Gift-Giving 101, or Why I Don't Want a Vacuum Cleaner for Christmas

At some point, things just die.

That's what happens twelve years into a marriage. Almost all of the things we bought when we got married have now fulfilled the measure of their creation and are desperately gasping out their last great, heaving breaths -- washing machine, clothes drier, television, and, alas, the vacuum cleaner.

My kids are into Raisinets lately. And they're also really big on molesting the Christmas tree. I swear, it's a good thing we do real trees because an artificial tree would not make it to see another season with my children beating on it. Yet another thing that will breathe a sigh of relief when I finally take it out of my house.

So I was vacuuming the other day. I noticed some chocolate-covered raisins on the floor, and sucked them up, then made my way over to the tree to get rid of the many, many needles sacrificed on the altar of toddler tree redecoration efforts. As I went over (and over and over . . . 12 years is a long time for a cheap vacuum) the area surrounding the tree, my vacuum cleaner pooped on the carpet.

Or, that's what it looked like. It took me a minute to realize the Raisinet had been rejected by my Hoover -- spit right back on the rug like a little mouse turd, pooped out in midstream just like MayDay, who can (and does, frequently) clear the room with a foul stench while simultaneously putting together a train track and telling an entertaining story about his imaginary accomplices.

Sigh.

I need a new vacuum cleaner.

But it's December. It's Christmas. It's my birthday. It's CPod's birthday. I'm not spending my money on a vacuum cleaner.

And (are you listening?) CPod better not be either.

When it comes to gift giving, I'm complicated. I love to be surprised, but I also like to be happy. At the beginning of our marriage, those two things were mutually exclusive. Now, thankfully, my dear CPod has mastered the art of selecting the perfect gift for me to open on Christmas morning. One year, he bought me a print (genuine, official, signed, numbered and smacked on the butt as it went out the door) of the Greg Olsen painting, "Mother's Love". Not the close up, but the real one. The big one. Now it hangs over our bed. A few years later, he bought me a print of a painting that hangs in the BYU Museum of Art that he knows I love; it hangs over our fireplace. Another year, he gave me an entire box of Godiva key lime truffles. Mmmmm. He has developed a knack for choosing jewelry I will love, fine kitchen tools I will appreciate, and delicious-smelling things that will make me swoon.

But a vacuum cleaner? No way. I just don't think the sight of a new Dyson under the tree would have quite the same effect as, say, a beautifully wrapped bottle of L'Eau d'Issey. (Oh, yes, ladies. He even does gift wrap!) There's just something about vacuum cleaner that says, "In case you weren't sure about your place, little woman." And maybe there will be high heels and an apron in the next package. Now, don't get me wrong, without the vacuum cleaner in the picture, I'd be all over those stilettos, and the apron, too. But gifts are supposed to be something that I wouldn't be able to justify buying for myself, or that I wouldn't think of, or that make me remember fondly the person who gave them. Lucky for me, CPod does not subscribe to the Homer Simpson school of gift giving: I don't have to use the bowling ball engraved with his name to remember that he loved me enough to give me something I love on Christmas morning.

Speaking of things that I love -- check out my new signature! My awesomely fantastic brother-in-law used my own handwriting to design that cool little sign-off. Isn't he great?

I'm boycotting my kitchen

Until CPod finishes what he started.

Our house was new when we bought it 6 years ago. We loved it then. We love it still, but the bedrooms are small and our only options are to cram three little boys into one room, or let MayDay share with the baby. Both are viable, but only for so long.

We own some land -- just a couple of acres, but it's lovely and close by and as soon as CPod's student loans are paid off (soon!) we'll be building something that suits our needs a little more fully: a big bunk room for all the boys, large enough for all of them to have personal space, and close enough quarters to let them keep tabs on each other; a better spot for a good garden (the property overlooks farm land, after all -- we'll have to follow suit); a studio for all of the musical instruments and accompanying accessories, so I'll be ready when the time comes to begin teaching again; a capacious and accessible pantry for food storage.

In the mean time, we're DIY-ing some minor upgrades and updates to make this house a bit more marketable.

I say minor. But how can anything be minor when it consumes every available (read: when children are sleeping) hour and turns your kitchen into something out of one of those disaster shows on HGTV.

CPod is actually quite capable. He worked his way through undergraduate doing electrical contracting work during the summers, so he installed hard-wired under-cabinet lighting all the way around the kitchen. It's wonderful.

