterical phone calls to my husband (who only ever seems to know where the shoes are). Of interrogating toddlers under harsh lighting and following one dead-end lead after another.

To come up with this startling total, I estimated an average of 15 minutes a day spent looking for those little buggers. A modest figure, I assure you. And I had to force myself to stop at three years, when what I really wanted to do is look ahead and see how much time I'll spend searching in the future...until my last child learns to use a real cup (without spilling) or goes off to college, whichever comes first.

Eleven days! I still can't get over it. If Israel can win a war in seven days, imagine what I can do with eleven!

I could learn a foreign language or write a short novel. I could drive across the country and take in all the sights, or stay at home and actually finish one game of Sodoku without cheating.

If I spread that time out a little more, I could sleep in an extra two hours every morning for the next five months. Or spend 45 minutes a day for the next year sculpting my abs and trying to get my butt to look a little less like a set of deflated watermelons.

But no, I have to spend that time on my hands and knees with my face pressed to the cold tile floor...trying to spot every nook and cranny that a six inch tall sippy cup could squeeze into.

How depressing.

But then, that's what happens when you play with math.


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Mr. Coffee

I've decided to give coffee a chance. I do this at least twice a year (when I'm feeling particularly crummy) but it never seems to catch on.

Coffee...one of the cornerstones of American culture and quite possibly the glue that binds us together as a nation. Coffee...the thin veneer of civility that separates man from beast, the working class from the convicts.

Coffee...my husband's one true love.

I'm not sure when Chris' love affair with coffee began. I tend to think of it as something that's learned, an acquired taste. Usually under the stress of exams or swing shifts, or even peer pressure. How can somebody honestly like their first taste of coffee?

But Chris claims that he was born loving it. He tells me stories of eating coffee beans as a small child and nagging adults for sips. I have my own theory that, as a baby, he got separated from his parents (while they vacationed in Columbia) and was raised by a pack of wild coffee plants.

For whatever reason, though, he is thoroughly hooked. In fact, I'd venture to say that the health of our marriage relies heavily on his continued supply of coffee. Which is just one more thing for me to worry about now that Obama has been elected and the end of the world is surely near. Forget canned goods, bottled water, and ammunition....where can I get a half-ton of French Roast??!!

The only thing that makes Chris happier than sipping at this precious liquid, is the idea that maybe someday his wife will cross over to the Caffeinated Side and join him. And why shouldn't I? Everyone else in my family is there....happily scalding their tongues and stimulating their bladders every day!

Chris is convinced that it will bond us as husband and wife in a way that nothing else can. He's promised me a level of energy beyond my imagination, a reason to smile each and every moment of the day, and the ability to stay up late into the night with little or no consequence the next morning.

But I've noticed the down side. I've seen Chris push the limits and function on such a small amount of sleep that his personality falls unconscious. I've seen my mom vibrating when she's sitting still. I've seen a house full of grown adults get mood-swings and migraines just because someone was accidentally giving them decaf.

I've seen hordes of people, waiting in line at an over-priced coffee house while the economy goes into the toilet.

You'd think all this would be enough to keep me from this vile brew, but alas, it is not. The truth is that I would be addicted to coffee just as much as the next guy were it not for one very important thing...

It's taste.

A kick in the mouth would taste better to me than a sip of coffee. Rubbing alcohol would feel smoother on my tongue and a handful of dirt would leave me with a better aftertaste.

And don't think I haven't tried to disguise it! I've tried milk, sugar, fake sugar, flavored creamer, I've even mixed in copious amounts of hot Cocoa. The one time I got it just right, I realized that I had only included a teaspoon of actual coffee.

This time around, Chris thinks I should consider it a means to an end. Like a "plug your nose and choke it down if you want to feel better" type of medicine. The idea being that I'll learn to like it as time goes on.

I think I would be more likely to grow a beard and join the circus, but I hate to hurt his feelings.

So here I am, giving it the old college try...though I am perhaps doomed already since I never actually finished college.

Maybe coffee would have helped.


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Grandpa

Let me tell you about my grandfather. God made him eighty-eight years ago, and then promptly broke the mold.

"This one will be a collector's item," He said with a smile.

I could tell you all about his life, his accomplishments, his adventures, and his great love. But would that truly show you the kind of man he was? I'm afraid not. I'm afraid that nothing I put into words would adequately express what an amazing person my grandfather was. And so, I stare at my blank computer screen, completely at a loss.

How can I fit a life so...large...into one small blog entry? How can I condense the breadth of his character into a few paragraphs?

Perhaps a story.

