Day Eleventy Hundred

We are adjusting nicely to our “new normal” at the Riney casa, and things have fallen into a doable rhythm during our quarantined days. I’ve discovered the joy of home improvement. After refinishing and painting our old dresser, I discovered I am a genius, a renewer of all things, a gifted phoenix of discarded furniture. My fingertips are transformative, and I breathe new life into antiques. My family now finds me entranced, staring at walls, cabinets, tables and the like, dreaming of what gifts I may bestow upon them. I’ve painted so many things green, my husband has named the color “quarantine green.” I don’t have a problem; you have a problem.

My sons have been surprisingly obedient when it comes to their schoolwork. They are enjoying their Zoom meetings and the freedom found in working from home. They read in the tree fort, create art on the patio, take the computer in the sandbox … yep, they took the computer in the sandbox! It’s crunching as I type this.

My oldest has been very busy. He has spent his days trying to create a robot to rub my back (Go right ahead, son. Of course you can use those batteries and old cords.) and has been collecting treasures in an old shoe box. The other day he found a real dinosaur bone in the side yard and was beside himself with excitement. He made me promise that we will take it to a museum when they reopen. In unrelated news, our neighbors had barbecue ribs the other night.

My middle child has adopted the early-morning routine of a retiree. He wakes early, comes down the stairs, turns off the porch light, turns on the living room lights and makes me a cup of coffee. He’s five. The youngest spends his days outside, and to be honest that’s where he belongs. He’s a man of the woods, untamed and virile. I found him barking at the trash truck yesterday. The other night when we finally got him out of the dirt and into the bathtub, I heard my oldest mutter, “The eagle has landed.”

We’ve been playing lots of board games. It can be challenging at times to play with my middle son, as he has apparently inherited my patience. During game time, he displays the temperament and understanding of a young Archie Bunker. But most of the time, he is just a doll, the most affectionate and loving of all three. He covers me daily in compliments like, “You’re so warm and fluffy” and “Your face is prettier than your leg” (Notice he only said one leg, so I can assume I’m rockin’ one very good-looking gam).

But he’s not the only sweet one, I had another child recently give me a long, loving hug … followed by a flatulent with which he then proceeded to lock me in the room. Before shutting the door, he looked me in the eyes and said, “Smell the love.” Romantic. You’re welcome, future daughter-in-law.

They really are such good boys, and this time at home has brought them even closer together. Last week they went on an intense dinosaur hunt in the backyard, the goal being to catch “just a mid-sized herbivore.” They grabbed their backpacks, filled them with snacks, dinosaur books and tools and headed out on their mission. They dragged a dog crate to the backyard, placed within it a bowl of ham, propped the door open with a broom and waited for the creature to emerge. “Get into position” they all yelled as they climbed into the tree fort to wait. The bushes began to move, and it was like the opening scene in Jurassic Park. They caught a golden retriever.

My husband is really wonderful about encouraging imaginative play. He’s such a sweet man. When he noticed that they were digging for dinosaur bones, he saw it as the perfect opportunity to make a lasting memory by letting our boys borrow a tool that belonged to his grandfather. This tool just also happened to be large and sharp and every mother’s nightmare. After he returned to his desk, proud of the special moment he shared with his sons, I spent the afternoon running interference. I’m happy to say we only lost one tree branch, everyone’s digits are still in place, and I only saw actual sparks once.

All in all, we’re doing great. We’re so encouraged by the good we see in the world, and we’re really enjoying this time at home. The house is a mess, things are “off,” and we certainly don’t look our best. But, we’re healthy, we’re together, and, for that, we’re filled with joy. These crazy boys of mine are growing up way too fast, and we won’t always have dino hunts in the backyard. I’m going to soak up every last smelly, messy moment of this. I hope you’re doing the same.

God Bless,

Meghan

 

The Bachelorette: Quarantine Home Edition

It’s been five weeks now that I’ve been living under the same roof with these three young bachelors, and I still can’t decide which is my favorite. Tonight, they are treating me to a very special date, and hopefully my preference will be made clear.

The towheaded one is a sophisticated fellow, and he has asked that I wear my hot pink blouse with my leopard skirt. He thinks I would look fancy with a pink scarf donning my neck like a Hitchcock Grace Kelly. Who am I to disappoint? The eldest of the three gentlemen has suggested I wear red lipstick, diamond earrings and a fancy updo to complement my outfit. The purple eye shadow he has chosen completes the look, and I’m now ready for my big date.

