Natalie Whatley

I have a little confession to make: Back in August I was caught in a moment of lawlessness and was singled out by an officer of the law. (If anyone from my State Farm agent’s office is reading:  Be a good neighbor, and stop now. Thank you, and have a nice day.)

It was a beautiful, sunny day, and I was driving my middle child out of town to stay with grandparents.  I don’t know about other parents, but I have the best conversations with my kids while we’re alone in the car. Anyway, Jeremy and I were having such a good time conversing through a 50 mph zone that I failed to slow down when it dropped to 40 mph. 

I’ve traveled down this very road many times in the past three decades – even laughed when I saw other poor souls pulled over. It would never happen to me. I knew officers camped there among the trees, and besides, I’m not a habitual speeder. Plus, on more than one occasion I got a teeny little charge out of slowing down to 40, angering the driver behind me, watching them come flying around me and . . . BEEP went the radar! Who got the last laugh? It’s the little things in life.  

I was cruising along with a little old lady in front of me when I saw the officer — radar gun in hand — come out from hiding and motion me and granny to pull over. Drats! No worries, though – my inspection, registration, insurance, and license were all in order. I wasn’t going that fast. Would probably get a verbal warning and be on my way.

Officer as he approached my window “Let me tell you how this ticket is going to work.”

He was no nonsense and apparently had no sense of humor, either. I was stunned. No “is there some emergency?” or any other niceties for that matter.  The ticket was already filled out (he had a whole pad of them ready so he could get on with writing the next one) with the exception of my particulars.

He took my license and as he copied the information asked when I’d received my last ticket. I remembered because I was pregnant with my first child, and in that instance was also pulled over by an officer on foot. For whatever reason, I don’t attract the attention of those actually in patrol cars.

“Last ticket was 17 years ago,” I beamed.  I figured that information would alert him to what a good driver I am (and he could easily verify it on his in-car computer) and he’d decide to cut me a break.

“That’s pretty good. I’m issuing you a citation for 50 in a 40. I’m cutting you a break as I actually clocked you at 51. Your options for taking care of this are . . .”

I didn’t hear much more. But I was incredibly polite and even thanked him. I know he was just doing his job and that a criminal who musters up her prettiest smile along with some southern charm must be dealt with in an unbiased manner.   

My retribution for endangering all others on the road, besides the $103 in court fees, was spending the beautiful last Saturday indoors with a group of other troublemakers. There was one sweet gentleman sitting next to me “for the insurance discount only”.  You can all feel safer on the road because my driving skills have been defensively fortified. It was actually a good refresher. Since I sat through it and passed the test at the end, the ticket will not officially count against me.

I admit I wasn’t paying full attention to driving, but paying attention to something important nonetheless.  I hope you, the motoring public, can forgive me.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Sunday is a special day to be celebrated and remembered; it’s Grandparents Day. Recall last year I mentioned there was some controversy over how to punctuate the holiday. I’ll use the form I found to be correct, but know there are disagreements. I’m beginning to wonder if there is anything we as human beings can collectively agree upon. That’s a topic for another day.

I wasn’t much on celebrating the holiday in the past because, while I’m a strong proponent of capitalism and free markets, I thought the whole thing was cooked up by greeting card companies. I’m not too proud to admit I was wrong.

It all started with Marian McQuade. She lobbied in the 70s to have the day officially recognized “to honor grandparents, to give grandparents an opportunity to show love for their children’s children, and to help children become aware of the strength, information, and guidance older people can offer.” All the grandparents I know certainly fit the bill, and they’re a versatile bunch as well – help is needed in different ways at different times. But best of all, grandparents provide countless children a soft place to fall.  

As I traverse the teen years – again (first time was hard enough, now I get three more trips) – with my children, their grandparents act as the buffers.  They help me put things in perspective, remind me what I was like at that age (they enjoy that a bit too much), and dispense the “this too shall pass” pep talk. I almost always feel better – doubly so if said child hangs out at their house, otherwise known as “the buffer zone”,  putting some much needed distance between me and the issue of the day.

