It's 7p.m. and I'm flossing my teeth and giving myself a mental high five. It's a rarity in the Davis home to have all children, let alone a child, in bed by 7p.m. Only providence--and maybe grandma and grandpa wearing them out could allow this to happen. Rather than question, embrace. Floss your teeth and give yourself mental high fives. Do this until presented with a wandering toddler. Typical to have a 3-year-old stray from the confines of her toddler bed? Sure. Typical to have her say, "Mom I stuck a jewel in my nose." Not so much.
Thank God my parents were in town. Grandma held down the fort and Grandpa rode along to Urgent Care for moral support (Dad was working). After almost an hour wait, in which Elizabeth, the wandering jewel-stuffing toddler skipped about the Urgent Care waiting area, the 'object' was removed from her nose. The shiny-pink jewel, was in fact a small round pink bead. She later revealed it's origins--the laundry room floor. Fantastic.
I wasn't so much wondering where the bead came from, as to why she decided to trump my "me time" by sticking a foreign, although lovely, pink bead up her nostril. On the way home my Dad and I swapped innocent oraffice-stuffing stories. As a former elementary school principal, my father had seen it all. Even a pinto bean lodged precariously close to an ear drum.
"Why do they do it Dad?" I asked in exasperation. Why?
This led me to think about this: Why do I commit to 100 more things than I can possibly do? Why don't I make sure my girls are wearing underpants before going to a child's birthday party only to discover they're not (in line for a pony ride!), why did I tell my husband I wanted to stay overnight at his summer work party this weekend, then tell him I didn't, then tell him I did, and didn't again? And why was I resentful when he expressed confusion? I just did.
Analyze it, contemplate it, agonize over why. In the end it boils down to this: we all stick a bead in our nose. Some more often then others. Whatever the shape, size and complexion of your bead, don't spend tedious hours wondering why you stuffed it where you shouldn't . You may have to skip around a bit--let it irritate you awhile. It may fall out, or most likely someone will help you pull it out. When it's extracted, it might just be your most prized jewel. Or, it may be simply a disgusting bead from the laundry room floor.
Monday, May 7, 2012
“Where are the Pocky Paulettes?”
“The Polly Pockets are in the toy bins in your bedroom.”
“Mom! The Pocky Paulettes are missing! Where are dey?”
“The Polly Pockets are in the toy bins in your bedroom, Julia.”
“Mom! The Pocky Paulettes aren’t in dere.”
After a brief bedroom inspection the Polly Pockets (or Pocky Paulettes if your 3), were indeed in the toy bins. During this exchange I discovered that I too, am a lost Polly Pocket. I’ve been doing laundry all day, wiping tables, noses and whatever else is gooey, chewy or heaven forbid—poo—ey. In between all this I work a little. I write, market, promote, tweet, and Facebook.
Sometimes I’m productive. Mostly I’m semiductive. When I only sort of, kind of, semi accomplish something in my writing world, I have the tendency to feel lost. It’s not that I don’t feel validated for all the wiping, toy-finding and half-measured writing projects—I am! It’s simply that I don’t always know where I am. Maybe I’m in lost inside the toy bin, or beneath a pile of laundry. Of course I’m probably not lost at all, but only misplaced somewhere in my own mind. It’s okay to be a lost Polly Pocket. In the end I’ll be found, and if lucky one or both of my feet have not been chewed off by a dog.