Sir William's Revenge

My first morning home after vacation started out fairly optimal: I woke up early with the explicit goal of easing myself back into life here at home with some savory solitude. I brewed some lovely Pride of the Port tea, and curled up in some fleece blankets to read the Sunday New York Times (which had been delivered while we were in Yosemite). Just as I am totally engrossed in a story about the American couple taken hostage by Somali pirates last week, my seven year old son appears at the bottom of stairs with captivating news of his own: Mommy, Sir William went poo in my bed.

Clearly the cat has taken revenge – and it’s really too bad because I had just taken a renewed interest in him. I had just started brushing him, spraying him down with lily-scented, leave-in shampoo, and implemented some T.V.-watching petting sessions in the evenings. To be fair, I should come all the way clean: When we returned home yesterday, we realized (with a great degree of horror, I assure you) that we’d accidentally left the cat locked in the garage all week with no food and water. The garage door was supposed to be left ajar, so Sir William could go in and out as he pleased. And of course, we all swear we left it open. And maybe we did; maybe the wind did it. But in any case, Sir William of Clifton Way is royally pissed off and has exacted his revenge.

So, next thing I know, I’m trying to carefully remove Charlie’s bed sheets without spilling the poop piles, my body retching all the while. It’s a truly repulsive smell, exponentially worse than any diaper I have ever changed. I can’t clean the poop quietly; I am moaning and grunting and gagging all the while. Oh, ugh, I’m muttering to myself repeatedly, This is so disgusting. The two older boys are in the corner of the room, watching with simultaneous humor and horror. It is obvious they are being entertained. Before I know it, my sensitive gag reflex has been taken to its limits and I am fleeing to the toilet, throwing up my morning tea. The boys really can’t believe it all: James, she’s throwing up! Charlie says with a giggle in his throat. I know, James says, with a bit of excitement in his voice.

Back for another round of courageous poop swiping, nose tucked under the neckline of my pajama shirt, I finally manage to clear the bedding into a mound, and haul it all downstairs to the washer. Spraying poop spots with Zout, it occurs to me the cat has exacted his revenge rather masterfully; it’s nearly Shakespearean. Not only did he ensure that I start my morning by throwing up my tea, but he has me doing severe laundry penance. Already, as Sir William knows, I have seven loads of snow trip clothes awaiting me today; now, with a down comforter, a duvet, and a set of sheets, all smeared in cat feces, with any luck, I will maybe get to one load of snow clothes.

With the poop sheets soaking in an oxy bath, I head back upstairs to proceed with getting everyone ready for school. But as it turns out, there is, in fact, too much poop to continue with the morning. Mom, Charlie says, There’s more poo; it’s all over my bedroom floor. And sure enough, I spot four large islands of poop on Charlie’s hardwood floor – plus a little on the hallway rug. At this moment, my husband emerges from the bedroom – chuckling, arms open. Here, he says, as I’m collapsing into his arms, all pooped out, give me the paper towels. I’ll do the rest. Utterly relieved, I surrender the roll and head down to brew myself a fresh cup of tea.

All I can say is, Sir William I hope to God we’re even.

Closet Croutons

At this precise moment of the day, two of my boys are crunching hot-from-the-cherry-red-oven croutons in what used to be my pantry but is now apparently a newly renovated, tiny private residence, occupied by my seven year old. I’ve even been asked to knock before entering. But I feel obliged to report a sweet sense of satisfaction with it all.

It’s not just my adorable, crouton-crunching hobbits; I’m also feeling like a kitchen wizard, having just rescued three-day old Grace Baking Company sourdough from the compost bin and transformed it into some magical, rosemary mushroom-sage croutons – which not even my two year old can seem to stop eating. Plus, the pantry fort tickles my heart; it’s a pretty captivating deal – decked out with a sticker-covered bulletin board, a Coleman lantern with rose quartz glowing on top, a lap desk, some wooden owls chilling in a giant abalone shell, and even a maroon Holy Bible with a peacock feather sticking out of the top of it. Add the two boys elbow to elbow, munching the croutons like they’re the last crumbs on earth, and it’s quite the splendid show. I would gladly camp out and admire the scene all day, hemming and hawing, like you do in Lassie reruns, if they didn’t insist on the door being closed. They are experiencing a private happiness in a private world. And as a matter of fact, so am I.

The song Sweet Pea by Amos Lee is now playing on Pandora and I can’t help but get a little groove on in my salty kitchen. Looks like the sunshine got her groove on too, and bumped the fog out with a swing of her hips so she could be out shining front and center. Forget that I’m still not exactly sure what I’m doing with my life. Forget I’m unpublished, or hardly writing, at that. Forget the undone writer’s shack, the composting dumps pile… Forget my rather gross wood floors, and all of my yawning existential questions; this morning none of it can swallow me up like it does on other days – because my house smells like a mushroom forest, and I feel like a peppy little gnome skipping through it. Also, with crouton crumbs melting on my happy tongue, how can I complain?

So here’s the thing that occurs to me: when these moments occur – these rare, sacred, savory little moments that make us feel satisfied all the way down to our toes – we must absorb them completely. We must savor these miraculous closet crouton moments because – and this confounds the mind – the same precise moment will never occur again. The distinct moments of our lives can never be recreated (try though we might). We can’t plan these rare moments anymore than we plan the weather. Our life moments fall on us unsolicited, and only once – like drops of rain; and once they’ve fallen, it’s up to us to incorporate them into our life puddles. Why? Because later, when it feels like a trail of mud and tears, when we’re wading through long, tedious workdays, when things are falling apart, when we’re sledging through the existential turmoil in our souls, we’ll need the memory of these herb-a-licious moments to keep us going.

Even though I really like it when everything feels all reggae and wonderful, when it all comes together like a fantastic Jello mold, I know it won’t always taste this good. Because that’s the way life is – all the splendid bites, all the sour bites and everything in between, all spread out together in one big universal potluck.

But whatever: today I’m licking sweet, sticky Jello juice from my lips, and admiring the mold.