My kids are blessed beyond words to have people in their lives who love them unconditionally (like I do) and aren’t jaded (like I am) by what I call the daily grind: homework, dirty clothes all over the bathroom and beyond, wet towels (my archenemy and biggest pet peeve) strewn about, and my supposed nagging over menial tasks that I’d not mention again if someone would just do them.  (The laughter you hear is my mother, Linda Rowe.  Before she does it for me, I’ll admit my room was atrocious. And the bathroom I shared with two brothers . . . let’s just not go there.)

The above brings me to where I shared my subject matter for this week with my middle child. While I know exactly what made my grandparents so dear to me, I wanted to hear his thoughts. “They’re nicer. They’re more fun. They like to do things kids enjoy – you don’t sit for hours and play video games with me or stay at the shooting range all day. They buy me nice things for no reason.” Dagger to my heart.  I was almost moved to tears before I remembered his grandparents are not the same people who raised me.

Sure, I have great memories of all sorts of things I did with my parents growing up. But, like me, they were stuck in that daily grind and all that entailed getting me to adulthood in one piece.  And to be honest, it’s their demeanor now that keeps me clawing my way back to sanity. One day, and I’m in no particular hurry, it will be my turn.

I cherish the thought of giving a seasoned “this too shall pass” speech. I may even snicker when it’s over. And the very best part: I’ll be able to loosen my stance and be some little do-no-wrong cherub’s soft place to fall.

Many thanks to all the grandparents who continually cushion the blows . . . the world would be a much harder place without you.   

© 2009 Natalie Whatley   

It’s hard to believe the first two weeks of the new school year are behind me. Twelve years in the back-to-school business qualifies me as a seasoned veteran, and I’m ecstatic to report this year will go down as the easiest to date.  We’re doing so well it’s almost a shame to break the pattern for Labor Day tomorrow.

The initial days are always expectedly brutal – getting up early after lazy summer days is painful for all involved. And no matter how much I try to prepare ahead of time, I never seem to have everything they’ll need in the way of supplies and end up all over town the first week on a scavenger hunt of sorts.  Then there’s all the paperwork to fill out. It is a beautiful thing, though, when your child is old enough (and motivated at the same time…it’s not common) to fill in the forms. All I had to do is peruse and sign. Thank you, Jarek.

Last year was my first year with three children at three separate schools. The morning-time logistics were a nightmare and transportation issues abounded. I guess it was the opening of Goose Creek Memorial that had the buses so messed up. We were on the cusp of having that lined out when Hurricane Ike hit; then we had to start all over. It was Thanksgiving before I had a morning that ran smoothly.

Expecting a repeat of last fall, I braced for many weeks of stress and walking kids into school tardy because I can’t be in three places at once after a single bus mishap. Much to my pleasant surprise, everything has been running like clock-work – even on the second day of school when delays are to be expected.

As the days flowed, I began to see that the three-campus thing has some incredible benefits that I didn’t take the time to enjoy last year as I became conditioned to dread school mornings.  Since we’re settling quite nicely into a routine, I’ve discovered I can get the kids up at different times and don’t have to do the bounce-between-three-rooms thing. It’s nice.

Concentrating on one at a time allows me to work more efficiently and tailor the method to the kid – no more flipping the hall light on and standing in the center hollering at all three.  One requires large explosives set off in his room just to get him to stir, another needs a little time and will not be rushed, and the youngest likes her back scratched while she comes to.

There’s no breakfast bickering because they rotate through the kitchen at different times. It doesn’t get much better than that.

They’re all leaving at different times, too.  I wouldn’t go as far as saying that I hated the bus stop in previous years, but close. I always had at least two – they were usually fighting over something very petty – and I always felt bad when I sent them off on their day after snapping at one or the other if not both. That’s gone. The oldest drives himself to school and having two more to get ready and out the door doesn’t afford me too much worry time.