When I was a teenager, I was staying with my grandparents for a month during the summer, as I had done for several years. One day during my stay, I made a foolish decision. In a fit of teenage rebellion, I acted on an impulse and did something I shouldn't have. Nothing earth-shattering, mind you, but enough to get the local law enforcement slightly annoyed.

Of course, Grammy and Grandpa found out.

I was completely devastated. For the first time in my life, I had disappointed the two people on the planet that I would have done anything NOT to disappoint. I spent the entire afternoon crying in my room, a self-imposed exile. I wondered how I would ever look them in the eyes again.

I was still going strong when I heard someone coming up the stairs. I didn't even bother rolling over to see who it was. Who else would be coming to deal with me besides Grammy?

When the bed shifted with a new weight, I sniffled and snorted and closed my eyes in shame...and then I felt it. A cool, work-roughened palm resting against my flushed cheek. A hand much too large to be Grammy's.

Grandpa.

He spoke then, telling me in a gentle voice that I had been upstairs long enough and I needed to come down and eat some dinner. But it was his unspoken words that healed my broken heart that day.

"We love you."

"We forgive you."

"Come be with us again."

Everything I felt in his tender touch. In the courage he demonstrated by facing an emotionally wrought, hormonal teenager alone.

I've always wondered why he decided to climb those stairs that day. Why he would willingly enter something that was so clearly grandmother territory. Maybe Grammy was busy with with dinner and sent him up to fetch me. Maybe it was something else entirely.

All I know is this...no one could have done it better.

I did come down that evening, not long after he left. And my grandparents looked at me like they always did, with warmth and love...as though nothing had changed.

But it had. I felt different that day. Broken and reformed, changed for the better.

My grandpa defined unconditional love for me. In that small moment so many years ago, he showed me a greater image...that of a loving Father, waiting for His lost child to come home.

And I did.

Now, I'm an adult. A wife and a mother, no less. And I've just been told that I won't see my grandfather again on this side of Heaven. This person that had so much life, that continued to influence and encourage me in every possible way, that loved me and saw my worth when I was incapable of it...this amazing man is now going to be relegated to my memories.

It is woefully inadequate, but it's all I have. So I will cherish each one, taking it out of my mind like a dusty photo-album. Opening the pages and reliving each scene like it's the first time around.

I can see him sitting at the table in the morning, wearing a pair of comfy sweat pants and a plain white t-shirt, looking down at his open Bible in deep concentration. I see him curled up on his side, taking a nap on the living room floor like it's the softest of beds. I see him on his knees, his legs folded under him, sitting back on his feet...looking boyish and happy as he shows me his old vinyl records. Or wearing a pair of beloved overalls, one gloved hand resting on the steering wheel of his tractor as he waves at me with the other.

I can feel his impossibly soft hair, my fingers stroking over it when he pulls me into a tight hug. His strong, yet gentle hand as it clasps my own for mealtime prayer. I can even feel the smooth grain of the wood he has skillfully formed and stained and made into something truly beautiful.

I can see his handsome face, enhanced by the years rather than diminished. I see his shoulders hunched up with laughter, that certain smile he has when he's up to no good, and the way his eyes light up when he realizes Lawrence Welk is on.

I can see the way he looks at my grandma, like there's no place on the earth he'd rather be than at her side.

But clearer than all of these, is the image I have of him right in this very moment....

I see my grandpa, tears streaking down his face, as he falls into the arms of his Savior.

And I think I can live with that.

I will desperately miss you, Gramps. I'll miss everything about you. I'll even miss you for my kids, who won't get the pleasure of truly knowing you in this life. I'll miss the feeling of contentment I get when I'm near you, and the way you make me laugh without even trying.

I'll miss you, but I will see you again. And that gives me a peace that passes all understanding.

So I'll cling to that peace now, I'll take it with me to bed and wrap myself in its comforting embrace. And maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be a little easier.



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Oldest Trick in the Book

How you know your son watches too much Bugs Bunny...



(Luke examines Mommy's hand)

"Oh, Mommy has a boo-boo."

"No honey, that's just a freckle."

"No, it's a boo-boo."

"It's a freckle, Luke."

"NO! It's a BOO-BOO!!"

"Freckle!"

"Boo-boo!"

"Freckle!"

"Freckle!"

"Boo-boo!"

"Yes, it's a boo-boo."

Can a three year old look smug?



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And the Dish Ran Away With the Spoon

Erma Bombeck, a well-known humor columnist and my personal hero, wrote several articles revolving around the mystery of her missing socks. She would put a matching pair in the dryer, and only one would come out....every single time. She had several theories, of course, from alien abductions to "sock heaven," but none of them could be proven. I strongly suspect that, when she passed away over a decade ago, the mystery still plagued her.

