There are famous mysteries we are all aware of like where is Jimmy Hoffa, who shot President Kennedy and what made Lady Gaga decide raw meat would make a good dress. I am talking about personal mysteries in my own life that I cannot figure out for the life of me. Such as:
How come the only time my husband can take out the trash is when I am trying to cook dinner? The trash will sit there, becoming trash, getting bigger, when it becomes a landfill, Chris will simply add another bag and wander away to study the Pygmies of South America. Once the trash has reached epic proportions and seagulls are landing on it, I will mention to Chris that perhaps we should empty the trash. He nods and moves away. That night as I am cutting vegetables, seasoning meat, opening and shutting the stove (the trash can is next to the stove, mind you) now here comes Chris to do the trash. Never mind that he is straddling the open oven (which my head may or may not still be in), never mind the fact that half of the over full can will spill onto my floor…what upsets me is THIS IS EVERY SINGLE TIME HE EMPTIES THE TRASH!!! With no exceptions…I will try to wait him out sometimes, but when the kids grow faint with hunger and start to eye the ferret, I simply have to cook and sure enough here he comes! Once Chris has decided to empty the trash, no threat will stop him. He charges into the kitchen and moves the trash with all the determination of President Roosevelt and all the grace of Mr. Bean.
Another great mystery here can be described as such: Mark no longer wets the bathroom seat now that he has discovered the walls. When Chris uses the bathroom he brings his laptop, I usually have a book, Melissa will have her Nintendo DS or her MP3 Player…Mark brings one green pipe cleaner. Seconds later, he is singing the chorus to some movie theme and the battle ensues. Sounds of blasters, angry warriors are taunting each other in low grumbling voices, shrieks of agony from the losing side, banging reaches a crescendo then sudden dead silence. After a moment, there is a low off-key victory song and then the bathroom door bursts open and Mark thunders out. I don’t know who won in there, but I know whoever goes in next has lost. The floor and walls are soaked, so much toilet paper is strewn about you would think the high school football team showed up to celebrate a victory, but at least the toilet bowl is dry. I am not sure I want an answer to this one.
Why is it that 8pm is “starvation and dehydration” time for my children? They are served a full dinner at five-thirty/six o’clock. Then they have a snack and drink at seven. Sometimes they even munch at seven-thirty…So when I shut out the kitchen light at eight it seems to be some sort of signal that sends them into full hysteria. We aren’t talking about two kids that merely ask for a light refreshment, this is a full-blown, throw themselves to the ground, clutching stomachs, begging for sustenance before they wither and die. No amount of water seems to be enough, none of the crackers I offer could possibly fill them. They are going to starve to death because I won’t give them chips, chocolate, ice cream, soda, or juice after 8pm. Everybody Else’s Mother does…I suggest they visit her and I see swear words in their eyes.
There is also a mystery illness here that strikes my poor little ones and there seems to be no cure. They jump on my bed, ride scooters across the city, play at the park with friends and they seem strong enough, then something seems to cripple them. They cannot possibly reach the glass in front of them, find their shoes, get their own snack or find missing items that they want. Clutching limbs and groaning they beg for our help to get the remote control or cover them with a blanket that is folded directly above their heads. This illness comes fast and leaves just as quickly. We have noticed if the ferret comes bouncing into the room or if friends come over, they will be released from the grips of this sickness and they are able to move about again.
Other little things seem to mystify me as well. Why is it that I can put all matching socks into the wash, but only singles come back? My dining room table has a volcano sized mound of unclaimed dusty socks, with no hope of ever being paired again. Other times my washer and dryer give me presents. Baby booties, underwear that fits no one in this state, one time I received a waffle patterned orange bra and the voices came back.
For no reason I can ever understand, my husband and I are hopeless at changing of the seasons. We have air conditioners in our windows during snowstorms, I serve lemonade in February and hot chocolate in June. I never know when to put away winter jackets..therefore my son will be wearing a bulky jacket on a warm spring day and my daughter will be shivering in a sweater while sleet and snow whip around her. If there is slush on the ground I will put Melissa in her dress shoes, if there is dry ground, I will stick her big rubber boots on. Chris has many jackets, for each season in fact. He will never figure out when to wear any of them and Lord knows asking me would be a mistake. I open all the windows to let warm air in and it will instantly drop temperature till my family is blue. Chris will turn on the heat while we see joggers and children go by outside wearing shorts. In the fall I serve gingerbread, late summer I will make a nice hot stew and winter time is when I make meals of salads.
Does anyone know why I save bread ties? I don’t actually use them, I just hoard them in a drawer. Why does my hubby save all his dirty clothes beside his bed until it blocks the sun, then he gets a plow to push it all to the kitchen floor for me to wash. It takes days to reach the middle of this pile. Half of it is socks, God help me. Another thing…all of his underwear looks as if my ferret invited friends over and they all decided to party in his undies. Wouldn’t you notice that your underwear was just a little bit of elastic and flapping cloth? Wouldn’t you replace them?
Why do my children only want to wear what is too small, too tight, or in the laundry? How come the act of dusting causes me more distress then the actual dust? Did you know that clutter can move itself and breed? I can clear off any chair, I can spend hours getting everything off the table, within a week the piles have not just come back, they grew to new dimensions. When was I appointed the only person in the house qualified to deal with tricky, dangerous chores like laundry, dusting, cleaning the toilet and putting the roll of toilet paper on the spindle?
So many questions unanswered. Some things I guess we are just never meant to know.