Mama's Musings

Paper Chase

 

  Quick, call Greenpeace. Paper is propogating in my very

house. It is overtaking the countertops, tables, and other

surfaces of my home.

 

  It started the day my first born could hold a crayon.

She

lined them up like obedient soliders. If I accidentally

moved one, she would shriek with despair. It goes without

saying she has an orderly sense of things. Well,

sometimes. The fact that her crayons are organized

according to the colors of the rainbow doesn’t mean her

craft projects are neatly placed in piles on her desk, or

in file folders in her drawers. No, no! It merely means

she understands ROYGBIV. What she and her little brother

do not comprehend is MOFT – Mama’s order of things.

 

  I like my little papers all in a pile. It can be a

sloshy, mismatched pile, but it occupies time and space

pretty much in the same area of the house – namely, my

desk.

 

  My older child, on the other hand, prefers the trial and

error approach of organization. She recently drew

seventeen pictures of a prince and princess in various

stages of poverty.

 

  “Why are they crying?” I innocently asked my wise

five-year-old. She glanced up briefly from her latest

masterpiece and explained.

 

  “They have no money for food,” she indicated, sweeping

her petite hand across the page.

 

  “But they are wearing jeweled crowns,” I urgently

pointed

out, suddenly concerned about the welfare of these

fairytale characters.

 

  “But of course,” she replied wryly. “They are royalty!”

 

  The pictures are still lying on the dining room table,

on her art desk, on the hutch, and in different heights all

over the living room.

 

  The other day, I instituted a new rule.

 

  “Whatever is lying on the floor goes in the trash,” I

declared, flashing a motherly finger about the room. The

children looked at one another, then dashed to put their

favorite toys, craft projects and pictures on the coffee

table and chairs. In their child-like reasoning, whatever

isn’t actually touching the floor is safe. Now, instead of

proliferating papers about my ankles, I have them at my

waist on the couch. I wonder if there is a cure for

chronic paper cuts. If so, I trust you will let me know,

won’t you?

My hands are alive again

Picture it. The sun has not graced the top of the Earth for more than a week. My computer has been ill and at the "computer doctor" as Sophia likes to say. It has been a tough few weeks with lots of downward spirals. But today, I found out I will be quoted in a Parents magazine piece on how to teach your child not to lie. They will mention my book, Diary of a Mother, along with it. Very cool indeed!

My new laptop is sparkling up at me. I could have sworn the little green light winked at me as I entered my office this evening. I left Andreas with promises of being very good to him if he could get my Internet  connection to work. While I am an impatient, impulsive writer, he is a methodical, patient scientist. We fit well. Happiness at last! And the sun even kissed the Earth at one point today. All of us looked up to the sky and smiled. "Welcome, sun," we stated calmly as it showed its regal presence for but a few minutes this day...

As the world turns...

Oh -- my --- gosh! A world-renowned literary agent called me last night. At home. On a Sunday. He wanted to let me know he had been travelling and couldn't respond to my book proposal. But he wanted me to know he received it. And he would try to get back to me before Christmas. He couldn't promise. But he called me. At home. On a Sunday.

I spent 90 seconds to the 2 1/2 minute conversation bracing myself for him to say, "I regret to inform you that...well, who are  you kidding? You're no writer, you cheap, two-bit piece of..." TAKE A DEEP BREATH, CHRISTINE. He hasn't said "no" yet. He seemed amused by the title of one of my books. And I walked down the stairs weak-kneed after blabbing about this or that, hoping I didn't stutter too much. The world does turn. Even when my computer is in the shop. And my son's finger is healing. And my back feels a lot better. And I got a call from someone who wanted to show he cared...

Houston, We Have a Problem...

My computer melted down. Well, not quite. But it was on its way and had I not sent it in under warranty, it would have been a pretty penny to piece back together all that I had built in the last two years.

