Let It Burn

Hey, friends.

We're friends, right? 

Caught up in the trenches of mama-hood, friendships can start to feel a little like a mirage. 

Not to the fault of anyone. The love is genuine. The intentions are good. 

But man, something's gotta give. Amongst all the needs and demands and commitments of just living, it sometimes feels nearly impossible to attend to one more thing. God and faith and church, and husband and kids and family and pets, and household and farm and vehicles, and school and work and projects, and just all the stuff. 

A few days before Christmas one of our friends invited us to go out on a Christmas Eve Eve barhopping excursion, and another friend invited us to come over for an impromptu Christmas Eve get together.

There was no implied guilt or coercion or obligation or hint of requirement. Just a really sweet, if you can make it, we'd love to see you, and if you have other plans or it doesn't work, we totally understand. 

The ping of the texts came through and instantly, I thought aw, how fun. 

And then the weight of all the other things that were on the docket started to fill my thoughts and I couldn't conceive how we would possibly fit it all in. 

4+ upcoming Christmas celebrations, Christmas Eve Children's program, Christmas eve Mass, presents to wrap, food to make, naps to try to squeeze in, clothes to iron (obvi that didn't happen), shoes (that fit and match) to find, getting everyone ready for all the stuff, all whilst keeping up with the everyday meal and laundry needs, and the prospect of trying to find a sitter (as/if needed), it just starts to feel crushing.

So sadly, we didn't go to the friend things (although I hope they'll never stop asking).

Amongst all those other things, you start to think, maybe you're the only one who can't hold it together. 

And as we're rolling into 2022, I start to highlight reel in my brain all my cherished moments and cringe worthy failures of the year.

Last night, Bobby really didn't feel the best and was very clingy, needy, and whiny, and while I was trying to make supper and clean up a bit from all the previous messes I hadn't yet gotten to in our post-holiday stupor, I was starting to lose it a little (or a lot). 

He started crying for what seemed like the 20th time and I snapped too harshly, "what's the matter now!?"

Sobbing, stuttering, snot dripping from his nose, wearing the cutest little miss-buttoned Moose on Sleds jammies, tears streaming down his face, "People just leave their earrings laying all over the place and I stepped on one and it stabbed me."

My heart broke a little.

The poor kid. He doesn't feel good, he just wants his mom, and then he steps on an earring from one of his multitude of sisters, and on top of it all, the one person he needs love and reassurance from, yells at him.

I forgot about the gravy. Let it burn. 

(That felt good. I should say that more often. "Let the mother-- freaking burn.")

Anyway, I scooped him up, and snuggled up in the recliner and we just rocked and cried a little together. I noticed, not for the first time, that we get the same red splotchy patch pattern on our face when we cry. I cried a little more and squeezed him a little tighter.

I kept thinking, will I ever live a life or in a house that doesn't involve scattered earrings and broken railings or random apple cores under recliners and some unidentified sticky substance on the carpet or random drawings and "signatures" on the walls and furniture or entry ways filled with book bags and shoes and coats and hats and mittens or things shoved in corners and drawers until you have a millisecond to stop to decide if you need or want it or what to even do with it or asking "what's that smell"?

I can't fathom.

This is where people say, "someday you'll miss this." 

I know. I know I will. And someday, is even today, in some aspects. I'm pre-nostalgic for it, because I know it's coming. 

But the thoughts creep in, "what's wrong with me? (there's a million dollar question)" "how does everyone else do it?" Because, to some extent, they do.

Few people know how people truly live when outside eyes aren't on them. I don't mean to imply that their lives are perfect or they don't have messes or that they have it ALL together. I'm not that naive.

But the thief of comparison is. The green eye of jealousy is.

They have their new homes with functionally cleared white granite (or is quartz the thing now?) countertops with their stainless steel appliances and spotless, shiny (and heated) hardwood floors and immaculate, plush substance-less carpets. Their lily white crown molded white woodwork. Their flawlessly themed and artfully arranged sculptures and decor and wall hangings. Their designated toy rooms with state of the art storage and organizing systems. Their beautifully balanced modern but cozy fireplaces. Their gargantuan and nearly empty and forklift-less garages. Not a zip-tie or errant earring to be found.

Empty. Empty is what I yearn for. Can I throw everything out? Just everything? I had a dream once (not to go all Martin Luther King, Jr. on you) that we had left our home, but realized we forgot something soon after departing so we had to go back. When I walked in the house, it was pristine, cleared, empty of almost everything and my first thought was, "is my cleaning lady here?" "is this the right house?" It was beautiful. 

Nope. We were being robbed. I woke up and thought, "Good, God. It would take a burglary for my home to come close to the desirable. "

Unfortunately (but also thankfully?) no one would want the stuff. 

I have a shitshow of a randomly acquired and aimlessly put together, usually broken or off kilter collection of flotsam and jetsam (not the eels from The Little Mermaid. literally junk). 

Things are worn, uneven (the blinds) scratched, smudged, missing (the "button" for the water cooler dispenser [thanks, Reese] so all that's left is the sharp end of a screw--ouch) stained, zip-tied, finger-printed, bent, scuffed, torn, taped (literally, one corner of my countertop is taped together), rigged for a "temporary" quick fix, and any other version of well-loved you can think of.

And then likely piled with more junk.

Christmas cards, kids homework/papers/artwork, items to return to the store or Amazon, organizers I've bought with intentions of utilizing, but until I figure out where or how to put/use them, they're going to sit there, random toys or pieces of kids jewelry or makeup or hair ties or other assorted odds and ends that I was on my way to put away until I got sidetracked or way-laid by another pressing matter or kid or I simply don't know what to do with it or where to put it. Usually the garbage at that point, but that can get a little wasteful or cause unending headaches if you lose that gamble and the wrong kid notices/realizes you trashed it.

And I swear I'm not a hoarder. If you saw our burn barrel and/or farm dumpster, you'd see I have no problem pitching things.

Big sigh.

I've gotten a little off track.

Despite all the aforementioned bemoaning, I love my old, cozy, messy, worn home. I do. White, pristine, modern, and edgy aren't really my vibe, to be honest. I like the comfortable and lived in feel and look. 

Like, I need an actual *couch*. 

Not a settee or divan or chaise lounge or davenport. 

Like a big old comfy, built for naps, sofa. 

When we moved into our house at the farm three years ago, Brad was looking for a recliner. And as he was walking through the row of recliners, he flopped down into the ugliest looking chair I have ever seen. 

I instantly said, "No. Absolutely not." 

As he settled in, his eyes rolled back in his head and he groaned. 

I think the salesman was uncomfortable. 

"Sit here." 

"I don't care if it's comfortable, Brad. It's ugly."

"Just try it."

So I sat down.

"Oh. My. God." 

Now the salesman was really uncomfortable.

Brad and I, though? Super comfortable.

So we bought it. Ugly and all. 

Now after my kids have "loved" it for 3 years, the frame is slightly broke and the footrest doesn't  go down all the way, but it's still extremely comfortable (still extremely ugly) so until it snaps in two (which may not be that far off) it'll stay.

In this ugly chair, I sat and comfortably rocked and cried with my (not so) baby boy who needed his mama. And she needed him. 

Sick kids. Sad kids. Hurt kids. Snow days. Lazy days.

We rock in our ugly chair. 

We pick our priorities.

Sometimes, I'd like more balance. Less red necking. A little more class. Less rigging. More nice. A scosh less chaos. A touch more calm. More friend-ing. Less guilt. Cut out some of the mishmash. More simplicity. Less ugly. A lot more organized.

But now after I've typed all this, I've realized the cringe worthy is the mainstay for some of my most cherished memories. 

So my motto for 2022 is, "let it all burn."

Maybe not (entirely) literally, but figuratively. 

The good stuff (like friends, and baby boy snuggles) will remain.