Every now and then I start to wonder about life.  Not so much about mine, not so much about yours, but about life as it is general.  I was driving home around half past noon.  The same way, the same way always.  But, at high noon, in the middle of summer, some things look crisper, some things look duller.

An old house, small on a big lot full of dry grass, looked crisper.  It is quite old.  Its lack of size dates it to a time when big things did not matter; the chipped white paint and a shutter hanging by only a single brace also dates it to time’s past.

As if the perfectly centered sun in the sky illuminated only the house itself, I took a good long look at it.  There were four vehicles lining the dirt driveway.  All, too, were from a different time than the one I find myself in the throws of.  One word came to me, one word for the house, the land, and the vehicles.  Neglect. 

Judging by the design of the vehicles, such material treasures would have been popular in the late seventies, early eighties at the latest.  Coupled with the house, the era made sense.  Only after this time did size start to matter so much.  Only after this time was it inconceivable to not have separate rooms for each child and their toys. 

What was the property like, then, in the late seventies?  Full of energy, vibrancy, meaning?  And if so, what had happened in the interim?  Some could say life happened.  Some could say it was simply time.  I, myself, did not stop to ponder as much.  As with a great many things in this world, I inevitably come to the point where I ask, “Will this happen to me?”

Will my home succumb to just passing one day to another for the next thirty years?  Will such be a reflection of my life and attitudes?  Another word came to me.  Complacency.  It usually predicates neglect, does it not?  And a step further in that direction is pride.  

My imagination, overactive to be sure, started to put together a story behind the little old house and the vehicles so untouched their windows were caked with dry dust from year after year of fall breezes. 

A family.  Father works hard, mother raises children.  Most did in those times.  There was always enough money.  Enough for the cars, enough for the food, enough for the heat in the dead of winter, and a little extra for a brand new pair of roller skates at Christmas.  But faith was misplaced.  It was put in the now, the have to haves, and of course, their youth. 

And yes, life happened.  Time happened.  Pride, then complacency, then neglect.  And finally, the warning.  Best transcribed by Solomon for his closing remarks in Ecclesiastes:

“Remember now your Creator in the days of your youth,
  Before the difficult days come,
  And the years draw near when you say,
  I have no pleasure in them”

           * * *
  "Then the dust will return to the earth as it was,
  And the spirit will return to God who gave it.
   “Vanity of vanities,” says the Preacher,
   “All is vanity.”

         * * *

"Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter:

 Fear God and keep His commandments,
 For this is man’s all.
 For God will bring every work into judgment,
 Including every secret thing,
 Whether good or evil.”

  Ecclesiastes 12:1, 7-8, 13-14

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When you know the difference between plagiocephaly and craniosynostosis before your baby is six months old, you've earned it.

When you know three different ways to cure diaper rash, you've earned it.

When you take the time to draw a happy face out of ketchup for a corn dog, you've earned it.

When you know the only option of carpet color is anything dark, you've earned it.

When you sacrifice clean for clean enough, you've earned it.

When you can bite your tongue when a window gets broken, you've earned it.

When you designate one thermometer in the house to be the rectal thermometer, you've earned it.

When someone in your household misappropriates the rectal thermometer and uses it to take their temperature orally, they've earned it. 

Go ahead, call yourself a parent, you've earned it!

Just felt in the mood to lay out some highlights of my life.  In historical order, of course.

- Birth (obviously)
- Childhood and adolescence (this is between me and my therapist, thank you.)
- Twelve years old, I accepted Jesus into my life.  Now that's something I can bank on!
- College (Me make brain grow!)
- Second year of college I studied abroad in Florence, Italy.  (Ah...sweet memories and way too much pasta.  That stereotype is NO joke over there.  They eat a LOT of pasta.)
- Law School (Can I just say how much I still adore San Diego?)
- Second year of law school I studied abroad in Barcelona, Spain.  (Retirement plan - move to the Costa Brava on Spain's Mediterranean Riviera)
- Third year of law school some guy kept following me around everywhere I went trying to find reasons to talk to me.  Married him that summer.
- More school, advanced tax law program.  Finally graduate and NO MORE SCHOOL.  I'm 25 years  old and have two bachelor's degrees, a master's and a doctorate.  (But I still don't know how to program a VCR and spend hours concocting a grocery list which I leave on the kitchen counter.)
- Have first child at 28.  Held him in my arms and said, "Lord, You can come back now, I'm ready to go!"
- Moved to Bakersfield, bought first house and husband broke the sprinklers for the first time.
- Had second child at 32. Another son.  Seriously, Lord, You can come back now.  Before they tell me to drop them off three blocks from school.  Please, come back??  Have You seen gas prices?  Come on back.
- Finished my first novel.  Hope to add another highlight soon. 

Ethan's been potty trained for almost two years now but recently we've been working on him doing the, well...um...the wiping.  I should say, however, that we were working on the wiping.  After a few botched attempts I told Ethan we would go back to Mommy doing it and try again next month. 

But he wouldn't have any of it.  Thus, he makes secret trips to the bathroom to hone in on his skills and only calls on me when he's tired of trying to get the job done.  Usually, the aftermath is nothing bad at all.  But today, oh dear Lord, today was utterly unspeakable. 

The toilet seat was....  And in between the sheets of the roll of toilet paper....  He told me he had stuck his finger in....  I had to wipe down his lower back....  Unspeakable things.  Such unspeakable things. 

The climax of it all was the very poor timing of serving him a piece of chocolate frosted cake immediately prior.  There was a certain smudge below his bottom lip.  As we were washing his hands I asked, "Is that poop or chocolate by your mouth?"  The child proceeded to stick his tongue out and lick at the smudge with both a look of necessity and hesitation until he smiled and said, "Nah.  It's just chocolate."

