Honey, Let's get rich and replace the broken platters with these.
Remember when I wrote that post about walking to Walden? Yes, well I am still on my way. The journey is a bit longer than expected. I suppose I thought it was more of a stroll than a trek. It is like I set out for an afternoon walk equipped with nothing but a little snack and pair of ballet flats. A couple weeks later, I realize that I should have brought hiking boots, changes of clothing and a chuckwagon of preserved foods. In other words, this could take a while.
I am sure a therapist would have a heyday with this sudden need for deliberate simplicity. Something about how I am looking for more than a well run house. That I am seeking the control that can be lost in marriage and motherhood. Maybe that it is an attempt to avoid being lost in the chaos of mortality. A reaction against my raising, or a way to return to my childhood. The explanation would be deep and almost worth the 500 dollars I had spent to get it.
I do not have a therapist to explain away this urge, so I have decided to indulge it. The first wave of Operation:Simplify took place in the kitchen. There was almost a casualty. Pregnancy robs me of some very basic human attributes; these include my sense of smell, the ability to be rational and the very little sense of balance in my possesion. It is the latter that almost led to my downfall (no pun intended). There I was standing on a chair removing large platters from the top of our cabinets. Only five minutes into this whole project and I could already feel it...Triumph. I surveyed my kingdom from the height of my chair. Welcome, commoners. You are in the presence of the Queen of all things Deliberate. It was perfect.
As always seems to be the case, hubris merely proceeds the fall. And fall I did. Right onto our freshly mopped kitchen floor. The platters broke and spread themselves out around my prostrate body. If you ever need an image to illustrate a cautionary tale about the dangers of domesticity, there you have it.
The wind was knocked out of me so I could not get up. Margaret stood at door of the kitchen screaming, "MOMMY FELL!! MOMMY FELL!!" and Riley rushed in ready to say his goodbyes. It was like something out of one of those dark comedies that Showtime is always producing. Basically, hilarious. Eventually, my breath returned, Margaret stopped screaming and Riley was assured of my continued life. By the end of the day, I had a bruise on my head the size of a salad plate (I have a very big head). I also had a kitchen that would make a Spartan mama proud.
Riley says that I am the only person he knows that could incur a concussion while cleaning the kitchen. I say the whole thing went much more smoothly than I could have expected.
Next week: The living room closet.