It’s 6’oclock on the dot, and the doorbell has rung. Very punctual … I like that. They each greet me at the door with a pink rose — a nice touch — and they are dressed impeccably. (I learn later that the youngest one almost came in the buff, a bold and confident move). The eldest seems to be wearing his sweater backwards, a unique style that says “I don’t care about the rules of this world.” The towheaded one tells me I look beautiful, and my heart skips a beat. The youngest gentleman saunters in last and asks, “What happened to your hair?” He doesn’t care for the updo, and I appreciate his honesty. I admire a man who knows what he likes.

The waiter, who is mighty cute, seats us at his best table, and the towheaded bachelor pulls out my chair, a gesture that does not go unnoticed. The dinner begins with a reading of the wine list, while the sounds of jazz standards coast through the air and the glow from the candlelight illuminates the three handsome gentlemen before me. The waiter brings us baguettes and butter, and the youngest grabs the whole stick of butter off the plate and takes a bite. His savage ways intrigue me.

We all order steaks, medium well, with mashed potatoes and asparagus. The youngest drinks his milk with wild abandon, letting it splash on his face. His entire, uncut steak hangs from his mouth like a hockey puck. His caveman soul sets him apart.

The eldest entertains us with knock knock jokes throughout the meal, and the towheaded one keeps his cash on the table as if to signal to everyone, “I’ve got this.” Now it is time to pay, and the three gentlemen play a fun trick on the waiter by hiding in the curtains and jumping out with the money. What a gas! The towheaded one announces, “I’ll pay for dinner,” to which the eldest replies, “I’ll pee for dinner.” Oh, he is a hoot!

Now, off to the movies; it’s just down the galley kitchen. When we arrive, the theater employee — also very cute — informs us that the show will begin in 10 minutes. He points us to the arcade where we play the crane game and skee ball. My dates are all so competitive, and the youngest will throw a downright fit if he loses. He doesn’t care who’s watching; I admire his intensity. The gentlemen buy me Junior Mints — they prefer Skittles — and we head to our seats in preparation for the feature presentation, “Father of the Bride.” How did they know my favorite movie? How thoughtful!

As the feature begins, the towheaded one crawls in my lap; what a dear! He kisses me up the arm like I’m Morticia Adams and, at one point, sucks on my elbow. But who am I to question how someone shows affection? The eldest must be getting jealous. He has made his way to my lap, as well. He has asked that I rub his tummy … must have been the candy. Since, we’re getting more casual, I decide to get more comfortable and take down my hair. The youngest looks over at me, puzzled, and mutters, “Your hair doesn’t look stupid anymore.” Playing hard to get, eh?

We end the evening with one rousing game of “Is It Chocolate or Dog Poop on the Blanket”? Good for such laughs! What a wonderful evening. In conclusion, I’m sorry to say my choice has not been made any clearer. They each possess admirable qualities, and I’m equally enamored with them all. I like being their best girl, and I’ve decided to keep them all to myself for a little bit longer.

An Easter Note

I painted today for the first time in a long time. I don’t consider myself an artist by any means, but I really enjoy it. I find painting — and watercolor in particular — to be very therapeutic the way the water moves the color across the page. It’s a beautiful and hypnotizing dance, and I can’t resist it.

Something has been bugging me today, and I’ve tried very hard to identify it to no avail. It’s been a lovely day, one filled with good times with my boys that will make for cherished memories. I’m content. I’m fulfilled. I’m ever so grateful, but I’m having a hard time smiling. Today there is a fog.

So, I turned to paint to cheer myself up and release whatever had its chokehold on me. It’s spring, so what is more apropos than painting tulips … or cheerier than red and pink ones? But my hand kept reaching for the black, and even then was not satisfied. It wasn’t until I had completely abandoned the piece and blurred it with water that it felt finished. As I stood back and looked at it—joyful and vibrant tulips hidden beneath a fog—I knew that it was perfect. It was timely. It was exactly as I felt.

We are all living the best lives we can under the current circumstances, but no matter how hard we persevere—and persevere, we must—we cannot lift the fog. The sickness, the sadness, the anxiety … it’s with us through it all. We put on brave faces for our children, and we work tirelessly to make these days meaningful. We protect them from the news, from the fear, from the death, and we smile and play while the fog does its best to drown us.

This is Easter weekend, and as a Christian I take comfort in my Savior. He is my light through the haze and my courage through this pandemic. If you also find yourself with lips that are smiling but a heart that is hurting, please know that you are not alone in your feelings. We will look upon the tulips again, and the fog will be lifted. Until then … Happy Easter, my friends.

