McDonnell Place

A few mornings ago, Evan walked into our room and vomited on the carpet at the foot of our bed. A day or so after that, the toilet was clogged with not so pretty water, if you know what I mean, and then Madalyn used it against warning and- ta da! Overflow all over that carpet. Jack had a few unusual spit-up episodes 'round about that same time, but it wasn't until yesterday that we realized a virus was in the house. Yesterday, because that was the morning when Madalyn, too, walked into our room covered in dried vomit, then later threw up all over her carseat, and then again today had two more episodes and walked around whiney and pale. We've gone through so many Clorox wipes you'd think we were a decontamination unit, so much Resolve we should just buy in bulk- wholesale- and start a carpet cleaning company.

Maybe you can already tell where this is headed... another one of those self-loathing, sem-confessional blah blah blah posts. So I'll jump right into it already-

I've been feeling discontent and easily overwhelmed lately... always followed by a wave of guilt, (you know, for feeling discontent and easily overwhelmed,) and- not to mention- short-fused. What bothered me most was that I couldn't figure out where it was coming from.

Was it the baby blues? I'd never had them before. Was it all the sickness and transition? Still, I didn't think I could be so easily thrown. Maybe it was quite simply the state of being cramped with 5 people (and three of them very messy people) into 1600 square feet of living space with no yard, no hamster wheel, to run our restless legs on. But then so many more families- bigger families- live in smaller and get along just dandy. We lived with such people up at Wheaton and their happy carrying-ons put us to shame in a major way. But then why do I always have to take that "it's all relative" outlook and guilt myself to death? Isn't that self-destructive, contributing to the funk I'm in? I mean everyone can say that- there's always a worse-case scenario. But fact is, we're human and we're self-centered and when things get tough we prefer to worship our pitiful selves in our own little pitiful world. It's like we enjoy it in some sick, sadistic way. That thought points me right back to the guilt road (also self worship) and it's an endless cycle...

So I've been pondering this. Pondering, pondering... the kind where you wish you could turn your brain off because why does it matter anyway, just shape up already, self! And then God answered my ponderings. He answered them as I sat and watched Food Network's young and beautiful Giada De Laurentes slice an onion with frosty white painted fingernails so gracefully I expected classical music to commence. He answered me as I watched her package another perfect meal in another perfect transparent teal take-out box, as she poured Italian lemonade into beautifully shaped individual bottles and topped each fizzing bottle with a cork, smiling her broad smile with her hair falling just so, her necklace sparkling just so.

I had gone from laughing at how impractical it all was every show, to admiring the craft, to actually believing I could do the craft, too, to getting flat ticked off that, in fact, I could not do the craft because WHEN WOULD I?

While Giada was meticulously wrapping tiny globs of Nutella in small egg roll wrappers and placing them on a neat sheet of parchment paper atop a brand new baking sheet, I was cleaning up poop and vomit and sweating like a pig putting three kids in carseats. While she was rolling Italian words off her tongue like music, I was trying to keep to my new "no yelling" rule for just one day. While she was planning glamorous outfits to match her foods and their containers, I was pulling up slightly gaping maternity clothes and wondering when my closet floor would be clean enough to lug down the box of normal clothes again and sort out some things that might fit.

My brother bought me one of Giada's cookbooks long before I was a viewer... last Christmas, actually. The same year my mom gave me Writer's Block was also the year John gave me Giada De Laurentes' Everyday Italian "because she's hot." A cookbook where you can't tell at first glance if it's a portfolio for a promising model, or an original recipe collection, because it's half pictures of Giada and half recipes. Okay maybe more of a 75/25 ratio.

And for the record, nothing says Merry Christmas like a hand-me-down gift. Like when you buy a certain cd because you want to burn a copy before passing it on to your mother, (I mean, not that I've done that or anything... ) But seriously, what do I want with a book someone else drooled on prior to moi?

Anyway, enough of that- now that I've begun living vicariously through Giada, I've pulled that second-hand sucker out and book-marked a recipe or 20. Because not only is she beautiful, but it as it turns out, she can in fact cook. Wonderfully.

