Mother Superior and Her Kids On Sunday

Ha Ha Ha Ha!

After birthing and raising three children, now in my twentieth year, I figure I get to call myself a Mother Superior. You can, too, if you want. I'm not trying to act conceited -- just Superior. This morning, I wrangled the boys into taking down the tree and then rearranging the living room to my precise specifications. Perhaps I'm not so much a Mother Superior as the mother of Superior Sons. Despite the constant bickering and escalated shouts, the cranking up of music and the competing blares from the saxophone, the room got done. These boys even vacuumed the furniture.

Oliver then got busy making tortillas with his tortilla press. We squeezed lime juice on those little circles of corn and sprinkled salt on them, ate them hot as fast as he could make them.

And Sophie? Sophie was really happy today, less agitated, with no seizures to speak of. Knock on wood. Three times. I got a kick out of playing with her -- she loves these crazy felt mums on my slippers -- Mother Superior definitely getting some interest from one of the cloistered sisters.

Sisters and Brothers, how was your Sunday? Tell Mother Superior.

The Big O is Home from Switzerland

As you can see, Oliver got home from Switzerland with a hell of a lot of Swiss chocolate. Added to the Christmas crap that is, literally, everywhere, I can say confidently that I live in a Christmas and Chocolate Shop. I haven't even seen The Big O this morning as he is sleeping, still, at 2:00 in the afternoon. I'm trying to take down Christmas and simultaneously declutter. I've begun in the dining room, and in between opening cabinets and drawers and tossing what I don't want or need or am sick of, I pop one of those chocolates you see up there, clustered in a pile to the right. I'm being fueled by chocolate and incredulity at the amount of crap I have. January 3rd seems like as good a day as any to be ruthless, but don't think it isn't hard for me to part with some stuff. There's a three-drawer cabinet in one corner that has long been The Art Cart, and it's filled with art supplies -- markers, pencils, paper, stamps, watercolor paints, drawing pads, and various odd stuff like pipe cleaners and popsicle sticks.

Here's the thing. No one in my house is remotely crafty or artistic in the manner of The Art Cart, although we have riffled through the contents over the years for school projects, lemonade stands, etc. I really am loathe to get rid of The Art Cart, though, with that nagging premonition that the moment I do toss it, I'll need something from it -- why the hell did I throw out that Frida Kahlo coloring book? -- and have regrets. During hour three of the purge, I took a break and rode over to the post office to mail something and mulled over the art cart, the difficulty of getting rid of stuff, what that means in a psychoanalytic way and other psychic-shattering things.

Reader, I actually thought this thought:

The Art Cart could stay there and maybe when I have grandchildren, they'll appreciate the stuff inside of it. 

I'm going to wake Oliver up and pop some more chocolate.

Overzealous decluttering