Our cozy blue house

I remember, growing up, giving my mom grief every time company came to visit. The kind of whining that turns one syllable words into two syllables. “MO-om, whyyyy do we have to CLEEEE-EAN the whole house?”

Not surprisingly, my delivery ruined any chance of constructive negotiation, though it was a valid question. After all, it wasn’t like anyone was going to actually see the inside of my bedroom closet or run a gloved finger across my bookcases, unless perhaps they were in the mood to peruse my complete canon of Babysitters Club paperbacks. Yet without fail, whenever anyone motored down the interstate toward our door, the house was a hive of activity. Sheets were laundered and changed. Shelves and tables were rubbed down with Lemon Pledge, dispensed in noxious clouds that burned our nostrils. Bathroom cabinets were cleaned out to accommodate the industrial strength cans of hair spray that my sister and I used to shellac our bangs into wavy, concrete sculptures. Floors were scrubbed to lift the aforementioned hair spray from the bathroom tile so that our grandparents would not feel like they had stepped into the La Brea Tar Pits upon entry.

Even as I complained, I knew that all of that cleaning heralded good things. Preparation always rubbed shoulders with expectation. Once we reached the final stage where the house had been vacuumed and we were officially banished from any room where our footprints might blight the perfectly arranged carpet hairs, we loafed around the kitchen or outside, usually waiting for the crunch of tire on gravel that signaled Nana and Papa’s arrival.

Then, magic.

It was in the smell of Nana’s perfume; kisses tattooed on our cheeks in red lipstick; Papa’s embraces; comments on how big we’d grown, or how the drive went, or what beautiful weather we were having; the Dunkin Donuts thermos emptied and fresh coffee poured; the sweets; the presents; the stories about New York or Acapulco or Texas, or wherever they had last traveled; the ruckus of four children finally free to roam about the house again. Liberated, we trod on the carpets and sprayed our hair spray and slept soundly at night between clean sheets, corners tucked so tight you felt like you were pinned. On those visits I felt a little like the house, clean and full of light.

Now, twenty years later, I am rubber-gloved to the elbows, scrubbing and spraying in anticipation of my mom’s visit tomorrow. She is flying in from Colorado for Easter weekend—also her birthday weekend—and the four days stretched out before us look like presents yet to be unwrapped. We spoke on the phone this evening, and I told her I was cleaning, and she told me not to clean too much, and I told her I wouldn’t, and of course I will, because that’s just what we do. It’s as much a part of my DNA as my addictions to chocolate and bean burritos. There are window blinds to be dusted, splatters of baby food crusting the chairs that need to be wiped down, sheets to be laundered and tucked in tight hospital corners on a newly rotated mattress. They are things she will probably never even notice, but which signal the importance of the occasion and the excitement accompanying it—each chore scrubbing clean the palette on which to pour the colors and dip the brush.

Then, magic.

I admit it. I like grocery shopping. Not simply because I like food (which I do, if you haven’t noticed by now), but because, at a stage of life where our disposable income is rather limited, the grocery store is a place where I actually get a chance to spend money. Forget Bloomingdales, Neiman Marcus, Dillard’s. Give me Publix and a few coupon circulars and I am good to go. Throw in a good parking spot and a free sample from the lady doing the in-house cooking demonstration and I’m really living. (*Although, never accept a piece of “dessert sushi” comprised of a Rice Krispie treat wrapped in a Fruit Roll-Up. That is wrong on so many levels.)

The main attraction of the supermarket for me, however, is not the spending. It’s the saving. The “Buy One, Get One” deals where you use two coupons, applying one to the free item (learned that trick a couple years ago.) The sale item for which you have both a store coupon and a manufacturer coupon (I am getting goosebumps). The coupon that exceeds the sale price of the item!! (Oh, the rapture!!)

OK. I will calm down now.

Lately, as we cinch the belt on the budget just a lee-tle tighter, I have turned my focus to only purchasing what we need, not just what qualifies as “a deal.” I have read that it’s good to end the month with an empty pantry; unfortunately, I’ve got granola bars planning their retirement in the dark recesses of my kitchen cabinets. The Jell-O thinks it might even enjoy the afterlife up there on the top shelf, assuming I don’t turn it into some sort of dessert sushi. Or go back on Weight Watchers (which is very Jell-O intensive).

As part of this new approach, I create my grocery list (of only things we need) and actually try and calculate, before I set foot inside the store, what I expect to spend. I write the estimated price next to each item (based mostly on memory, and sales flyers) and add them up, so that if I’m overbudget, I can decide which item to knock off the list before I am standing there drooling over the Betty Crocker brownie mixes. So far, it seems to be working.

This past Tuesday, when I was drowning in a head cold and caring for two sick children, I let Pete do the shopping. I handed him my list, my coupons, and asked, “Now, do you know what the Number One Rule is?”

“Do NOT deviate from the list,” he chanted, my little Grocery Disciple. (Made me so proud.)

On his way home from the store, he called me. “You’re amazing,” he said.

I grinned into the phone. “Was I close? What was the total?” I asked, referring to my little estimation game.

“$51.56,” he replied.

I had guessed $51.64. If you don’t believe me, here’s proof.

I really need to get out more.

**The National Weather Service has issued a hurricane warning for area households.** Be on alert for toddler-force winds, dangerously high levels of dirty dishes, and scattered debris. Occupants are advised to secure their living rooms and be prepared to evacuate, if necessary.

This warning will remain in effect for the next ten years.

