The English Geek

Memorial Day in 20 Minutes or Less

I cannot say we have established any firm Memorial Day traditions. Sometimes we go the traditional route—flowers at graves and a family barbeque. Sometimes we act like it's just another day, but with slightly better sales. Today's Memorial Day falls into the former, and I feel compelled to blog about it before tomorrow. Since tomorrow will be here in 21 minutes, I shall try to be succinct. Here is our Memorial Day in a nutshell:

• Kaleb woke me up WAY TOO EARLY. I wanted to sleep in, but he had other ideas (namely, breakfast). Then Kendell clued me in that our festivities were starting at 11:00, and suddenly I was up and going. Going as quickly as I could.
• Nathan, Kaleb and I ran to the store. Shopping list: refried beans, sour cream, avocados, red onion, olives, powdered sugar, whipping cream, butter. Can you guess what my barbeque assignments were?
• We rushed home to make sheet cake (the Pioneer Woman version) and seven layer dip. (Did you get it right?) Somewhere close to the end of rushed cooking/baking, Haley finished straightening her hair and came upstairs to help.
• While all this frenzy happened, Kendell and Jake mowed the lawn and cut out all my bleeding hearts, which were damaged in last week's storm.
• We drove out to the military cemetery north of here, to visit Kendell's Uncle Buffalo's grave. (When I explained to Kaleb where we were going, he said "Mom, I really need to dig him up." "WHY?" I asked. "Because I just want to know for once if he really is a buffalo or if he's a guy." Then I explained the concept of nicknames a little bit better.) Missed the exit, took a detour through Lehi Farm Country. Can you guess which one of us was cursing and annoyed?
• Finally made it to the cemetery, which was crowded because one of our senators was there making a speech. He was just leaving when we arrived; I felt lucky to miss his speech but still get to hear the bagpipes.
• While sitting at Buff's gravesite, Kaleb kept pointing at a little person who had walked by. I explained to him that the man still had feelings and not to make him feel bad. Then he asked Haley, "How did that little person get born anyway?" and she explained "Well, he had a mutation in his genes." Kaleb thought for a moment, nodded his head, and said "he does have little jeans."
• After a few minutes at the cemetery, we drove back home (managing to get caught in all the lovely traffic) to pick up the food and a few more flowers (not many from my bedraggled garden). I managed to drop the container of left-over guacamole, which exploded upon impact with the kitchen floor and splattered everywhere. Sigh.
• Next we went to my grandparents' graves. I do not do this enough. Kendell wasn't sure it was worth the time/effort (he would have skipped the other cemetery, too, if I hadn't pushed), but I still miss them so much. We didn't have time to stay very long but I did feel that little flash of connection. Grandma and Grandpa both would have loved my gorgeous black-blue iris!
• Then we were off to Kendell's parents for lunch. I ate way too much, and complained with my sister-in-law about parenting teenagers, and then had some more cake.
• Because of my father-in-law's recent cancer diagnosis , Kendell has been helping them begin to clean out their outbuildings (a few barn-ish shed) so they can sell their house and move closer to us and to his sister. Kent, especially, is resisting this process. He doesn't like to see his possessions thrown away, even though they are things he doesn't need or are simply worn out. It's difficult to watch, and after the arguing and the passive-aggressive machinations were past, he was simply sitting on a lawn chair, defeated. I leaned down, hugged him, and told him I love him. I've never told him that before, and I felt simultaneously ashamed of myself for waiting so long and proud that I had conquered my discomfort at saying the words.

Probably that last was the reason I really wanted to blog tonight. As there are only four minutes left, I'm going to leave it here. How was your Memorial Day?

Songs Right Now

Yesterday afternoon, after my run, I sat in my usual stretching place in our yard (exactly under the spot where the sycamore and the plum tree touch limbs, so it's all lacy contrast) to, well, stretch. I was on that blissed-out wave that comes after a good run, and then I realized: ummm, hello Amy, you are singing out loud.