Love,

Meghan

Let’s Go Over Some Rules

Dearest Sons,

Since it seems we are going to be contained in this house together for the foreseeable future—and because I think I may have actually roared today—I have decided it is time to, once again, review some rules of civility. By civility I simply mean if you would like to see more than the back of your bedroom doors, you will need to do this.

1. Don’t eat, lick, or mouth anything other than the food I serve you. I should not have to utter things like, “Quit eating my blanket,” “Don’t lick the dog,” and “We don’t eat out of the trash.”

2. Immediately following my hours-long cleaning, vacuuming, dusting, and floor-polishing is probably not the best time to attempt to eat popcorn using a chip clip. Why I still have hair chip clips is beside the point. I was a teenager of the ‘90s, and some things are harder to shake than others.

3. I understand that you may not always like what I cook, but that does not give you an excuse to eat chips all day and then tell me you aren’t full at meal times. Yes, my own cooking is making me physically ill, as well, and I believe my body is starting to reject it, however it is what we have. Do not make me tell you about starving children one more time. There are buzzards circling our house because my spirit is dying.

4. I should never walk into the room and see you drinking out of a wine glass. I don’t care if it’s just La Croix. It’s weird, wrong, dangerous, and just visually disturbing.

5. We, as humans, brush our teeth regardless of what we are doing that day. That is all.

6. I don’t care if you found a balloon in the closet; we do not play with balloons, EVER! They are the devil’s playthings. They lead to nothing but fighting, crying, loud noises, and potential choking. Years ago, y’all got a balloon with a string wrapped around the ceiling fan in our bedroom. Now, if we would like some extra air in our room, dad and I have to give the fan a running start like we’re hand-starting a prop plane.

7. Dragging your little brother around the house by his feet is not “playing train.” I don’t care if you call it the “Baby Express.”

8. FLUSH

9. When I’m in my room and you ask me if I would like my door shut, I will assume you need to talk to Jesus about what you are about to do.

10. When I’m working out in the living room, I don’t need your help. If I had wanted to do goat yoga, I would have signed up for it years ago.

Finally, know that dad and I love you with our whole hearts. When all of this is over, we will know each other even better, treasure these moments together, praise God for his grace and immediately order a deep cleaning.

Love,

Mom

Coronavirus Lessons: Who Really Needs Pants?

In this time of uncertainty and fear, one thing has become abundantly clear in the Riney household and that is the complete indispensability of pants. The comfort of being properly covered is seemingly lost on these three sons of mine, and the result is a lot of flesh. While I am appropriately suppressing my Carona-induced stress through a combination of baking, praying, and soft pants, my children have embraced their “new normal” as their “new nudist colony.” I’ve seen things … things I can’t unsee.

When you live with four boys—I’m including my husband in that count—your gauge of what is socially acceptable changes. Your judgment is clouded by your primal need to survive, and you begin to allow things that haunt your dreams. These three young boys who emerged from my womb are bound and determined to destroy everything in their sight. These are the loves of my life and also the reason I will never own a black light.

I’ve grown very accustomed to spills, unnamed fluids and mystery stains. Water has become like air to me. My youngest son can pour out an entire bottle of water onto the rug in front of me, and my pulse does not change. I confess that I have actually convinced myself that a sloshed-around La Croix is akin to deep cleaning with club soda.

Due to our Coronavirus quarantine, we’re living in the backyard these days. Our neighbors wake to the sweet sound of me shrieking, “Quit licking your brother!”, “Dog poop is NOT a toy!”, “Is it bleeding?” and “Cover up your bits!” If you’re lucky enough to be one of our neighbors, please don’t call CPS. I assure you they’re perfectly safe. I’m the one at risk.

Growing up an only child, I would dream about my certain future … a family of one—maybe two—girls. We would giggle while we baked in matching red gingham aprons while listening to classical music and musing about our favorite parts of “Anne of Green Gables”. Let’s just note that while I’m typing this, all three of my boys are making flatulent noises on my body. It’s a glamorous life, folks.

My oldest is seven now, and with time comes wisdom. I’ve learned how to handle even the most trying situations with threats and bribes grace. Though I still find myself fantasizing about the pioneer times when you could tie little Ezekiel to a tree while you finished the laundry, I am growing accustomed to this boy life. At this point I’m only a loud whistle, a poisonous dart, and an industrial-strength carpet cleaner away from having this whole parenting this figured out.

So, to all those moms who are in the same boat during this crazy time, just know you’re not alone. We’re going to make it, and we’re doing the best we can. Don’t forget to laugh … and lose the pants.