As a writer, I feel as if my hands were cut off. As an American expat in Germany, I feel as if I have been cut off from the world, my world, the world I carefully crafted to buoy my spirits when apple juice lands on my lap for the third time in one day.

The nice man at the customer service center said he'd call the repairman on Monday if my computer isn't back by then. The skepticism in his eye tells me I may not see the thing until the New Year. Meanwhile, I lunge at the chance to check my e-mails, clean out my spam folder, and type a few words of profundity. Without the means of expression, I feel like a clogged drain. Who would have thought my computer would be the Draino for my soul? Lo! Have mercy!

The children are pounding on my husband's office door. Unwillingly, I press the "off" button and slink away from this borrowed machine...

Has Anyone Seen George Clooney?

There has got to be a reason for this, I kept telling myself as I winced at every bump in the road. We careened in the ambulance towards the hospital in Pffafenhofen. It was a dark Monday morning. We were supposed to be decorating the house for Christmas, but a wrong movement changed all that. Instead, I found myself strapped to an ambulatory chair headed for the hospital.

The Ilmtalklinik, or Ilm Valley Hospital, was always the place I passed to go to the grocery store. It was a short cut, and I often felt proud that I knew the way that only insiders knew. Being a newcomer to the area, I had privileged information, and I kept it well.

Now, the road was wrought with pain. First, my own personal pain as my back muscles seized up in a middle-aged dispute amongst themselves. Today, it was the panic of a mother who didn’t know whether her son’s finger was dangling from a tendon or whether he was happily licking a lollipop with a band-aid around his thumb. My ring finger started to ache, and I knew it had to be the same one Jackson had hurt. Cursing under my breath, I wished away the concrete mixer that lumbered down the lane at a snail’s pace. When I got to the clinic, Andreas was waiting outside. Why was he outside? I wondered. Did they rush him to the OP and we had a long night of waiting ahead of us? I inwardly whispered encouragement to my son as I approached the building.

“Where is Jackson?” I barked, pulling my husband into the reception area. He said he didn’t know. Impatiently, I leaned over the receptionist’s desk and asked where my son was. First name. Last name. Age. Going to the edge of the ER waiting room, I suddenly saw a familiar face. Two in fact. Jackson and his preschool teacher were playing with a plastic barn. JJ’s hand was bandaged, and he appeared rather tired.

I kissed his head and smelled the fear encompassing his crown. He leaned into me, breathing in my warmth and reassurance. The preschool teacher was still shaking when I took her hand and comforted her. The other boys had been roughhousing, slamming the door to a nearby room. Jackson had complained to her about it several times, but her warnings to the others had done no good. Then it happened. Slam went the door. Jackson fell to his knees.

Because my son temporarily lost his speech, I transferred my concern for him to her. It seemed easier to console someone who would respond.

The Xray determined no broken bones. The pad of his ring finger had been cut off. It would grow back, the ER doctor reassured. His eyes narrowed.

“Weren’t you just here on Monday?” he asked. My face reddenend, and I kicked the linoleum floor, then raised my eyes to meet his.

“Yes,” I said quietly. What made it worse was that he was so darn cute, a regular George Clooney of the Ilm Valley.

He inquired how my back was doing, the condition that sent me yelping like a wounded forest animal just two days prior. I told him I was on the mend. I omitted the part about running towards the hospital entrance and almost barrelling down my husband on the way in. What was the point? As far as I was concerned, I was healed. I turned my attention to my son.

“Will he be okay?” I managed to ask. The doctor reassured me that the skin would grow back. He needed to return to the hospital the next afternoon.  Smiling, he handed me yet another funky green tear sheet with Jackson’s data. It looked strangely familiar to the one he had given me on Monday. I mumbled my thanks and ambled out the door to the waiting room.

Jackson clung to his father’s neck. The first words he spoke landed on my chest, tightening my throat to near closure.

“I rode in the same ambulance you did, Mama” he said between licks of his lollipop. I pat his arm and smiled. “Indeed you did, Jackson. Indeed, you did.”