The song? Dave Matthews' "The Space Between" which has lately become my favorite post-run-stretching song. I heard it on the radio a couple of weeks ago and remembered how much I love it. As I stretched and did a little bit of pilates (yep, right there on the grass...my neighbors are used to this by now, although I usually try not to sing out loud because, well, we all know what my voice sounds like) I thought about the other songs I have been listening to lately. Tunes sort of come and go in my rotation...sometimes I'll get hooked on one or two songs and listen to them over and over until I can't stand them, and other times I'm completely OK with random. Still, certain songs start to become associated with certain time periods. At any rate, my post-run sing/stretch made me think I wanted to write about a few of my current faves, just because. (And, yes, I am thoroughly aware that most of them aren't really "current." That's just how I flow.)

• "Song Away" by Hockey. I mostly tend to listen to the lyrics when I listen to music, rather than the music itself. (Is that weird?) This song is a good blend of both though. "This ain't no Roxy music"? Maybe not...but it's still awesome. Like...awesome with an 80's groove. ;)
• "1,000 Oceans" by Tori Amos. This is from some movie soundtrack or other. It sounds like the old Tori whom I loved. Plus, no music list would be complete for me without at least one Tori Amos song. A sort of Haley-Amy theme song, although she'd roll her eyes at that idea! (Haley, not Tori.)
• "LoveGame" by Lady Gaga. Honestly: I am ashamed and embarrassed and horrified to admit I like this song. My gothy roots are vomiting in protest. My motherly protective instinct is rising up. My "I only like intelligent stuff" credo is trembling. This really is a horrid and nasty song. But it's also got a rhythm that matches my running gait. Yeah. I don't know if you can dance to it, but you can definitely run to it.
• "Any Second Now" by Depeche Mode. OK, you're right. This song is, like, twenty years old. At least. But suddenly I can't stop listening to it. The simpleness, perhaps. The building tension of the chords. That first line—"she remembers all the shadows and the doubts, the same film." It's short, let's listen to it again!
• "Eye" by Eve's Plum. Sometimes I'll hear a song somewhere—Grey's Anatomy, maybe?—fall in instant love, and download it. Then I forget where I first heard it. This song is in that category. It's sort of funky and random, hardcore-ish and mellow, depending on the spot.
• "When the Stars Go Blue" by Bono + The Corrs. Yet another old-ish song. I used this once for a title on a scrapbook layout. That Irish lilt to their voices never wears thin in my ears. "Where do you go when you're lonely?" I love that line!
• "Mad About You" by Sting. (OK, I'll stop with the this-is-an-old-song asides. You know me well enough by now, right?) I'd forgotten about this song for years until suddenly it turned up on my MP3 player. I don't know how it got there, but it was the first song that came up when I ran the Moab Other Half and it's been in heavy rotation since. It came out when Kendell and I were dating and if we had had dancing and/or a wedding song at our nuptials, this would have been it. Even though it's really about David (you know...in the Bible). It's such a gorgeous song.
•  "Just Say Yes" by Snow Patrol. For a slow-ish song, this one is oddly fast and is, somehow, perfect for running to. Kaleb also likes it, although he calls it "that gosh-sakes song."
• "Wouldn't it be Good" by the Danny Hutton Hitters. I caught the tail end of Pretty in Pink last week (the part where Andy yells at Blaine by his locker—love that) and now I can't stop listening to this song. It is a classic.
• "Undercover" by Pete Yorn. I can't help it. I love Pete Yorn. Pete Yorn, I love you. In the same bullet I'll also mention that "Break Up" is equally awesome, although don't you know I'm way prettier than Scarlett Johansson? ;) Just kidding. She's gorgeous and I need to get over my schoolgirl infatuation. Squeeee!
• "Gives you Hell" by All-American Rejects. But only when my kids can't hear it.
• Almost the entire Alice in Wonderland soundtrack, Almost Alice. Robert Smith! Avril Lavigne! Grace Potter & the Nocturnals! I can almost put up with the Owl City song. (have I mentioned: I detest and loathe and hate and am strongly against that lightening-bug song. BUGS ME!) It could only be better if Pete Yorn had a song on it, too. (Have I also mentioned how much I love the spot in Alice in Wonderland when Johnny D/Mad Hatter talks about Alice losing her muchness? Probably I love it because I might have lost some of my own muchness. But still.)
• Violent Femmes by Violent Femmes. You know, the good album, with all the good songs on it. I recently rediscovered my copy of this CD and it makes me happy to listen to it again. It takes me back to one exact moment driving in Chris's little red car (WHAT kind of car was the cherry, Chris?) on a warm afternoon just before school was out for the year—a summoning sense of freedom.