I’m noticing the beautiful sunrise each morning as I’m out waiting at the bus stops – sharing them with a couple of my favorite people. Even better than those paired with the phenomenal cooler weather we received last week, are the conversations I have with my middle child. Ten minutes doesn’t seem like long, but I get a good look at what makes him tick. Because I know those days are numbered, I don’t want the bus to stop.  

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Tomorrow will be an interesting day – one with possibilities of going a couple of divergent ways – a classic case of contradiction.  Seems to be how I roll lately. I don’t know why I should expect any different. The suspense is terrific!

School bells will ring in the 2009-2010 school year at 7:20, 7:50, and 8:30 a.m. for the Whatley brood. The early hours of Monday will zip by so fast that I’ll not have time to think about them until they’re spent and I’m back home alone where it will be quiet enough to hear myself think. True to form, though, I’m going to worry about it a little ahead of time.

Since I spent a good portion of the summer weeks submerged in perpetual movement and noise, on the surface I’ll be angels-singing joyful, frolicking about with a spring in my step. But I’ll be crying on the inside. Tomorrow will be the last first day of elementary school for me. The baby (don’t tell her I called her that) is starting fifth grade. She’s ready, and I think I am, too.

It’s going to be a bittersweet moment, and I’m unsure which one will stick with me when I exit the rollercoaster I’m bound to ride. As of this writing, I’m pretty pumped over being so close to moving on. But lately, things I never saw coming have taken me by surprise, so I’m trying to consider all the angles ahead of time and prepare proper responses.

The bitter: Aside from the fact she’s growing up, all these years she’s kept me from feeling too aged as my oldest entered junior high and high school. Some shred of youth can be maintained while one’s offspring are still in elementary. Next year, she’ll no longer be there, middle child will leave junior high, oldest will graduate, and I’ll turn 40. I’m trying to brace for it now as I suspect it may be cataclysmic. Not exactly what I had in mind when, on any given ordinary day, I hoped for something to rock my world.

The sweet: Only one more year of all the elementary-school trappings. I can’t help being excited; this will be my fourth time through – the third time in 11 long years. I’ll push through and sustain my attention while I ramp up my underwhelming enthusiasm; she’s well worth it. This will also be the year teachers will encourage a little more academic independence. Thank goodness! I’m just about spent in that department.  I’m available for help, as needed, but I’m ready to cheer from the sidelines instead of being in the game.

It seems such a short time ago, I took her to her first day of kindergarten. And I, thinking I’d need to fill some time, took a part-time job working with pre-school-aged children. I spent that school year discovering I was very much past all that entails that age group. Nothing against the little munchkins; they’re cute, sweet, and melt my heart with their innocence, but they’re also exhausting and ooze from places I didn’t want to deal with any more.  

All the girlie preparation – hair, clothes, etc. – is done.  We shopped, shopped some more and spent hours playing our own little version of dress-up.  Then we discussed the need for additional shopping   when the weather turns cooler. The men of the house sighed, rolled their eyes, and asked why she needed so many different pairs of shoes. Silly boys!

I have no idea what tomorrow morning will bring, but I’ve gathered my own set of school supplies: Kleenex and upbeat music for the lone ride home and dancing shoes for when I get home. Silence has a glorious rhythm.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Sometimes life gets busted up into fine debris, and I’m happy to have it pass quickly through the hourglass.   

MONDAY — Gathered all the dirty laundry on my bedroom floor for sorting. Standing amid piles, I made the mistake of turning a swimsuit right-side-out over Jeff’s side of the bed. No less than a pound of sand sifted onto the sheets. (Yes, the bed was unmade. Sue me.) Since I wasn’t in the mood to strip the bed, I vacuumed it. And much to my surprise, Mr. The-Bed-Has-To-Be-Just-So was none the wiser – fell right asleep without ever knowing the sandman paid a visit.  

TUESDAY — Went to see “Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs 3-D” with my younger two. Yawn. Not my type of flick, but it gets five stars for not exposing their impressionable minds to obscenities or any unsavory themes. The highlight of the trip was when I tried to move a straw dispenser over and away from the sprinkle-form popcorn toppings. The dispenser, held in place by rubber feet, didn’t budge, but the cover fell off and hundreds of straws rolled onto the floor. I was mortified, apologized and began picking up what fell on the patron-side of the counter. One sweet, very young, cherub of an employee treated me like an imbecile. Being a semi-public figure, I held my tongue.   

