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.

Why I Write

This all began out of fear. I didn’t realize fear was the issue at the time, and I’d many times attributed my discontent to other things, but it was fear that led me here. You’ve oftentimes heard musicians and composers say that they chose a life of music because they couldn’t not write music. That same sentiment is what finally stung my core and caused me to start this page. I can’t not write anymore. However terrifying exposing my inner thoughts to the world may be, expressing them in written form is who I am. So here we are.

I was working my way through Julia Cameron’s “The Artist’s Way” when I stumbled upon this clarity. I started writing my morning page with no intention of it holding any meaning at all. To me it was nothing more meaningful than the writing in an adolescent’s diary … until it was transformed. Somewhere along the way, my writing became inspired, and its words held within them the answer to my most pressing question:

Am I supposed to create? Was it my Creator’s intention for me to write?

Here’s what poured out of me and into that journal on this day:

“For the love of God, I can’t get a minute’s rest. Someone has always left the water running, needs to be fed, or is mid-fight. It’s a miracle I’m still sane. What was God thinking giving me three sons? I must have been some kind of brat to require this much humbling. Or is this supposed to be my artistic material?

My hand hurts. How did I used to do hours upon hours of cursive writing in school? I often think about what I would do differently if I could go back. Would I read more and socialize less? Would I choose a different university? Travel? Move? Would I now be a writer living in Brooklyn … or, perhaps, a book editor?

It’s funny how when I think what I want out of this life, it never involves wanting money. However, I find myself often consumed by wanting more and feeling like I need more. Maybe my choice to not live a creative life has made me feel like I need the bigger house or nicer things as the consolation prize for the sacrifice of my true self. This is, of course, ridiculous but also shows me that I’m searching for a richness of life, a creative life. If I had the bigger house and nicer things, I would still be searching.

It’s creativity, expression, and depth that I crave. It’s the desire to feel awake and alive! I want to live creatively, nurture meaningful friendships, develop an intimate relationship with God’s creation, and experience a deeper faith. I want to be fully engaged in this life from the tips of my toes to the top of my crown.

I first have to disengage from this manufactured world and disconnect the disingenuous channels of my mind telling me what will make me happy. Should I continue down their chosen path for me, I will do nothing but tire my soul and squander my days. But should I diverge, I will once again recognize my reflection and walk along a path shrouded in glorious mystery that connects me to my Creator.

What could keep me from taking this path? Fear? Staying the course is far more frightening. Comfort? Even in the most familiar, the hollow core remains. I’ve filled it with food. I’ve chased money. I’ve tried to ignore its festering. But in the end, it is left unchanged, still waiting patiently to be filled by a leap of faith.”