So, tell me (or even better...tell me you blogged about it!): what tunes are limning your life right now?

Funny, Kendell-Style

One thing I have learned as a runner—specifically as a person who runs on suburban roads as opposed to backwood trails—is that witnesses to your exercise are rarely afraid to say whatever they are thinking. Well, "say" might not be the right word. "Yell as they speed away so that the insult is smeared across a half block or so" is more appropriate. I've had several strange and/or insulting comments shouted at me during runs. Most common: "You'd better keep on running" or some variation. Most memorable: something about boobs. Hmmmmm.

So here's Kendell. Because of his hips he cannot run; the result is lots of time spent inside a gym or on backwood trails. But he rides his bike whenever he can. Strike that—he rides my bike, because it's the bike that almost everyone can ride so it's the bike we leave down, out of the garage rafters, most of the time.  Tonight, he took a quick bike ride over to a friend's house, and noticed a couple out in their yard, cutting up their fallen branches. (My yard isn't the only one that's looking a little ragged this week.) And he overhears a fragment of their conversation, which goes a little bit like this:

"Hey, honey! Have you ever seen a homosexual dude riding a bicycle?"

Ummmmm. Hello? Have you ever met my husband? He's tall. He's muscular. He had that strong Scandinavian build. He is many things, but the epitome of a gay man?* Not so much.

He's also not shy. Usually when someone shouts something rude at me when I'm running, I do what they suggest: I keep on running. If they're not too far down the street I'll wave at them (with all my fingers, not just one). I shrug my shoulders and take home a story. But that would not be how Kendell operates. Not at all.

So he turned his bike around. And instead of letting the couple have it, he chatted them up about their tree. He asked how their evening was going, and about their dog. He met their gaze and kept them squirming with embarrassment, and then he finished his bike ride.

And I would give up chocolate if it meant I could travel back in time and watch the subtle, Kendell-style tossdown in person.

*Please note: I don't think I am suggesting that their is just one stereotypical "gay man" appearance. I just...gah, the thought of someone looking at Kendell, even riding a women's bike, and thinking "gay" is about the funniest thing ever.

Transitions

Last night I fell asleep to the luxurious sound of falling rain; this morning, before my alarm went off, a stillness woke me. I walked to the back door to check on the weather and watched, astonished and dismayed, the storm transition: rain to snow.

All morning, the wet snow fell. It canceled field trips (Nathan’s) and service projects (Jake’s). It mounded into soft spheres on the snowball bush down the street. It made my plum tree droop; it made my stomach ache. Usually the sight of snow brings a sense of peace to me; after Utah’s long drought, snow in February or November lightens my global-warming anxieties. Snow at the end of May—snow on my iris and bleeding hearts and columbine—only fuels them.

When I rounded the corner to our house, after attending Nathan’s award ceremony at school, the snow surprised me again. Not only was my plum tree drooping (I’d expected that), but my sycamore trees were bent, with one branch nearly touching my driveway. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to pull into the garage, so I rolled down the window to get a better look, and just then a snap filled up my heart.

Despite all the cold, it was almost a warm sound, evocative as it was of the crackle of campfire. But magnified, and sharper; a crack of splinter and bite. Then a soft patter, as of footsteps, as the snow fell around the fallen branch.