We also installed a smaller cabinet above our stove to make room for an above-the-range microwave. This will free up the counterspace currently occupied by the behemoth dinosaur we've had since we got married 12 years ago, increasing the available work area a ton. (It smells like burnt popcorn anyway. Every single time we use it.)

Once all of the other stuff is done, we'll have someone else install moulding on top of our cabinets. Some things, CPod just isn't willing to do, and complicated use of the miter saw tops that list.

He has self-educated himself into tiling expertise. Our new subway tile backsplash will look wonderful -- as soon as it's finished. Therein lies the problem.

Our time is so limited that you can only make so much progress in an evening, and still get enough sleep to function the next day. So, in 4 nights, he's finished about a third of the kitchen. But all of his materials stay out -- except for the tile saw, which spends its days on the deck. Everything that ordinarily inhabits the counters (basket of sweet potatoes and Vidalia onions, knife block, paper towel dispenser, etc.) has been crammed onto the only available bit of counterspace left. Which means I have no place to work.

It's not that I mind. Really, I don't. I've been folding laundry in the living room the past couple of nights, and since CPod is otherwise occupied, I've been able to indulge in one of my small obsessions: TiVoed episodes of Miss Marple, on Masterpiece Mystery. CPod hates this show. No exaggeration. It's so dry and British that he just can't take it. He doesn't get Are You Being Served? either, but I could crack myself up right now just thinking about Mr. Humphries picking up the phone and saying, "Menswear."

I should just pause it every time he uses the tile saw, but somehow, it makes me feel smarter to know that I've unraveled the mystery too, even though I'm missing 30 seconds of essential puzzle-piece dialogue every five minutes or so.

It WILL be done soon. Otherwise, we're going to have to seriously increase our food budget to compensate for all the take-out. And it will be wonderful when it's finished. But then we'll move on to another project, and before too long, we'll be working on sweat equity projects in the house we'll build. It's just like laundry: never done, unless you're naked. Or dead.

Elementary Physics

All hail spring time! The warm weather has been great for my sanity, because my children love to be outside. Last night, CPod came home from work and played with the boys outside. ConMan had asked me to teach him how to throw a football. Yeah, good luck with that one, son. We'd better leave that task to Daddy. So they were all outside doing boy things, and I was all by myself inside.

I listened to this:



And while I reveled in the glorious violin skill that is Lara St. John playing the J. S. Bach Sonatas and Partitas, I made real food for dinner -- in other words, not morning sickness friendly-food. Yes, friends, we had more for dinner last night than crushed pineapple suspended in cherry Jell-o. Even better, I slept less than ten hours last night and I am significantly more functional than a zombie this morning. I hesitate to make this declaration, but I think I am finally out of the woods. 12 weeks sounds about right for that, doesn't it?

Now that I am out of the fog and can see my home clearly once again, I am appalled at the level of disorganization that surrounds me. Usually, I can't function like this. What am I talking about? I haven't been functioning! I've been surviving, and, as I'm sure you will all agree, there is a significant difference between functionality and survival.

A brief definition, and explanation:

entropy \ˈen-trə-pē\
noun
1. the degree of disorder or uncertainty in a closed system
2. the degradation of matter and energy to an eventual state of inert uniformity
3. CHAOS, DISORDER, RANDOMNESS

(Thank you very much, Merriam-Webster.com.)

Have you ever heard of Chaos Theory? It's a mathematical theory stating that (and I'm way oversimplifying here) something may look as if it was created randomly, but its creation was determined by certain conditions at the outset. In other words, things that look disorganized and random, usually aren't. The location of each component can be traced in a sort of cause-and-effect genealogy back to the very germ that was its inception. And the most insignificant, miniscule change can have very surprising and far-reaching consequences. Fractals, geometric figures composed of seemingly random iterations of a pattern in smaller and smaller scales, are a very visual example of this (Thank you, wikipedia, for this julia set):

(And thank you, Mrs. Caldwell, for forcing me to learn about fractals in junior high algebra.)