Remember this room? The one that has alternately served as a studio, an office, and a guest room? The one where our previous visitors have been forced to step over keyboards, accounting files, and random office equipment?

I give you — THE TRANSFORMATION.

Before: Guest Room/Former Studio/Office

After: Noah’s “Big Boy” Room!

Pardon me while I inundate you with pictures. I am nesting, remember?

We had been planning to replace the futon with a full-size bed for Noah when we realized — with the rails on the sides, the futon makes a perfect toddler bed. Especially when fitted out with rockin’ Spiderman sheets (oh yeah, baby). The bedding is from Target; the bright orange curtains are from IKEA.

Here is the view from the bed:

I especially love the cube shelf from Target with the IKEA picture frames above. I bought that Tigger for Pete on our family vacation to Disney World back in 1995. Little did I know it would one day belong to our son! And that we would live a half-hour from Disney!

Here is the view looking out into the hall, where you can see the new IKEA dresser (gee, is it obvious where we do our shopping?):

That rectangular-looking column on the dresser is an IKEA lamp. Gives off a nice, 11-watt glow at nighttime.

And this makes me really proud — notice the frames above the bed?

It is Noah’s personal art gallery, consisting of empty frames painted blue with his artwork hanging from binder clips, so the art can be updated regularly.

I got the idea from this post here (lest you think I am some kind of Martha Stewart genius. I often give that impression. Cough.).

So usually, nesting involves getting the baby’s room ready, but since Noah’s old room is pretty much ready to go (complete with changing table, crib, and glider), all I have to do now is launder the crib bedding and unpack the baby clothes. Do you see why I was counting on another boy??

That concludes our tour on Lifestyles of the Pregnant and Fabulous. For more information, COME VISIT. So long as you don’t mind sleeping on Spiderman sheets!

This has been a week of great anticipation in our house. Our beloved Ann and Davison (or “Auntie Ann and D,” as Noah calls them) are here for a whole week, having driven through the night all the way from Richmond, Virginia. Excuse me while I go die of happiness.

Or at least temporarily lose consciousness.

There. I’m back.

It has also been a week of great scrambling on my part, because as of Monday, the office/guest room still looked like this:

And now — glory hallelujah — it looks like this:

If you didn’t believe in miracles before, you might want to consider it. Pete and I were high-fiving each other by the end of the day yesterday, right before we collapsed on the couch with giant bowls of frozen yogurt. Hurray for teamwork, Goodwill, and the motivating power of Cool Mint Cookie fro-yo. This room will undergo one final transformation as we convert it into Noah’s new bedroom, but at least now no one has to sleep amid tax files and stray paper clips.

OK, maybe just the occasional paper clip.

Noah’s preparations have been much more basic. Pick out every stuffed animal and action figure I want to show to Ann and D. Check. Ask Mommy every two minutes when Ann and D are arriving. Check. Help Mommy make muffins to greet our long-distance travelers.

Check. I particularly like the spot of flour on his cheek and the outthrust lower lip in the above photo. My young baker is deep in concentration.

Lick spoon. Check.

Now we are ready.

When life gives you rotten bananas…

… make banana bread.

Enlist the help of someone you love…

… for added sweetness. Mix and bake accordingly.

In a house, there is always something that needs fixing. Dusting. Cleaning. Polishing. When I look around my living space, it’s hard not to see a million projects staring me in the face, begging for attention. The other day, I looked up and noticed that the ceiling fans are caked with dust. Now, dusting the ceiling fans is not on my usual list of to-do’s. I seem to have more pressing tasks at hand, the kind that are basic to my family’s survival: Grocery shopping. Paying bills. Washing the two pairs of socks I still have that do not have holes. Emptying the litter box and diaper pail. Figuring out what still smells now that the litter box and diaper pail are empty. Putting toys away.

Before we had Noah, I prided myself on being an excellent housekeeper. I read books like Confessions of an Organized Homemaker and took notes. Yes, you read that correctly. Took notes. Granted, I still had a long way to go—I have never mastered hospital corners when making beds, and I “don’t do windows”—but everything had its place, pretty much, and I could walk in the door after a long day of work and put my feet up (in socks without holes), pour a cool drink, and rest for a few minutes before heading out to dinner with my husband. (We spent a fair share of our disposable income at the Cheesecake Factory, what can I say.)

The problem with pride is, it always precedes a rather inglorious fall. My fall could be described as tripping over my son’s plastic dump truck and landing in a bottomless sea of blocks, books, and Goldfish crackers. If I didn’t think I’d ever see Frosted Mini Wheats ground into the fibers of my rugs, I had another thing coming. “How does our house get so messy?” I wail, bending to put Noah’s Little People back in their toy airplane (they have deplaned and boarded about 36,000 times). “Lauren, we live in it,” my husband replies, and I have to admit he has a point. When we both worked outside the home and there were no little fingers and little feet finding their way in the world, and into our cabinets, the house retained a museum-like air of order and cleanliness. But life with a child, I am learning, is a whole other story. A beautiful, messy, glorious story. And sometimes the pages stick together. And I am learning, slowly, to be okay with that.

At one of my baby showers, a wise woman shared a stanza of the following poem with me, and little did I guess how much comfort it would bring me in the days to follow. I am posting it here in its entirety, because it is just that good, and we all could use a little more “playtime” in our day:

“Song for a Fifth Child”

Mother, oh mother, come shake out your cloth!
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
Sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking!

Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).
The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren’t her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

Oh, cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
But children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby. Babies don’t keep.

by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton
(first appeared in Ladies Home Journal, October 1958)

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I have a ceiling fan that needs dusting.