Thank God for small miracles, thank God it was just chocolate.  The only thing left from the debacle is trying to strategize a plan of anti-bacterial attack for that toilet seat.  Otherwise, I'm afraid I will never use it again. 

Every summer since we first moved here, I tend to follow the same ritual from the fifth of July to Labor Day.  I hide.  I hide from the heat and those horrible orange and smoke filled skies.  I don't even want to go swimming in our pool. 

But, despite pressure every now and then from friends to get out and mingle, I feel no real condemnation for my hermit behavior.  Let's face it, you wouldn't want to be within a hundred feet  of me when I'm miserably hot.  Have you seen my hair?  I have the equivalent of seven black Pomeranians on my head and they reach below the middle of my back. 

I have to say I wholeheartedly appreciate the people who don't question my commitment to them and our relationships when they haven't heard from me through the entire month of August.  It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside that an explanation is never due.  A different warm and fuzzy than blistering anywhere other than under my ceiling fan with the air conditioning on. 

Even my little Ethan gets it.  He's resolved to perusing more books, building larger tanks with his Lego's, and wholly ignoring his natural inclination to pester me about swimming when the sky is filled with smoke. 

So, I say all that to say this: it was mighty hard to even sit down and write this down.  I assure you, everything turns off when it gets this hot.  

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It's one of those occurences that makes certain ideas run rampant through your mind.  From shouting at the top of your lungs, to using a two by four, to just standing there doing nothing.  When someone cuts in front of you in a line, it's almost always a quandry as what to do to assert yourself in order to preserve your status quo.

My four year old niece found a way that I'm quite fond of.  Kathryn was standing in a line at her pre-school when a fellow female student up and decides to cut in front of her.  I'm not sure if it's because little Miss Kathryn is the baby of four children, the next youngest from her being seven years older, or whether it's because every ounce of her pint sized body is full of splendid sassiness; but, Kathryn took charge of the situation. 

Apparently, she wrapped her arms around the offender, lifted her clear off the ground and forthrightly moved her to the back of the line and released her.  Kathryn proceeded to calmly walked back to her previously designated spot and await her turn. 

Hip, Hip, Hooray Kathryn!  I'd like to think the offender will offend no more.  Now, how do I accomplish this when someone cuts in front of me? 

I saw a decent looking couch on the side of the road this morning, and I'm not saying that in a Jeff Foxworthy redneck type of way.  It was decent.  Red and white checked and without a noticeable stain.  I gave it a half thought to pick it up to replace the couch we have in the den. 

The couch in the den is nice but the sun faded it too quickly and I have been forever struggling with slipcovers since.  This is when my mind started to make the comparison between marriage and slipcovers.  I always get suckered into buying a new slipcover because it showers me with the promise it will stay in place.  The picture shows a tidy enough couch that you'd almost think the slipcover is its natural upholstery.  So, I buy it.  

Only to find out later that it doesn't matter what brand you buy, or how much you spent, the slipcover always slips.  And how do I make my couch look as nice as the picture?  Lots and lots of tucking.  Tighten here, tuck there, tie that.  Some good ol' fashioned getting your hands in it until you're up to your elbows, literally.  It looks pristine and perfect, but only for a moment.  Especially when children are involved.  They seem to dishevel the effort quicker than a squirrel scurrying for the side of a road.  

And because a lot of frequent effort is involved, I often let the slipcover lie in a mess.  A tolerable mess, but a mess no less.  Mainly because that particular couch is in a room hardly anyone else sees but myself.  I figure if more guests came into that room, I'd probably put more effort in straightening the slipcover out.   

My conclusion: I need a date with my husband.  A good tuck is in order. 

My husband asked me the other day if it was time to intervene with our four year old's imaginary friends, to which I replied, "Absolutely not!"  Charles expressed his concern that the particular friends at issue have been around a long time and it was starting to concern him that our son is making unrealistic connections with people who don't exist.

To wit, the current friends are: Cody, Honcho, and Miije.  Or as Ethan would say it, "My friends, Cody, Honcho, and Miije (he's a boy)."  I just thought it was randomly cute he added the gender identifier at the end of Miije's name, but apparently, even with his imaginary friends he feels the need to be specific.  I later found out that Miije is the name of an adorable little girl from his pre-school class.  But his Miije, he's a boy.  Cody is the name of his cousin's Australian Sheepdog, and Honcho comes from an episode of the Backyardigans, circa 2004. 

I don't particularly mind these three.  Ethan never asks me to communicate with them, I don't have to set places for them at the dinner table, and by all accounts from Ethan, they live in a duplicate world to our own (same house, same routines, same age, and even the same underwear) with the only difference consisting of living without, get this, any parents. 

Charles mentioned he liked the princesses better.  Before the male trio currently in custody of my son's imagination, Ethan had an all female trio that consisted of Cinderella, Belle, and Jasmine.  "Why them?"  I asked one day.  "Because Cinderella wears gloves, Belle isn't scared of beasts, and Jasmine looks like you."  Ethan replied.  (Note to self: Remember to take Ethan to the eye doctor.)

I wasn't a fan of the princesses, however, because I had to buckle them in the car each time we went anywhere.  Yup, all three of them.  Those little divas had to go.  I'm sure Charles liked them better because, well, because he's a man, and because it provided several opportunities to instill valuable morals in Ethan.  Like when he asked if the princesses could sleep in his bed.  Daddy and son had a talk about getting married to one and only one special lady before anything like that happened. 

After giving it some thought, I tried to assure my husband this was very normal.  And, perhaps the reason Ethan is so fanatical about it is because whenever he expresses wild and crazy stories about the antics of his three buddies, everyone seems so incredibly interested, grinning widely and showing immense interest.  "Perhaps," I offered, "he's just practicing becoming a great storyteller."