When you consider the world around us, you can find examples of entropy and Chaos Theory everywhere. Think of what happens to your yard if you don't mow the grass, weed the flower beds, and take care of things in general. Dandelions take over, but only until the grass is tall enough to choke them out. It becomes a mess of disorganization and, well, entropy. And though it looks random, every single uninvited plant is there because some bird dropped a seed that it consumed elsewhere and then passed over your garden, or because a gust of wind (also not random, by the way) carried it from its parent plant miles away. Each of these things can be explained, and if not exactly quantified, estimated. To quote a platitude I usually abhor, everything happens for a reason. (Completely unrelated: for a really great example of everything happening for a reason, read Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged.)

Can you see where I'm going with this? Don't feel bad if you can't -- I'm not sure I can either.

I believe that my children are real-life, honest-to-goodness superheroes. They are agents of The Universe. I wouldn't be surprised to find out they have secret agent code names and use talking Transformers toys to communicate with their superiors. Their special gifts? They are Entropy Specialists. They excel at facilitating the ultimate goal of our physical surroundings: the creation of disorder, the degradation of matter, the achievement of "inert uniformity" (everything is exactly the same, evenly distributed, and not moving). How do I know this?

Oh, I have evidence. I have seen MayDay's unparalleled skill in unfolding and tossing an entire basket of neatly sorted and folded clothing. I swear to you, it's like seeing a fractal on my living room floor.

I have seen G-D0g's amazing ability to evenly scatter 5 trillion lego pieces across the shag carpet of the area rug in our living room. I'm telling you, it looks random, but it isn't random -- it's chaotic, and every move he makes has direction.

I have seen ConMan throw a ball in the house (absolutely not allowed, but it still happens) with such perfect precision that he achieves the maximum amount of mess when projectile meets intended target, be it picture frames on the mantel or a glass jar of Skittles (MayDay's potty treats).

And I have watched in wonder as one child or another sashays through the pile of dirt I have so carefully swept from the huge expanse of lovely cherry planks on our main floor, and manages to scatter every blasted crumb to the far corners of the rooms.

It would seem that through my six week nausea and fatigue-induced sabbatical, that entropy has been achieved in my home. Maybe the secret agents, mission complete, will retire from Disorder Enforcement. Probably not, though. Because I have not given up! I will continue to fight entropy with every fiber of my being! I will refold that laundry, pick up those legos, put those Skittles back in the jar, and resweep that floor. And I will do it all again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, ad infinitum until finally in my celestial mansion dust bunnies do not exist and order becomes the goal of the universe.

Gotta go. Time to start sweeping.

The Holy List

Just imagine angels singing in the background as you read this. Commit it to memory. Recite it seven times daily. It will change your life.

I'm just kidding. The only thing that makes this list work is flexibility. And, seriously, people, you can do this yourselves! I was really, really shocked at your reaction to the Listmakers Anonymous post. Seriously! I thought it was kind of boring. Who knew?

I will say that in the past couple of weeks since I have reinstituted the use of the lists, I have been amazed at my productivity. I have actually had more leisure (HA! Leisure! What I mean is, I've gone to bed before midnight! Although that implies leisure activities in bed . . . I'm really digging a hole here.) because my time spent cleaning has been more focused and organized. I have felt less overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude and enormity of the job. And I have had more time to play with my kids.

A brief word of explanation: CPod and I have each other's backs. We operate (in every aspect of our lives -- not just with regard to housework) on the assumption that we will both have busy lives . . . forever. And if we don't help each other get the things done that need to get done, we'll spend a lot of time being resentful. So, when he has tons of church meetings or work travel or whatever, I pick up the slack, and when I have 5 rehearsals in one week plus enrichment and a presidency meeting, he does the same for me. So nothing is set in stone. It's really just a suggestion.

Also . . . if you decide to formulate your own list, the key is not to decide how frequently you want these things done. What you have to figure out is how infrequently you can live with it being done. That's why I change bed linens every two weeks. I would love to be like Oprah and have my sheets changed every other day -- who doesn't love that first night of clean linens? -- but I can live with two weeks, and so that's my goal. I used to be able to go two weeks without cleaning the toilets, but no more. Not with kids who say things like, "MayDay, can you wipe the pee off my big toe?" to their clueless-about-all-things-potty little brother. (Saddest part: MayDay actually did it.)

So, by popular demand, my lists:

Daily Tasks

Kitchen:

• Unload/reload dishwasher and do hand washing
  
• Clear counters and put stuff away
• Wipe down counters
• Sweep floor
• Go through mail

Dining Room/Living Room:

• Wipe down table
• Sweep hardwood floor
• Vacuum rugs
• Put away toys

Bedrooms:

• Make beds
• Put away toys

Miscellaneous:

• Wash and fold laundry
• Take out trash
  
• Water outside plants (in summer)

Personal:

• Calendar
• Personal discipleship
  
• Exercise

Weekly Tasks

Kitchen:

• Clean tile floor
• Clean out refrigerator
• Straighten pantry
• Update menu and grocery list
• Scour sink
• Clean cook top
• Wipe down cabinets and appliances

Dining Room/Living Room:

• Clean hardwood floor
• Dust furniture
• Wash windows
• Clear cobwebs
• Wipe down chairs

Hall Bathroom AND Master Bathroom:

• Wipe down sink
• Clear countertops and put stuff away
• Change towels
• Clean toilets
• Empty trash cans
  

Hall Bathroom OR Master Bathroom:

• Clean mirror
• Sweep floor

Bedrooms:

• Put clothes and toys away -- really
• Dust
• Vacuum
• Clear off dressers and other surfaces

Miscellaneous:

• Straighten laundry room
• Sweep off decks and front porch
• Pay bills and balance accounts
• Take trash to curb for pick-up
  
• Water inside plants
• Clip/print coupons
• Clean trash out of car and van
• Journal
• Viola practice -- 3 times

Biweekly Tasks

• Clean basement bathroom
• Clean bathroom tile floors
• Wash bathroom rugs and kitchen rug
  
• Straighten sewing area
• Straighten office and file office paperwork
• Change bed linens
• Organize pantry and kitchen cabinets -- storage containers, mixing bowls, etc.
• Clean out freezer
• Straighten closets
• Wash chair pads
• Return/renew library books

Monthly Tasks

• Straighten and sweep out garage
• Pick up toys from the yard (and the neighbors' yards)
  
• Wash shower curtain liners (truth: I only wash them once or twice before I replace them. I think they're disposable.)
• Go through magazines
• Wipe down baseboards, trim, doors, new marks on walls
• Wipe down blinds
  
• Dust ceiling fans
• Clean laundry room tile floor
  
• Vacuum basement stairs
• Straighten basement (multipurpose room -- toys, projector & screen, office corner, sewing corner, treadmill)
  
• Clean out e-mail box

And if something doesn't get done one week, it's not a big deal. Just means it's more likely to get done the next time around.

And the daily list just stays taped to the cabinet -- I don't check it off every day since that would be a waste of paper and I pretty much know what's on it. The weekly, biweekly and monthly lists are taped to the kitchen cabinet, too, but I check them off . . . mostly because I don't think I'd be able to remember what I'd already done if I didn't.

I also have longterm goals that I set for larger projects, like reorganizing food storage, cleaning out the linen closet, or cleaning out the bathroom cabinets. I try to tackle one of those projects every month or so.

Hope these help you as much as they've helped me!

Listmakers Anonymous

My name is InkMom and I am a listmaker.

It's been . . . 14 hours since my last list.

My first list was in kindergarten. I got a new box of 64 Crayola crayons -- you know, the box with the sharpener in the front? I scavenged a big piece of poster board from my mom's church stuff, and used all 64 of those crayons to make a list of . . . all 64 crayon colors. I was so proud that I took it to school for show and tell.

I am jealous of the kids whose schools give them agendas to help them keep track of their assignments. They didn't do that stuff *GASP* 20 years ago when I was in junior high. I wish they had. I would have loved it.

I even make lists late at night, in bed, alphabetically, when suffering from insomnia. Like: list a Disney movie starting with every letter of the alphabet. I've done countries, world capitals, bodies of water (that's a tough one), authors, flowers, vegetables (also hard), fruits, names I could actually live with, scriptural figures, painters, great works of art, composers, car models . . . uh, oh. Looks like I've already fallen off the wagon.

Right after MayDay was born, I had a hard time getting a handle on all the housework with the added stress of a third child under 2 years old. (Go figure.) I found myself making the same list every single day: dishes, laundry, vacuum, etc. It's frustrating to make yourself a to-do list and cross off what you've done only to write it all on there again the next morning. So. My solution was to LIST every single household chore that needed to be done around here by frequency. I typed them all up and then posted them on my kitchen cabinet: a daily list, a weekly list, a biweekly list, and a monthly list. Oh, the satisfaction.

The daily list has stayed up as a reminder . . . in case I really need one to tell me to do the dishes. (Total honesty here: it's really there for CPod. Because sometimes he does need a reminder. Or an idea of what to do with his spare time. Ha, ha.) But the other lists fell out of use for a while.

I can live in squalor no more. Somehow, if it's not on the list to clean out the refrigerator every two weeks, I'll go months without doing it . . . and by then, I guarantee I've got something in there that would qualify as an antibiotic, and all my leftover containers are full of what was once spaghetti sauce but is no longer recognizable. I confess, I have thrown out containers full of . . . growth, because I was too grossed out to clean them.

So this week, I reworked the lists a little. I made some permanent assignments to CPod, like wheeling the garbage out to the curb, and toilets, and sweeping out the garage. (He's totally on board with this. Since he's the one in charge of teaching our kids how to aim that thing, he's also totally responsible for the aftermath when their aim is off.) And I printed them again, and taped them to my kitchen cabinet. Scour sink? Check. Clean kitchen floor? Check. Pay bills and reconcile on-line statement? Check. Update menu and grocery list? Check. Check. Check. Check. Check!

And . . . if you really want me to, I will publish the lists. But only if you ask, because they're boring and I don't want to make you read something that's uninteresting. Maybe I have no idea what you think is interesting. If so, just ask.

(Now that I'm rereading this . . . I sound totally uptight and rigid, and I'm beginning to question my own creativity! It's really not that bad -- no one gets in trouble if the list isn't completed. CPod does not suffer if the toilets are not spic and span every week. Seriously, I think this drive for organization is a function of my need for order, which implies a great need for control . . . which is absolutely true. And closely tied to that crazed look in my eyes when I can't take the clutter any more. I think my creativity is stifled by the distraction of a disorderly environment. And my sanity is eroded by an inability to find what I need when I need it. And if it's written on the list, it's something my brain no longer has to keep track of. I may have to change the title of my blog, because I don't think I can even imply the (not) anymore!)

Farewell, dignity! It's been a fun ride!

TMI alert. I'm just saying.

I think I've finally hit bottom. Literally. And let's just say that where I ended up, I never care to see again. Let me explain.

I hate folding laundry. Actually, HATE is not quite strong enough of a word. How about detest, despise, revile, abhor, loathe -- it is absolutely my least favorite housekeeping chore. Folding big person laundry isn't so bad, because one load of CPod's laundry consists of two pair of jeans, a couple of t-shirts, and a bunch of dark socks, since he is ginormously tall. But the little kid laundry around here drives me bonkers. Oh, the little sockies! I swear, they multiply in the drier and not by cloning, since somehow, they still never match. Ever.

Last night, after procrastinating as long as possible, I sat down on the couch to watch Life (a trippy experience in and of itself . . . the main dude really resembles my husband a lot) and tackle a mountain of under-4 laundry about two weeks tall. (MommyJ thinks my children's wardrobes are much too extensive. If they were any smaller, I would have to do laundry with much greater frequency. See, MommyJ? There is method to my madness!)

So I'm folding along, grateful to have brain candy on TV so I don't have to think about what I'm doing. I am surrounded by little piles of footie pajamas, blue jeans, and t-shirts, and the ever important tiny undies. I am about half-way through the embarrassingly large mound of clothing when I pick up a pair of Lightning McQueen tightie whities and notice . . . a skid mark. And not like, oh, hey, a little brown stain left over after washing, maybe we should have some wiping technique remediation, skid mark. More like still dirty, and what are these doing in here with all of my clean, fresh, detergent-smelling clothes that I am in the midst of folding?!?!?

Take a deep breath. Because that's what I did . . . with every pair of tiny briefs. Yes, you heard me. I have literally hit bottom . . . about 20 times. About halfway through, I noticed CPod laughing quietly from his chair. I was so focused on sniffing out the dirty ones that I didn't even catch a glimpse of Dignity as she left my presence forever. She was long gone, probably hitched a ride with Destinee's Dignity on the way out of town after she sopped up spilled soup with her finger, and hot on the trail of MommyJ's Dignity who was, I'm sure, scarce by the time she ate all the Almond Joys from her kids' Halloween candy.

Sigh. I thought I might miss it, but I don't. A lack of dignity is somewhat liberating. Just think -- if I had even a shred of dignity left, this would be the post-that-might-have-been and your lives would be missing a certain je ne sais quoi. So glad I could be of service.