70 degrees of separation

Seven degrees followed by "of separation" rings familiarity to me - not Fahrenheit. Cold creeps in everywhere. Rolled towels nestle against the doors, protecting against the icy wind. The blinds, raised since our arrival in July, now insulate the windows. Prince Procrastinator and I survey the house shutting closet doors tight and closing off the laundry room and pantry area leading the garage. The heating unit churns non-stop, yet the inside temperature rests at a chilly 62 degrees.
After dinner and jammies, the house is unusually quiet. At storytime, we do not see Prince Boots. PP sets off to locate him and returns amused. PB lies in bed covered with 2 blankets pulled up to his nose. He points to the ceiling and asks for "lights out". Princess Ela climbs into her bed and under sheet, blanket, duvet, and bedspread rather than her usual blankie on the floor.
I huddle under a blanket with the laptop's exhaust providing a bit of warmth. I plan attacks against the cold creeping in from outside, but any success is trumped by our featherweight heater who begins to emit cold air.
I love the winter here, but tonight I long for the 77 degrees of Mimi and Oompah's Montego Bay.

A Sketch

Last night I arrived too late for my small group meeting. Crushed, I returned home and turned in early. Sir Sleeps A Lot beat the alarm clock in waking me and finished nursing by 5am. Grand visions of arriving early for a third day in a row dance in my head. Last night’s green peas kept an all night vigil on the stove. They chose not to protect the paper towels, and pixies swiped the last one. To the laundry room for backup! No paper towels? I slowly remember believing it would be a good idea to leave the replacement twelve-pack in the back of the car saving space in our wrecked laundry room. Our car lives in our driveway where the temperature has not reached thirty. A convenient amnesia sets in, and I abandon kitchen cleaning to run my darks through the wash. No worries, timeliness remains within my grasp.
A sour smell escapes as I open the washer’s lid. Going to be early last night was a good idea, right? But wait, my knight in shining armor (formerly known as Prince Procrastinator) enters bearing oatmeal and juice for the overwhelmed and the sleepy. He irons the kids’ clothes while I survey my closet for “plan b” attire. I climb out of the shower to find all four dressed. Valiantly, he volunteers to drop me at work before unloading the kids at daycare.
An equatorial international student, who arrived last week to an apartment fabulously furnished by our volunteers, pleas for reassignment to a closer one requiring a shorter walk in the cold. A PhD student assures me PP will have a breakthrough on Hebrew and will survive the J-term intensive. I talk about the weather with students from the faraway lands of Japan, Korea, and Oklahoma while application fees post. Cash drawer balanced, I head to the parking lot for our mad dash to church.
The church dining hall smells of tomato sauce and cookies. Princess Ela and Prince Boots eat both, but nothing else. PP and I shovel our food in between taking turns holding Sir Sleeps A Lot who, awake, bankrupts us by flashing million dollar smiles to all.
We proceed to beeline our way through the children’s wing to the nursery. Wondering about the empty toddler room, a small white slip of paper catches my eye. The note on the door warns that “A” spread Scarlett Fever. Antibiotics will cure with minimal discomfort and schedule interruption, the note reads. My mind interprets, Little Women! Suddenly my irritation with PB’s fussiness today transforms to panic. Scarlett Fever rather than 15 degree winds caused his flushed cheeks, I am certain! PE’s whiny insistence on a second snack comes not from hunger but Scarlett Fever.
Home again, snacks, story-time, and the kids scurry off to sleep. PB says, “Night, Night Mommy” – a rare complete phrase and calmness again finds me. At least until I see the laundry pile!

Feelings

Thirteen loads of laundry ooze out of Caleb's pack-n-play.

Faster than Eli's flying grape juice, I'll rescue my ESV study Bible, train the toddler's temper, and orchestrate dinner extraordinaire.

Caleb's cough escalates. Vick's Vapor Rub on a washcloth down his onsie and he'll be cured by morning. No hurdle can stall supermom.

"I'll do that later", pledges Prince Procrastinator as I banish boxes of books to the garage. Turn the soup to simmer. Breathe.

Crash!

The laundry room shelving lands on the floor. My foot finds the sharp point of a spilled tack.

I fall on my face.

"Honey, call for pizza."

The Clown

Fastening the slightly misaligned buttons of my blouse,
I ponder the veer that brought me here.

I slide into my trousers, their wide legs hiding my wasting frame.
I cinch them with a bright belt.

The neon orange jacket's glare keeps the tourists' gaze short,
their bodies at a distance.

But, to be safe, I paint a smile over my lips
and cover my eyes with bright paint.

In giant sized shoes my clumsiness appears intentional.
I prefer laughter to pity.

Laughter blankets my pain. Bringing others even momentary happiness gives me hope.
One day, I know, I too, may own joy.

Today

Adult interaction abounded.
Past achievements rewarded.
Conversations engrossed.
Blessings, I believe.

My Erin played with Brandie's Luke.
Brandie laughed at her three-year-old queries.
"Why does the alligator get slimy in water?"
I heard second hand.

Eli smiled at Brandie and waved bye-bye.
What did he think about his day?
His not-quite-two vocabulary can't say.
I wonder if anyone noticed.

I picked Caleb up.
An elephant replaced his outfit's dinosaur.
Spit up?
I didn't clean it.

I gleaned writing tips and publishing tricks.
My resume scored a job interview.
Conversations with my husband rose above body fluids and children's crises.
Fulfillment, I wonder.