WEDNESDAY — I know many are fans of “Dancing with the Stars” and others have spent vacations swimming with dolphins. Me, I’ve been showering with ants. Big ones. They appear to be coming in through the plumbing, and my shower hit peak occupancy just before we got that touch of rain. Before I rinse, lather and repeat, I squash, drown, and laugh as they swirl back to where they came from. (I don’t like squashing insects, but started after one got away and told his friends I was only armed with a loofah sponge. Who’s laughing now? Keep it up, and I’ll put my quadruple-bladed razor to creative use!) I’m hoping the others making their way up will take the carcasses as a warning.    

THURSDAY — I’m giving serious consideration to going completely blonde. Ever since I started getting a few gray hairs, blonde high-lights and strategic plucking have handily camouflaged the aging process. I had to stop plucking a long time ago, or sport partial baldness. Now I fear I’m becoming a bit “high-maintenance” trying to maintain brunette-ness.  The upside:  With such a drastic change to my look, I could show my face at the movie theater again. Hey . . . I could play dumb and possibly be treated like someone who spent forty dollars on seeing one movie!

FRIDAY— Feeling a bit vain about obsessing over my hair, I sank into a deeply depressed state. Does it really matter? YES! Massive caloric intake was in order. Jeff and I made banana splits, crawled in bed and watched some mindless TV while we ate. I’ll worry about my waistline when I get my tresses lined out.

SATURDAY — Middle child said my name should have been “NAGalie” instead of “Natalie”.  My initial response was the same as yours: sounds a bit disrespectful. But he and I have that kind of playful relationship. He said it with a huge grin as we were arguing over/discussing the state of his room. While we literally see eye-to-eye because he’s about to be taller than me, we have differing ideas on what constitutes “clean”.  When I tell him I’d like to be able to walk across the floor, he hears, “shove the mess to the perimeter”. 

. . . So are the days of my life.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

As I mature (sounds better than “age”), I’m learning the value of seeing the glass as half-full. I work hard to put things in perspective, and when my mind isn’t up to the task the Big Guy puts someone in my path eager to lend some real obstacles to my ears.  I trudge away, eyes pointed northward. Message received. I’m travelling over molehills while others scale Mt. Everest.

That said, sometimes my children, uh, I mean life (Did I say “my children” out loud?) hands me things that cause my face to contort and pucker. I become a sourpuss. Summertime bickering, anyone? How about a tall glass of fresh lemonade? It’s not summer without them.

I personally love pink lemonade. It’s a sweeter version than the yellow variety –more sugar and a little grape, strawberry or cherry juice for its pink tone.  I’ve never tried any of the fancy recipes –the ones that use mint, ginger, or ginger ale –but with a bumper crop of little lemons I’m sure to try them all.

Dale Carnegie, writer and self-improvement guru from a by-gone era, was credited with coining the proverb, “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade!” Basic lemonade: water, lemon juice, and sugar. As stated above, it can get far more complicated, but the classic taste requires the proper ratio of sweet to sour in order to be agreeable to taste buds. What’s a girl to do when four weeks of kids being out of school have already used up all the sweetness she had?  Mimic the Europeans, I suppose –they enjoy “clear lemonade” unclouded by sucrose.

To deal with my influx of yellow citrus, I also considered another little gem (author unknown) I came across in a when-life-hands-you-lemons discussion: “When life hands you lemons, squirt juice in his eye!” It sounds good in theory, but then I’d have to take him (or her) to the doctor. Oops! I did it again!  I’d have to take “life” to the doctor. Research tells me it would only cause irritation, not blindness, but I bet I’d still be in trouble.  Headline: “Columnist’s children had one lemon of a mother! The fruit will do hard time”.  