In my household, socks are not the problem. We've got socks coming out of our ears. Dozens of them.

Some are ancient and so stretched out that they slide down your ankle and gather in the toes of your shoes as you walk. Others have holes so big you have to examine them carefully before you can figure out which end to put your foot into. And still others are new looking and in good shape....but neither Chris nor myself ever purchased them and we're certain no one gave them to us.

Of course, out of all the socks overflowing from our closets/hampers/couch cushions, we only have three pairs that actually match each other. But that's only a problem if you let it be.

Chris doesn't mind wearing mismatched socks.

"Who's going to see them?"

And he's right. No one will.

It's not like they're even a different color. We're a family of sock bigots, you see....only white socks are allowed to come through our front door. And among those that have spontaneously regenerated, white seems to be the preferred color as well.

So really, the differences in our socks are quite subtle. Some have gray soles, while others only have a gray patch at the heel and toes. Some are completely white, but have a thin gold band at the top. Some are identical, except for the color of the word "Hanes" across the bottom. And some are merely stitched differently.

This doesn't bother Chris at all. When he folds laundry, he doesn't even look twice at the pairs he's matching up...let alone when he's actually putting them on. But it drives me insane.

I refuse to fold a pair of mismatched socks, however minor the difference. I'll wear them, but I won't fold them.

I'm not sure how much of that is my mild O.C.D., and how much is my deep-seated (yet completely subconscious) hatred of folding laundry. But either way, as I said earlier, socks are not really the problem in my house.

Chris and I have been married for eight and a half years and, in that time, we've discovered a disturbing phenomenon. We have never purchased a set of bowls, knives, glasses, or silverware that didn't slowly disappear over time. We always have coffee mugs, of course...I suspect the caffeine makes them immortal.

But still, not a week goes by in which I don't end up scouring my cupboards for a mixing bowl that I swear I saw a few days earlier. Or, better still, I pour milk over my cereal and spend the next hour searching for a clean spoon...only to discover that we have four dirty ones in the sink.

FOUR!! Who has four spoons???

In this economy, many couples sit at their kitchen table and wonder where all the money went. Chris and I sit and wonder where our steak knives could possibly have gone.

Why must we suffer like this?

To be fair, the mixing bowls can probably be explained. We usually use them for leftovers and shove them to the back of the fridge. Then, six months to a year later, we need the room for groceries so we use a pair of salad tongs to remove the fogged up, foil-covered bowl.

Then we spend the next thirty minutes trying to remember what the heck we put in the bowl to begin with until, finally, one of us gathers enough courage to peek inside. Sometimes we can figure it out, sometimes we can't.

Sometimes it growls at us, but we can never seem to catch it on tape.

I usually tell Chris to put it on the back porch and run the hose in it for a good soaking, after which we completely forget about it until the water evaporates and the leftovers get sun-baked into the plastic. Then we throw it away.

On rare occasions, I deem it a lost cause and we throw it away immediately.

So I guess it's no wonder that we have a shortage of bowls. Even the glasses can be explained, given a large enough time period. Glasses break, after all.

But still, that doesn't explain the eating utensils!

I have never, ever sanctioned the disposal of silverware and it's not like a stainless steel spoon can break. And, with small kids in the house, we've kept an extremely close eye on our knives.

So where are they going? Utensil Heaven? Or maybe there's a black hole in the back of my dishwasher that magnetically pulls the silverware in and leaves all the coffee mugs behind. I find it hard to believe that a burglar would ignore the electronics in my house and quietly filch the cutlery instead.

And all of the dishes seem to be accounted for so there goes Mother Goose's theory.

Actually, I'm ashamed to say that I've long suspected Chris of smuggling them to work and losing them there, but he insists that he's innocent. I want to believe him, but what other explanation is there? I hardly leave the house anymore, let alone pack a lunch to bring...so I know it's not me. And I have yet to find any of them littered among the kid's toys.

I'm completely stumped and it's driving me crazy. Here I am, left to chew on this mystery until it's a bloated mass in my mouth and I can neither swallow it nor spit it out. How did Erma handle it for so many years?!

No way, I refuse to let this beat me! When I die someday, it's not going to be with the fear that Heaven is actually run by missing spoons and I'll get turned away at the gate.

No, I have what Erma didn't have. Technology.

Video surveillance is impractical, but GPS technology is advancing every year. It won't be long before I can attach something completely inconspicuous to the handle of my steak knife and be able to track it anywhere on the globe.

All I have to do is bide my time. Until then, I'm going to start looking for a way to put a digital lock on the silverware drawer.

And perhaps I can start storing the knife block upstairs in our gun safe...


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