Wish I May, Wish I Might

I must remember my own words of only one day ago. I must. I can’t see all the turns in my life – little ones or big ones. I woke up with a plan. A good plan. Not selfish. Not me-oriented at all. I wanted to make this weekend count for something. My house needs attention, the decorations haven’t walked their own selves up the steps yet, and I awoke with a firm commitment to begin eating right again.

First derailment: As the last bite of oatmeal slid down, a son laid a bombshell on me. OK, maybe not exactly a bombshell. Too dramatic. Let’s just say that his school plans for him and my plans for him didn’t jive. Now, how politically correct is that? Not too much info to be a blabbermouth but enough to get my point across to other moms.

How can children not see what is best for them? It’s perfectly clear to me. So I put my whole soul into our “discussion” this morning. My bright and sunny energy of the day completely zapped…by 9:30.

I hauled myself back up onto the track beginning with the battle of the dishes. Good thing we have Corelle. Like Timex, “It takes a licking and keeps on ticking." No broken casualties so I soaked another sinkful. Son apologized. All was good. My mood had improved; I decided to write a little bit.

Hubby comes home! Second derailment. Oh joy! Walks into the bedroom and starts talking. Pen and paper mean nothing. I barely answer thinking he’ll get the hint. Can you spell “clueless”? I leave. Back to my friends the dishes. And my thoughts wander to my Happy Place – my unoccupied, yet beckoning Happy Place upstairs. In the interest of full disclosure I shall cut and paste a copy of a column I wrote a while ago for my magazine. And perhaps you will understand my intense need for my own space among the males of the Locher species. Here goes:

WELCOME TO MY HAPPY PLACE

Here I am needing to write again. And it is a need for me, like breathing, food and love – it’s one of the must-haves in my life. When I pick up my pen I am transported out.

Out of: bickering boys, work-at-home husband, endless laundry, mountains of dishes, book revisions, Web site updates, copy editing. I am gone from all these places to my mythical Happy Place. If only for a little while, I tune everybody out. But soon the sheer unadulterated pleasure of peace and quiet is obliterated.

“Mom, he’s been playing that game all day. I want to pick on TV.”

“I’m not bringing Max in. I took him out.”

“Don’t hang up. This is not a sales call.” Yeah, right. Click.

And the ever-present husband who simply can’t, or won’t, see my laptop when he enters the room. I see myself. I am there sitting on my bed, fingers flying, eyes fixed, brain concentrating. But my computer must have a cloak of invisibility to it. I do not look up. I do not speak. But it’s coming. I know it’s coming.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Brain surgery, Sweetie. That’s what I’m doing. Want a free lobotomy? I can fit you right in.”

Concentration wrecked. Constant replay of this broken record is not healthy as I am not exactly sweet-as-sugar when interrupted. Atmosphere tense, tempers erupt. I just want to scream, “This is my new life. Sons grown. Maid gig over. Writer-life emerging. Get used to it!”

A huge contributing factor to the inner turmoil is that I have no place to call my own in this 1823 farmhouse. We had a little pantry; our dog, Max, woofed his way into that. We had a small room upstairs; my youngest son settled there. No livable space left. Full up. Except…one spot – our red room. Ridiculous name. It’s not even red. Plaster chunks hang from the ceiling, no electrical outlets, one rickety hanging light fixture, no heat, and piles of useless junk crammed from floor to crumbling ceiling. Dismal to most, but lovely to me because it is the absolute last vestige of possible sanity without mailing change-of-address cards.

My years of idealistic home improvement aspirations have deteriorated worse than my ceiling into a resigned realism. Cold, stark, in-your-face realism. This space is my only option – my final frontier. Either claim it or check into the looney bin sooner or later, most likely sooner. This large Federal style home has only two closets, next-to-no cupboards, and few drawers. But six people’s junk has to go somewhere, so everything was thrown into the red room.

Last week I couldn’t safely walk into the room. Couldn’t actually see a glimpse of the floor. Just junk upon junk. But basket by basket, bin by bin, beginning at the doorway, I hauled our discarded treasures into the hallway to sort. Very little made the Keep Me cut. One quick glance told me all I needed to know. If someone else could use it, I white-bagged it; otherwise, black-bagged for the dump. No vacillation. No, Maybe someday somehow someone may want this Bingo game. Highly unlikely my sons, ages 18-23, will ever become so mind-numbingly bored as to ask the question, “Where is that Bingo game Mom bought years ago that we’ve never even opened? We have a sudden urge to play.” Whoville-opoly as well as Hunting and Fishing Trivia white-bagged with Bingo.

In a matter of an hour and a half, I sorted down to the floor clearing a skinny path to the window – source of light, heat and hope. I charted my week’s progress with photographs. I want to remember how horrid it looked. Not sure why. But I do. Our grand sum of purged clutter stuffed the bed of a pick truck; Goodwill loves me.

What mom out there isn’t familiar with the childhood favorite, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie? Such was my encounter one gloriously fun day, only I dub it, “If You Give a Mom a Refund Check.” What a pretty desk. Pretty desk needs comfortable chair. Desk and chair must sit atop plush rug. Let there be light – once electrician comes – shining on this writer’s trio. Enter charming lamp. Spare twin bed stolen from son aches for frilly, girly sheets. Sheet set screams for pastel quilt as the lilac scent of candles begs to fill the air.

Now for my hopeful decorations – Picture, if you will: a brightly colored pillow adorned with the words, “Believe. Create. Inspire;” a plaque aptly summing up my life, “Yesterday a beautiful reflection. Today a new beginning. Tomorrow a limitless possibility;” a six-inch diameter ball, “Believe in Miracles;” and by far, my favorite acquisition is “Welcome to My Happy Place,” painted simply on a small piece of wood.

Ironically, this cheery open-arms greeting is for one woman and one woman alone, and that would be me! No one else in the house is going to be welcome. Welcome to my Happy Place, writer mom. All others keep out. Beware. No trespassing. Offenders will be shot with a volley of dirty looks and “About face” commands. I have set up writer’s shop away from the clueless. Boys lugged furniture upstairs. Floor washed. Rug laid. Sheets fluffed. Candle lit. Mom happy.

I’m making my dreams come true one lovely thought at a time. If I can do it, you can too. Make the space. Take the time. And keep the rest of the world out!

*****

Optimistic thoughts, huh? I thought so. and I was happy there until the ceiling fell down splatting all over my pretty things. It was more a blow to my spirit than anything. Eventually I cleaned it up but then the frigid temperatures hit. I hauled up a heater and blew a fuse. Electrician encountered a problem: our big fat super thick oak beams used in 1823. Supposedly he is returning this weekend. I hope so. My gosh, I hope so. So I wait. Down here where everyone and anyone mills about not at all concerned with peace and quiet.

Calgon, take me away. Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty please?