Lemons shouldn’t be getting such a bad rap from me. They look, smell, and taste refreshing in the proper context, and the juice, which contains citric acid, has uses galore. It’s in many types of household cleaners; according to some, one doesn’t need fancy chemical-based concoctions –lemon juice and water will do the trick.

The culinary possibilities are only limited by your imagination, and you’ll get a healthy dose of Vitamin C to boot –not to mention your liver cleansed! (If it’s on the internet, it’s gotta be true!)  

Lemon juice also has antiseptic qualities and was used back in the day to clean wounds. (I believe they stopped using this method because the wounded passed out from blowing on the mother of all stinging.)  And did you know a nose bleed could be stopped by putting a couple of drops in the affected nostril? Maybe the nose stops, but I bet the eyes start hemorrhaging. Sounds unpleasant.

Me, I think I’ll take my lemons and work out my summer frustrations with a micro-grater. Sunny zest for life makes everything sweeter!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Given the season and that kids are out of school until August 24 (those of you with school-aged children have 71 days to ponder today’s riveting topic) there’s a “malady” that needs discussing. I’m not convinced it’s a disordered “condition”, but there’s research and supposed evidence “out there”. No matter, I still found a way to deal with the incessant whining that is the most common symptom.

There’s a phrase akin to profanity banned at The Whatley Estate. I considered making it a get-your-mouth-washed-out-with-soap offense, but decided I could get more creative than that.  What gets me so riled up? “I’m bored.”  Boredom: the state of being wearied or annoyed by tedious repetition; lack of interest or satiety, which means the state of being satisfied. Satisfied? Is that possible? 

I welcome the opportunity to be bored in the sense modern children use it, i.e. “I don’t have anything to do at the moment.” Spending some time sitting idle with the sole purpose of daydreaming is the stuff childhood summers should be made of. That doesn’t fit well with today’s got-to-have-non-stop-activities-scheduled ways. And for the record, as a mom of three, I do understand keeping young hands and minds busy to avoid mischief; I disagree with how society tends to go about that task. 

Have we really reached a point where we have to be occupied or entertained every second of every day? Don’t answer that. I’m not sure I can handle a reality that scares me far more than spending a summer with some white space on the calendar.

I once heard someone say that people who get bored are boring. Sounds a little harsh, but I’m a firm believer there is truth in that statement. Scientists fascinated by tedium say boredom is an “affliction” and that our brains are wired up in ways that make some of us more susceptible than others.

Extroverts are more easily bored than introverts and need far more external stimuli to make them feel engaged. People who have a hard time focusing on any given thing endure frequent feelings of boredom as well; they can’t pay attention long enough to know whether or not what’s going on in front of them is interesting, or not. Emotionally detached people also fall prey because they can’t quite put their finger on what would make them happy in the moment or for the long term.

The good news:  Scientists also claim being bored is a choice, much like deciding to be unhappy. That brings me to how I’ve cured those in my charge of voicing the boredom complaint. If someone dares utter “I’m bored” I will find a most unpleasant task to occupy them or assign something from my long to-do list. It’s amazing how whatever they were not doing suddenly becomes fascinating when held up next to scrubbing the grout in the showers with a toothbrush or folding their sibling’s underwear.

All said though, boredom gets a bad rap. It can be a positive motivator when one doesn’t concede to the negatives.  Boredom drives creativity, inspires innovation, provides opportunity for thought and reflection, and can also be a signal that a task is not worth continuing.

If it weren’t for some shades of gray, how would we know purple, or red? If we never experience dullness, how could we appreciate pure joy, passion, and excitement?

Most of the time, I choose not to be bored.  Sometimes I revel in it. But I don’t tell anyone; scrubbing grout is not fun, and my brother and sister-in-law probably have the folding of his underwear covered.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

Being a mom means many things to me, but an event I attended last week provided an epiphany of sorts:  While I play a large a role in my children’s lives, my children are also an enormous part of who I am and what I’m becoming.  I was also reminded that fear is a powerful motivator.  