I know it’s probably silly. But I love my trees. I love them. I think of them almost as extra children—I greet them with hellos, I give them friendly pats, I am made happy in their presence. I’ve watched them grow from twigs. When they are damaged it almost feels the same as one of my kids getting hurt. (I will remember the crack of that branch as I will not forgot the crack of Nathan’s arm.) So I sat in my van and cried, and then I got out to investigate. Just as I closed the van door, another crack, another furious flutter of snow, but this time on the other side of my yard—my other sycamore, the one that was only as tall as Kendell when we planted it 13 years ago. Then, just a few seconds later, there was another snap.

The fact that one of those branches could have very easily hit Kaleb or me made me hustle him quickly into the house, and then a day of texture and pattern passed, green leaves frosted thick with snow, green leaves flying free of it. My neighbors came to help me; we braved the under atmosphere of trees reformed as umbrellas to flick and push and brush the snow away. The limbs, lightened, spring back into the air and then there is the texture of green leaves against the grey sky as the snow showers down.

Later, different sorts of patterns: dappled leaves against clean blue sky. The opening and closing of the saffron beaks of the trees’ two baby robins, their twiggy nest still firm in an apex of branches. The upclose geometry of bark more than halfway up the tree while I struggled to saw down a broken branch, praying my feet wouldn’t slip and that my arms were strong enough to hold me. The jumble of sycamore and plum leaves the same color as a bowl of red and green grapes; a salad made of snow, leaves, and sawdust, tossed on the ground. The slurry the street became and then the widening arcs of dry pavement.

In the end, we filled the back of the truck to its fullest with fallen limbs. I learned that climbing trees is a perfect upper-body workout (both muscles and heart) and the perspective of my neighborhood seen from twenty feet up in my tree. I stared at the ugly gash in the middle of my tree, a scar that might never heal. I worried that we might have to take the entire thing down—worry still. I grieved again for all the destruction.

Guest Blogger

Keeping a blog sometimes leads to unexpected results. Take two of my closest friends in my neighborhood, for example...we sort-of knew each other, but when we discovered each others' blogs, the friendships blossomed. You come to know someone in a different light when you read them.

There are also people I admire, whose blogs I read every day, even though I've never met them in real life. Audrey Neal is one of those. She's creative and her digital scrapbook designs are awesome. Her reading tastes are very similar to mine. Plus, she's a Damien Rice fan. What more do I need in an online pal? ;)

She asked me to write a guest blog post for her about scrapbook journaling, and it's up today. You can check it out here!

Dear Creative Imaginations:

You know I love your products, correct? I adore your rub ons and find your papers toothsome. That said, I have one red word for you:

 

I mean, honestly. Misplaced apostrophes in emails and scrapbook journaling and blog entries are one thing. Typos happen! But on a printed sheet of stickers that's been sent to stores for people to buy? Hmmmmmm. Maybe you need an editor. At the very least, a proofreader who is proficient with apostrophes, contractions, and possessive pronouns.

I know a few if you need recommendations.

Granted, when I pointed this out to the girl at the scrapbook store, she looked at me blankly, that thoroughly-wrong apostrophe not even registering to her. (I confess that when I picked up the stickers, the "it's" was the first thing I noticed.) When I pointed it out, she said "I don't think most people will care. Or even notice." I didn't know whether I should groan in frustration or just nod my head in acceptance. That is, after all, why grammar/usage/spelling/ apostrophe errors happen in the first place: most people just don't care about them.

I just thought you should know that this is one sheet of stickers I won't be buying. Even though the rest of them are really, really cute. I can't buy it on principle. It offends my inner uptight grammarian.

My husband, however, would like to thank you. And to encourage you to make similar errors in the future.

Sincerely:

Amy

Writing Challenge: Textuality #6

(So sorry I missed doing a prompt on Friday. Friday was A Day. So it just didn't happen!)

Welcome to the Inspired by Poetry Week of Writing Challenges! Before you freak out, don't worry: you won't be writing poetry (well, you can if you want of course! I would be thrilled!), but responding to it. There are sparks all over the place in poems! So. You simply read the poem, then respond. Your goal isn't to analyze the poem. It's to use it as a starting point, a way of evoking an emotion or an experience within yourself. You can use my suggestions in your response, or you can go somewhere else—where ever the poet took you. Here's today's poem:

 

The Pond

   ~Mary Oliver

 

Every year

the lilies

are so perfect

I can hardly believe

their lapped light crowding

the black,

mid-summer ponds.

Nobody could count all of them—

 

the muskrats swimming

among the pads and the grasses

can reach out

their muscular arms and touch

 

only so many, they are that

rife and wild.

But what in this world

is perfect?

 

I bend closer and see

how this one is clearly lopsided—

and that one wears an orange blight—

and this one is a glossy cheek

 

half nibbled away—

and that one is a slumped purse

full of its own

unstoppable decay.

 

Still, what I want in my life

is to be willing

to be dazzled—

to cast aside the weight of facts

 

and maybe even

to float a little

above this difficult world.

I want to believe I am looking

 

into the white fire of a great mystery.

I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing—

that the light is everything—that it is more than the sum

of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.

 

Today's Writing Prompt:

Respond to Oliver's poem. Some topics you might write about: perfection, flowers (lilies specifically if you wanted), nature/being outside, "the white fire of a great mystery" in your own life, what you want in your own life (Oliver wants to be willing), how you "float a little above this difficult world," or anything else that felt like a spark to you.

 

My response:

Last spring, Cindy gave me some lilies. The kind that come in pots, that linger for a few weeks, flowering through Easter until the blooms start to droop, the petals dropping off in odd numbers. The fragrance was sweet, a white, startling scent that spread throughout the house. Even the corners of closets had a faint lily swirl.

 

But I left them too long. I should have watered them more; the soil grew dry, the stems became stalks, and instead of furrowing down into a new dirt home, they died and I threw them away. There wasn't any decay of the lily-pond sort, no dampness, no slumped purses full of decay. Instead, just: withering away.

 

Maybe that is the perfect metaphor for my own sort of imperfection. Not wet and fecund and blowzy. Just...fading. Just needing something, more sun, more water, more something I cannot find in my current environment. I feel, sometimes, trapped like those plants, unable to move, incapable of changing the environment so I can get what I need. So I can blossom again. And it might be too late for blossoming anyway. At least this year.

 

Still, there is a sense of hope this poem gives me. It is not that the looking for perfection that matters, or the fact of the existence of imperfection. It's not even the acknowledgment of failure. It is the turn that happens at the word "still," it is the willingness to say "yes, but there is also this." Despite imperfections, despite the failures and the unfinished, if I can just find that ability to say "still," perhaps I can find the way to wander into my own great fire.

 

(all maudlin sentimentality inspired by Mother's Day. It will pass soon!)

I Can't Help It

I've been writing a blog post in my head all day. A post about dead mice. But it isn't ready yet, so I'm writing this instead:

Even though I logically know it is not designed to do so, and even though it was a fine day, I dislike Mother's Day because it always encourages my I'm-a-horrible-mom feelings.

I try to talk myself out of it. I remind myself: I'm not a crackwhore. My children don't find me drunk, naked, and sprawled out on my front-room couch. I feed them and I clothe them and I tell them I love them.

But I still have the bothersome feeling: not enough. For example, as I listened to the wonderful talk in Relief Society today, and thought of my own beloved Grandma as the speaker spoke about how much she loved her grandmother and how she hoped to become like her, giving, really, an ode on her specific relationship, I thought about the example I set for my children. If I died tomorrow, what might they say about me at my funeral?

I keep backspacing to get rid of my own sarcasm.

One day last week, Jake asked me what I wanted for Mother's Day. "Hand made cards," I told him, "and a nap. Oh, and, everyone to get along." My response was immediate and true, right from my gut. (I love those handmade cards from little fingers!) Maybe those moms who get showered with gifts on Mother's Day love it. Not that I am complaining about gifts (and the lack thereof). I bought myself a dress I love last week, and Kendell got me a strand of pearls. Kaleb made me a little gift at preschool, and Nathan gave me a coupon book he made at school. My discontent with Mother's Day has nothing to do with gifts.

Writing Challenge: Textuality #5

The radio station I listen to in the mornings (now that my FAVORITE station is off the air, sigh, sadness) has a feature on Wednesdays in which they discuss "things that must go." I love this segment. Even though I believe firmly in the power of kindness, and of trying to be flexible and going with the flow and not being easily annoyed...I get annoyed at stupid things, and it is cheery to hear other peoples' annoyances. (One of the "things that must go" this morning: people using the word "troop" to refer to just one soldier. "Troop" is a collective, not a singular, noun. Yay for people getting snarky over word choice!)

Honestly, this morning? I am annoyed. In my personal journal I wrote a Dennis-Leary-esque entry berating the person who started all this annoyance that is so rude I probably shouldn't save it for posterity to read in the future; I'm thinking about deleting it later today. But it did make me feel a little bit less annoyed. Which brings me to today's writing challenge.

It's good to have a whole bunch of techniques in your writing toolbox. Try writing something in second person, for example, using the "you" as a sort of generic everywoman you're writing about. Start in the middle of the story, or the very end, and then write towards it. You don't always have to go with a traditional structure either. Today, rather than writing in paragraphs, write your response to the topic in a list format.

Here's the thing about writing lists. Sometimes they turn out as, well, lists. Sometimes, though, you get sidetracked on one item, and end up writing a list that morphs into something more focused. That is great, too!

Today's Writing Prompt:
Write a list of things that annoy you. Use the writing time as an excuse to vent—to get all those annoyances out of your brain and away from your creative self. For the ten minutes you're writing, you're excused from all responsibilities such as politeness, or worrying about hurting other people's feelings, or the ramifications of your annoyances. Just get them out!

Here's mine:

• People who mispronounce the word "library" and say "libery." There are two Rs in there, people!
• The fact that the word "library," when you say it quickly, sometimes slips out as "libery." How embarrassing that I also, every once in awhile and only very occasionally, just perhaps once a month or so, slip out a "libery." I take solace in the fact that it is an accident and I really do know how to say it correctly.
• Library patrons who think they are the exception to the rule. "Yes, i know there are 227 people waiting for this book, but *I* am not finished with it yet."
• The sense of entitlement that seems pervasive in society today.
• No, "being angry" isn't really on the list of things you are entitled to. Life, liberty, pursuit of happiness, ok. That's all on the list. Your all-encompassing anger isn't.
• Nathan's spelling homework, which all year has had the word "you're" on it, in a spot where "your" should be used instead.
• The fact that every week I've circled that "you're" but his teacher hasn't fixed it. I know, I know, I sound petty don't I? But I think teachers should get it right. I can say that because I was a teacher, and I had literal nightmares about finding typos on my handouts.
• McDonald's advertising. They have it down to a science, so every day I must argue with my 4-year-old about not having a cheeseburger for lunch. Every day.
• Kids not closing the bread bag, so the first slice is dried out.
• The oil spill in the Gulf. OK, that's really more than a personal annoyance. (Honestly, I get so worked up about it that if I think about it too much I get a stomach ache.) But it gets me fired up to think of all that waste, and the filth, and whatever bureaucratic mistake made it happen in the first place.
• The weather. It's May 5 and 42 degrees, and yesterday it snowed. WTH?
• My favorite radio station is gone. Replaced with "generation X" style music, which is apparently lots of crap with an occasional only half-way decent song thrown in for good works.
• My insatiable chocolate urge. Those forty days of Lent aside, it is back with a vengeance. I KNOW I can conquer it. I just don't want to. I'm eating a peppermint patty right now as I write this. After drinking hot chocolate with my breakfast. Which was, at least, toast. Without chocolate on it. (I made toast because someone left the bread bag open and the first slice was dry anyway.)

