Absolutely Bananas: Seattle mom blog

The messiness of real life as seen from our living room window

In front of my house on the sidewalk stands a pile 45 feet wide and overflowing with furniture, pictures, bedding, pots and pans, clothes and more. So much more. It’s the entire contents of our neighbors’ house.

I stand back from the window as I look out because I don’t want the neighbor man to see me watching as he rifles through his stuff. I try to keep from spying but I find myself repeatedly drawn to the mini-drama taking place on our front lawn.

Yesterday morning a truck with a trailer pulls up in front of the house and out climb eight high school kids wearing medical masks and work gloves.  A sheriff sits down in front of our house in the shade of a tree while the kids carry pile after pile out of the neighbor’s house and onto the sidewalk.

“Can I offer you some lemonade?” I asked the sheriff, “and also what is going on?”

Our neighbors have been evicted. The house that had been in their family since it was built was sold by the rest of the family and after two years of court battles our neighbors have lost.  The court case. Their house. And their dignity.

“It’s their own fault,” says the tall man who is overseeing the teenage workers, “they were giving warning after warning. They had time to move out.” The conclusion of everyone who knows about the situation is the same: our neighbors created this mess.

We know it better than anyone.  How they threw garbage off their deck into the enormous trash pile in their back yard. The shouting and screaming and crying that we heard through our windows. The refusal to care for their property. These were people with problems.

Still, when the family shows up and starts desperately trying to retrieve their things before they’re hauled off to the dump, there’s pity gnawing at my stomach.

It’s going to be such a relief to have them gone. To have normal neighbors.

And anyhow, it’s their own fault.

But. While it’s true that it’s their fault I still feel sorry for them.  I feel sorry for their two teenage children - for the daughter who is sitting on the curb at midnight with her head in her hands.

I wonder where they’re going… where will they take the moving truck that they’re piling full and will the next place have room for the fourteen bins of Christmas decorations that sat in their front yard from November through April?

I pat my neighbor on the back and ask him if he’s ok and he carries on like a madman about how this is NOT HIS FAULT and I think how strange it is to be worried about what we think while their stuff is sitting around us on the sidewalk. He smells like he hasn’t showered in weeks and his face has aged 20 years.

The man with the trailer knocks on our door and says that all the stuff will be taken to the dump at 5:00 tomorrow.

I close the windows so that I can sleep while the neighbors continue their pilfering through the night. They’re still there this morning.

I wish they were gone.

It’s easier to judge this situation when it’s abstract; when I don’t have to see the daughter’s drawn face or the father’s desperation.

It’s easier to be happy about what’s going on when I focus on the giant hedge between our houses that can finally be trimmed to a reasonable size and ignore the pile of coats and shoes pulled directly from our neighbor’s closet.

It’s easier to rationalize when I don’t have to see the messiness of real life; when I can pretend that things are black and white and right and wrong. When I don’t have to witness the massive expanse of grey that clouds this very black and white situation, blurring the edges until there’s only a swirling mess of sadness.

A memo to the sick devil who designs toy packaging

On Friday CJ turned six. This means that,

A) Our baby is a year older and,

B) Jay and I had to fight the bitter and bloody battle against TOY PACKAGING.

724 twist ties, 15 lbs of cardboard, 72 bits of sharp and jagged plastic, 861 staples, 13 paper cuts, and 52 curse words later… and we ALMOST had the toys opened.

It makes me wonder…

IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK THAT A CHILD BE ABLE TO ACTUALLY PLAY WITH A TOY ONCE IT’S BEEN PURCHASED?

Seriously who are these monsters that design toy packaging?  Why do you need 16 metal twist-ties binding a tiny plastic car to three sheets of cardboard and does this all really need to be wrapped in wickedly thick plastic that turns into a nightmarish skin-piercing weapon when cut open?

What exactly are toy manufacturers afraid will happen to these toys that they need such protection and where do all the twist ties come from?  I’m starting to think that twist ties grow on trees in China.  Have you been there?  Can you confirm?

Tonight after a particularly vicious battle with a SPY TOY SET I sit at the table munching on french fries with dark thoughts of revenge.  Whoever you are… YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE… laughing with diabolical glee as you twist twist twist the toy into cardboard purgatory…  I WILL FIND YOU AND I WILL DESTROY YOU.

I will tie you up with tiny metal twist ties that bind into your skin and are impossible to remove EVEN WITH WIRE CUTTERS AND A FIERCE GRIP.  I will encase you in layers of cardboard and thick plastic sheeting.  I will STAPLE and TAPE you and did I mention the twist ties?

And then I will throw you in a land fill with the 4 million billion tons of cardboard and plastic and twist tie that you have oh-so-unnecessarily created.

And ON THIS GREAT DAY when I have my revenge the parents of the world will rejoice! We will link arms and skip and dance and sing songs of love and harmony. And the children will open toys that they can PLAY WITH without the help of wire cutters or scissors or a crow bar.

Free at last.

Yesterday

Today was CJ’s last day of kindergarten.

Tomorrow he turns six.

Wasn’t it yesterday that I walked my little boy to school the first time, his hand clenched tightly in mine?

Wasn’t it yesterday that he turned five?

What happened in between yesterday and TODAY?

For the thousandth time I renew my committment to being present in this moment.

Because this moment is zooming by.

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Moral dilemma of the day

Parenting is a job overflowing with moral dilemmas.

Like this morning, when CJ is in the bathroom with the door closed. I peek in - “MOM SHUT THE DOOR I’M TRYING TO GET READY!” - just enough to see that he is meticulously combing his hair. 

Cute, he’s starting to care about what he looks like. 

Five minutes later I knock on the door. “CJ, we really have to leave! Come on!”

“Ok, ok!”

He races out and down the stairs.  He’s putting on his shoes and I kneel down to look at his hair. He’s been in the bathroom combing it for a good part of the morning. I want to see the FRUITS of these labors.

That’s strange, it’s combed off to the side.

(Usually CJ likes his hair straight down or in a point.)

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see them.

Peppering the shoulder of his dark blue shirt, blond hairs wink at me as they catch the sunlight.

is that…

wait a minute…

“CJ!” I straighten up and bellow, “CJ DID YOU CUT YOUR HAIR?!?!”

He looks up at me with an innocent smile but his eyes speak the truth.

He cut his hair.

I comb the bangs down with my fingers to discover that he’s taken a chunk from the middle.

“Mom, I just wanted it to look like two spikes in the front.” 

Of course you did.

And herein lies the moral dilemma.

I desperately want to take a picture. To post to Facebook. To email to family. To keep for the far-off day when CJ is grown and needs to be humiliated.

At the same time I know that IF I take the picture I make the hair cutting ok.  Funny, even.

A good parent would maintain a stern no-nonsense disposition about the whole scenario.

A good parent would NOT undercut her own authority by taking a picture to broadcast to all the land.

I never SAID I was a good parent.

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