For some, fear of public speaking ranks right up there with fear of death. I fall in that category. Well, that’s not entirely true. I can go one step further than my fearful counterparts: I fear death less than public speaking. That’s probably hard to believe as much as I run my mouth here, but it’s far easier for me to sit in my underwear and write than to stand up in front of you and envision you in yours.  

Getting back to being a mom and my revelation about motherhood, a couple of weeks ago my middle child asked me to take part in Gentry Junior School’s career day. One of his teachers is at least a semi- regular reader and passed along an invite. Of course I was flattered beyond words, but more special than that was the proud gleam in my boy’s eyes.  I accepted immediately. Then I panicked.

Back B.C. (before children) I enjoyed an interesting career as a paralegal in a downtown Houston law firm.  It was tough managing it with one young child, so I scaled back to part-time when the second was born.  About the time I had that under control, “Surprise!” number three was on the way.  For various reasons, I walked away from that office building and put my heart and soul into being “just a mom”—for ten years.

When I started writing this column in January of 2008, it was a transition for me as I embarked on a new chapter and looked for the ever-elusive “balance” mothers seek. Now that I’ve been at it almost a year and a half, a few people have seen me in the paper; that’s what led to public speaking and career day.

I fretted over what to say and how to say it for a good while. Scooter and Shadow, my dog and cat, served as my test audience when I practiced the day before almost to the point of making myself hoarse. I was pretty pumped because they didn’t have a single negative comment after listening to my presentation numerous times. Do animals hear while they’re sleeping? To keep my self-esteem somewhat intact, I’m going to assume they do.

I made my appearance, delivered a twenty-minute talk (ELEVEN times) on freelance writing, the paralegal profession, and how one led to the other for me.  The first group probably wondered why my neck was broken out in hives, but I was pretty much at ease by the time I reached group eleven.  (Those hives are not particularly attractive, but I’ll take them over passing out, which is what I feared was going to happen.)

While driving home, feeling pretty good about my fear of letting down my favorite 12-year-old trump my phobia of public speaking, it occurred to me that over the past 17 years the three people I pull out of cozy beds each morning have consistently dragged me out of my comfort zone. The rapid heartbeat, queasiness, inability to breathe, heck, full-blown panic attacks have made me a better person. Moms have growing pains, too!  And when I grow up, I still want to be a mommy.  Fear:  You’re not the boss of me!

Happy Mother’s Day to all my sisters in motherhood!

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

 ***Hours after submitting for publication in The Baytown Sun, I had lunch with Jeff. The fortune cookie I got after my meal: “Don’t be afraid of fear.” Hmmm…Somebody’s trying to tell me something!

This will probably read like an episode of the Tom and Jerry cartoon. Such is my life –never a dull moment.

Gasp! Pant! “My hands are shaky and my knees are weak! I can’t seem to stand on my own two feet! . . . My heart beats so it scares me to death!”  I just ran upstairs faster than I ever thought possible. (Mental note: My workouts need to become more strenuous if I’m going to survive many more of these moments.) It’s quite startling to hear what sounds like a herd of buffalo upstairs followed by a loud CRASH . . . particularly when the herd is at school.

While enjoying some peaceful moments home alone, save for the dog wrapped around my feet, a cat, and two caged hamsters . . . You know where this is going, don’t you?  I recognized the sound even though I’d never heard it before. Who knew a wood-shaving explosion would make such racket?

Let me back up for a moment and remind you that Shadow, the black cat, arrived at the Whatley Estate on Halloween 2008 and adopted us. In return, I forced him to give up his tomcat status. He doesn’t have much to do with me, and I guess I can’t blame him. His distance aside, I love and take care of him in the same fashion as the rest of my clan.

Then, three months later and in a very weak moment, I allowed my daughter to buy a dwarf hamster. The following day, I was back in Petco with the middle child purchasing yet another hamster. It would’ve been unfair for the youngest to have her own pet in her room, or so the middle child protested, anyway.