And I'm really hoping I will still be loved & adored (LOL!) after posting this...Even though I must say: totally liberating!

Writing Challenge: Textuality #4

My husband isn't a fan of blogging. He doesn't really see the draw to it, and if he sees me reading someone's blog he'll say something like "are you checking to see what they had for dinner last night?"

It's a sure way to annoy me.

On the other hand, though, he's partly right: some blogs do  read like a sort of appointment book, a list of what-I-did-today. And while I don't think there's anything wrong with that, I tend to not read them. Instead, I like the blogs that make me think, or laugh, or be surprised, or maybe even get a lump in my throat. In other words, I like writing that makes me feel something.

I like writing with a "so what."

I think scrapbooking journaling especially requires a "so what." It's that thing that makes the writing memorable, that takes it from just a pretty description to a string of words that provokes emotion or thought in the reader. It's also the thing that people struggle with. It's not always obviously apparent when you start writing, what your "so what" will be. And that's OK. Remember, the origin of the word "essay" (and I think that scrapbook journaling is, in effect, a mini personal essay) doesn't have anything to do with proving the symbolic import of Hester's letter A or the metaphoric impact in Eliot's poetry. It comes from the French word for "to try." Writing an essay—even of the mini persuasion that you'll put on your layout—is really about trying. Trying to find a point,  to convey something important, or to figure out what it is you think. You don't always start with the knowledge. Sometimes you find it through the process of writing.

So! For today's prompt, I want you to try. Start with the topic—I kept it vague and short on purpose—and see what you discover about what you think of it. You might have to write for a few minutes, filtering through the obvious choices to something more important. Move toward a specific experience—the event you're describing—and push deeper. So what?

Today's Writing Prompt:
The thing I forgot to do...

Here's mine:

Lately I forget a lot of things. My cell phone is the most-often-forgotten item in my little world. I write a shopping list and then leave it in the car; I leave the house without coupons or the mail I needed to drop off at the post office. Last week I forgot to wash the basketful of undies. I'm not really sure how I forgot them. The basket was right there at the doorway of the laundry room. Being a working mom for awhile has taught me the importance of this truth: you should always have at least two weeks' worth of underwear and socks for every person in your family. That way if you skip a week of laundry, everyone still has enough clean things to get them through.

But I forgot to do the undies basket. And apparently Kendell doesn't have two weeks' worth, because Saturday arrived—the Saturday I had to leave for work—and he was out. No clean undies. The unthinkable happened: he had to be responsible for a load of laundry. And while I could start down the path of "why doesn't he help more often?" I don't want to go there. I mostly don't care that I do most of the laundry. I mostly don't care that my family seems to believe clean laundry appears magically in drawers and closets. Do I do the things I do so that they can tell me thank you? Not really. I do them so that they feel taken care of.

And so they can leave the house in clean clothes.

Of course, one of my personal strengths is self flagellation. I felt a little bit like beating myself up for forgetting to wash that load of clothes. But I didn't. Because I had this little inkling of an idea. Maybe clean laundry notappearing magically might be good for them once in awhile. Not because I want them to walk around feeling inordinate amounts of guilt for the sweat-and-tears effort of laundry. Not because I need to be thanked for hanging up the shrinkables so they don't shrink, or for washing the blacks carefully to minimize fading, or for pairing up all the socks. But so they can not take it for granted. Clean laundry is sort of a synecdoche: a clean pair of jeans is a bit of the person who washed them for you. If they take clean laundry for granted, they take me for granted, and then maybe they forget that, in the end, their clothes are clean because I love them.

And I don't want them to forget that.