She can cook, she can dress, she can wrap things in pretty packages, and she has all her ducks in a row. She's a trendy, posh, young Italian Martha Stewart. In short, her turquoise tiled kitchen is filled with magic because she's got it going on. And I don't.

And that was when God woke me up out of the trance to tell me that my vicarious living and resulting self pity was sucking the joy right out of my life with the tenacity of a vampire bat. I had found something to be discontented about. The beautiful tv celebrity Giada by all appearances had her ducks in a row and- boo hoo- I did not. Talk about a refresher course on the basics!! It's like I'd dumped the 1st commandment out with the dirty diapers.

If you've attended a Beth Moore study perhaps you've heard her mention the captivity of activity; how our constant going, going, and doing, doing can even become a stronghold over us. Well I can't exactly say that it's a stronghold because I don't have the luxury of going, going and doing doing. It's worse than that. I'm in captivity to the idea of activity. I'm coveting the opportunity to be a Martha when God's giving me the perfect set-up to really learn to be a Mary. It's strange, too, because normally I feel too much of a Mary, not too concerned with having all my ducks in a row. I'm not one who can't sleep if there are dirty dishes in the sink, who feels guilty if her kid goes a day without a tooth-brushin'. But lately that's all changed. And it started with the transitions and illness that entered with Jack's birth and has swarmed around us ever since. That was when the power to choose how to do things and when to do things was snatched from my hands. And I resent it.

I'm bitter watching Giada because if I should want to get on a cooking kick or maybe take some extra time in the morning for make-up and a nicely chosen outfit, well it's not an option. At one point I thought, 'maybe if I just paint my fingernails a frosty white I will feel clean, surrounded by cleanliness, and as if my fingers are magical instruments like the fairy godmother's wand, turning ordinary things into sparkling wonders.' And I really believed it might happen for me. Only I still haven't had a chance to paint them. I finally got around to cutting my toenails this morning, and even that I had to do while on the phone, to multi-task.

It's one of those obsession rides I get on that robs me of all my content. I can't believe I still fall for such an obvious stunt. It's like tripping over a piece of glowing, fluorescent wire. I know I wouldn't swap places with Giada for any amount of money, and deep down, I don't envy her at all because I have everything I want packed securely under my 1600 sq ft roof; three healthy (well, sort of healthy) children and my best friend I call husband. But still- a day, just a day in her shoes would be nice. A day of makeup and outfits and cooking for the people I love under exceptionally good lighting sounds pretty blissful right about now.

Since I can't clean house, just pounding this out will make for a good substitute. It's like I am cleaning house, getting this off my chest and out into cyber space. I was really trying to avoid more gutter stories, too, knowing full well the internet has heard more than it ever wanted to know about the bodily functions underway at our house. But I can't help it. It's therapeutic.

So consider this my verbal surrender, before God: I, Katherine McDonnell, hereby declare that I am surrendering all my ducks to the Lord. If He so desires them to roam, to run in a serpentine fashion, or to take off bolting in twenty different directions, then so be it. Because He cares for me, He can have my ducks. This does not, however, mean I won't continue looking through the newspapers for the ideal next home, nor will I stop watching Everyday Italian... unless I receive Word that these things, too, need to go alongside the attitude. My loyalties lie with the Lord and His will in the chaos that is my life. The only place I want to be is the very place Mary resided; sitting at His feet, soaking up His presence, receiving His delight in me.

(Just the fact that He doesn't hand me and my annoying self over to my worldly lusts should be enough to keep me there, shoudn't it?) To think He delights in me! Lord, help me believe it.

Thank you, Blogland, for the therapy you afford. And now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to take a bath and paint my nails a frosty shade of white.

Saturday, September 23, 2006

September Shots

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

The Grocery Store Hates Me

Sunday, September 10, 2006

The Italian Chick

Thursday, September 07, 2006

If You're Going to Beat Up Someone