Now, back to the show. Halfway up the stairs, one crazed, black feline shot past me making a beeline for the back door. Seeing no rodent dangling from his teeth, I allowed him to pass (like I could have stopped him –guilty feet move fast). Topping the stairs, I glanced down the hall and spotted the wreckage –wood shavings and a tangle of hamster-cage pieces. It was bad enough knowing my daughter would be inconsolable, but worse, I was going to have to admit Jeff was right. Elvis, that’s the hamster’s name (don’t ask me, I just work here), was nowhere to be seen.   

Back downstairs, I glared at one wild-looking beast as I scooped him up and placed him outside.  He didn’t put up a fight, and for some reason I sensed he was sorry. Prior to “the incident” I’ve found him on many occasions perched in front of the cages seeming to enjoy just watching his little friends. I don’t know, maybe he was eyeing lunch as Jeff predicted when the hamsters came home.

Lunch???

Cleaning supplies in hand, I approached the ruins. Much to my surprise, I saw movement in a pile of wood shavings. Elvis was alive! He looked a little stunned; I was afraid to pick him up thinking he’d certainly be in “defense” mode and sink his teeth into my hand, so I gently touched the top of his head with my finger. Before moving the wood shavings to get a better look, I prayed the little guy had no puncture wounds. He checked out just fine . . . Whew! Close call. I performed the “happy dance” because a) Elvis did not leave the building, and b) I wouldn’t have to tell Jeff he was right. 

Since “The King” was only “All Shook Up”, can we let this be our little secret? Thank you… thank you, very much!

Elvis

© 2009 Natalie Whatley

While a writing gig such as this one is loads of fun, there are times when the thorns of the rose garden we call life distract me to the point of having nothing amusing, meaningful, or sarcastic to say.

I know many don’t like sarcasm, but like a T-shirt in my possession says, “It’s one of the services I offer.” I can smell irony miles away, and have been known to taunt people. It doesn’t help that I’m married to someone who has the ability to hold his own in verbal sparring matches – keeps my skills honed.

But lately, the briers of real life – cleaning dog snot off the floor (poor Scooter and his allergies), mountains of laundry, kids’ homework, attempts at meal planning/grocery shopping and teen angst – are working against my creative process.  I get my best ideas while performing manual labor and/or worrying about things over which I have no control. There’s been plenty of that, and . . . nothing. Well, nothing I should say out loud – you’d think far less of me.

As I fold socks . . . OK, socks aren’t really folded, but you know what I mean. And, raise your hand if “folding” socks for several people makes you nutty. All my guys are wearing the same size now; sometimes it’s difficult to determine the owners. I’ve heard, “Buy all the same, and divide them up.” Won’t work.  Some people, I’ll refrain from naming names, pull theirs off in the strangest places and miss having them laundered. That would leave one person, who provides 99.987% of the family income, without clean socks. (Yes, I did the math. And the answer to your burning question: No, money doesn’t come with all this fame.) He wouldn’t stand for it. Another well-meaning person said to use a permanent marker and put initials at the toe. We weren’t looking ahead or thinking of socks when naming our boys. They all have the initials JLW. Maybe I could try numbers.

Anyway, I got off on a tangent, but was about to say that while I fold socks, and other items for that matter, some crazy stuff pops into my head. Most of the time, things come to me in the form of questions.  If I knew the answers my mind would rest and allow more inventive thought, or at the very least make me feel sane. I’ll provide below a sampling of what goes on inside my noggin, but I must warn you: these are weighty matters.  

Will my children ever brush their teeth without being hounded? And, do at least a decent job before the third round? What is that smell in my son’s room? Why is there soap smeared all over the shower walls? Why is the door on the hamster cage, with an opening large enough for the cat to squeeze through, open when kids are away at school? Isn’t that paper on the kitchen counter the homework we worked on until eleven last night? How many days can my son wear his contacts without removing them for cleaning before a nasty infection, or heaven forbid, blindness sets in? Who ate the last Pop-Tart and left the empty box in the cupboard?

Minor annoyances?  Absolutely. I try not to dwell on them, lest they become real thorns in my side and cause me to miss smelling the roses.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley