Sunday, July 20, 2008

Faux Pas

A faux pas was committed before my very eyes this morning. A bug. In my shower. His faux pas, literally, "false step" was not one of fashion or social mishap, no, it cost him his life.

While lathering yummy Herbal Essence shampoo in my hair, I spy the forlorn, leggy black creature mockingly crawling around the top edge of the tile. Inwardly I want to scream and make someone, anyone, come kill it for me but outwardly I remain calm and simply proceed with my routine, although I do pick up the conditioner bottle and contemplate smashing him. I reject this as messy and unnecessary. I resolve to ignore him. This, however, proves to be very difficult as he crawls from one end of the shower to the other, just above eye level. I must keep watch lest he come closer, or disappear! Then, just when I think I can take it no longer, he makes a move off the edge of the tile and starts his descent. But then, the faux pas, he hits a droplet of water and gravity takes its course. He plummets to the tub floor, the tub that usually bothers me because it doesn't drain well. But today is my lucky day. His false step sent him to his death--a watery, thankless death without grace. Good bye bug. No more faux pas for you. (by the way, what is the plural of faux pas, anyone?)

Saturday, July 19, 2008

T.S. Eliot -- "Do I dare to eat a peach?"

Our adventures this weekend picking our own peaches at a local orchard gave new meaning to Eliot's question, "Do I dare to eat a peach?" from his great narrative poem full of luscious images and immortal questions "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock". Read it here.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

The Problem of Motherhood

Simply put: there's just no healthy competition.

What can I possibly mean by this absurd comment about the all-consuming vocation of motherhood? Motherhood simply does not and cannot thrive on competition. In fact, competition is almost antithetical to the task before me. Yet for someone who loves the rush and edge that comes from a competitive game, this can be very tiresome. I can never win as a mother. The game is never over, with my sorry opponents limping back to their locker rooms to lick their wounds. My performance in the match won't raise my value or make me the MVP. A crowd isn't there to cheer me on and give me that adrenaline rush to push meI am through to the end even when I am weary beyond belief. Motherhood is just hard. No cheerleaders, no time limit, and not really any rules.

How can we measure our progress as mothers? Is it the amount of patience we display during the day? Or the ease with which we can whip up a meal for six people? Perhaps it's the number of children we can carry at one time, the spotlessness of our bathrooms (ha!), or our overwhelming charm while sporting the latest maternity fashions... Sometimes I wish parenting had a referee, rules, and a clear end. First one to twenty-one. Two out of three. Best of six. I win, and now you must all bow down to me..