Melancholy ::::BLEEP::::
2004-09-03, 10:33 a.m.

After browsing more hilarity around the Land of Diary, it is abundantly clear that I am a white bread girl in my own little G-rated world. At least, that's the only side that will ever be presented on here. Unlike a lot of bloggers, I've encouraged family and friends to pop in and keep up with our goings-on. I suck at keeping loved ones up-to-date, and this is a good solution for me. If you are looking for gratuitous exploits or profanity-laden tirades, you won't find them here. That's what Hubby's for.

OK, so am I one of the seemingly 3 people on earth who does NOT use the "F" word? First, my kids read over my shoulder, so I'm not going to type it. Second, my kids enjoy imitating my lingual habits, so I'm not going to say it. The day I say it (note to brain: TURN MOUTH OFF) is going to be the same day Son uses it in general conversation with either his teacher or youth pastor. Not prudent on my part to teach him thusly. Hubby and I have been relatively successful in keeping our vocabulary pruned and modesty intact, so keep your fingers crossed that this continues. Once Son takes a notion to something, it is impossible to deprogram him, and that is just one battle I don't want to fight.

Today I am bored in the so-much-to-do-that-I'm-not-gonna-start kind of bored. Part overwhelmed with what needs to be done, part underwhelmed with the total lack of enjoyment of the choices. First order of business: the floors. They're horrible. Not just trashy, but downright nasty. Everybody has spilled something over the week's course, and although it gets wiped up immediately, sticky tracks silently apparate through the house. If I could collect all the pet hair that conglomerates in the corners, I could either make a new dog or a large sweater. Second necessary but completely unenjoyable task: the laundry. One day the pile is going to evolve into a new life force and devour me. The hampers already emit the fragrance of primordial ooze, so that is spurring me somewhat to action.

Hubby and I have several large projects to tackle this weekend. First, we're going to refinish a Hoosier cabinet that we planted in the middle of the backyard on Mother's Day. It had been stored on the porch along with the last of the moving boxes. For my Mother's Day gift, Hubby helped me unload, clean, and unpack the back porch. Alas, there was no place else to store the antique behemoth, so it's been stuck under the carport in the backyard, shedding lead paint confetti and soaking up the elements. Hubby, after years of spewing hatred for antiques and family heirlooms, has finally given in to refinishing the cabinet (which belonged to his great-grandparents) and using it in our kitchen. YAY! We made a foray to Lowe's last night to buy paint stripper and implements and white oil-base paint. It's nice weather now, so we'll start the process this evening.

The other big weekend project is to paint the living room/kitchen/hall. This is a teeny house, and the kitchen and living room surround an interior fireplace, making a big circle connecting with the hall. Well, not so big, but you get the idea. The wall next to the fireplace is gorgeous knotty pine, fabulously untouched for the last 50 years. The rest of the walls are basic sheetrock, currently painted with ho-hum basic builders' flat white paint. It's awful. We got the marvelous landlord's go-ahead to repaint a warm neutral buff tone in a satin finish. It should make the house much cozier and relaxing.

Did I mention? The landlord may be willing to sell this place to us in a year or so! HOORAY! We aren't ready to buy just yet, and he's not quite ready to sell. But when the time is right...

We have owned homes for 14 years. We have remodeled or built homes for 14 years. It was time for a break. When we ditched our last house (1980's spec house from hell) and moved into this one, we had no idea how freeing it would be to rent for awhile. No burden of repairs or construction, just pick up the phone and say "Fix it!" Yep, life is good. Rather, life is good when you have a landlord like ours. His likes/dislikes run very similar to ours, so we've been given near carte-blanche to change what we like around here. Besides, whatever improvements we make, he knocks it off the rent. No pressure to fix anything, we can update or invigorate as we please, PLUS get credit for it...like I said, life is good.

It's good but at times bittersweet. I was wasting time on Classmates.com this morning, and ran across a message board with one of my dad's old classmates wondering about his whereabouts. He would not have wanted me to publicly submit anything, but I did send that person an email. I am the type of person that cannot stand not knowing something, so I gave them a briefing and asked them to not publicly post it either. On Sunday it will be 10 months since Daddy died, but telling it to yet another unknowing soul still hurts.

Reading about others' less-than-ideal childhoods points out more how near-perfect mine was. My parents spent time with me. I don't ever remember having a babysitter. If they were invited to something when I was little and I couldn't attend, then neither did they. I have never been spanked. Didn't need one. (Not kidding, no lie, I was a Stepford Child.) My daddy took the day off from work whenever there was a school holiday, and we would go places or do something special. Little stuff, like going out to eat someplace I liked (the cafeteria in Roses dime store) or checking out neat stuff in tiny surrounding towns. My mom had supper on the table before 6pm. They helped me with my homework. They sent me to tap/ballet dance lessons and piano lessons and ballroom dance lessons and charm school. My dad took his lunch hour at 2pm every day so he could pick me up from school. (I wonder if that's why he was SO eager for me to learn to drive?) My friends were welcome, they trusted me to go out with them, and were always there for anybody who needed them. The result? I never tried drugs. I never drank. I never sneaked out of the house, got bad grades, was out too late, hogged the phone, or caused any of the typical angst that normal kids do. My shenanigans rank right up there with the stuff Wally and the Beaver tried to pull off. I was accepted into every college I applied to with no problem, was named a Scholar at two of them, and wound up with a full 4-year scholarship, graduating with honors.

Told you I'm boring. Not to mention, very very rare.

Maybe that's why at times I feel like such a big fat failure.

With such an amazing start, with such high expectations, I was supposed to DO something. Something big. Something worthwhile and earth-shattering and life-changing. Something worthy of the honors and accolades and, yes, even the financial investment so many made in me. So what AM I doing?

Mopping floors.

Life stopped for my kids. Rather, it stopped when Son was diagnosed. The moment the pediatric neurologist watched him walk across the room and announced, "We have problems here," when the MRI showed an arachnoid cyst (fluid tumor), when he qualified for early intervention through special education, Sally's Life hit the pause button. Enter years of occupational therapists, physical therapists, neurologists, pediatric allergists, speech therapists, audiologists, school psychologists, resource teachers. And now, enter a son being successful with minimal help in the regular classroom, and most people unaware that "we have problems here".

Maybe everything was to prepare me to prepare HIM. My kids are smart, funny, talented, capable. Maybe my role is to be the drop that ripples out so that my kids can be the Earth Movers.

In the meantime, my feet are sticking to my earth. Back to mopping.

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