My first order of business as an empty nester is to organize and clean. When Madison left for college that first year I did my whirling dervish routine in her bedroom. I took everything out of the closet and organized it and put it back. I moved the furniture and dusted and vacuumed and organized the crap I found underneath. It was pristine when I was done and Tom and I took to sitting in her recliner and reading in that room. It probably had more to do with missing her than cleanliness, but I think the latter played a tiny role.
Me: "What are you doing? Shouldn't you be packing your stuff instead of cleaning your drawers?"
Darcy: "I'm trying to see what stuff I don't want you to find when you do your cleaning routine after I'm gone."
I started first in the Steelers room which started out as a porch, was remodeled into a playroom, eventually turned into an office, and is now a room dedicated to the men wearing black and gold. It is an office/game/tv room now and it is full of shit. There is no easier way of stating that. So I started today on cleaning and organizing that room first. Finding Madison's bin of school stuff that I had meticulously cataloged, I went through it to add the stuff to a "through the school years" book I had purchased a few years back.
One of the items in the pre-school file was an email I sent out to family and friends in December 2001 telling the following story. In reading the names of the recipients I realized they are all people that read my blog! Ha. This was pre-blog days and you peeps are still with me. Thanks for that!
December 16, 2001
Madison brought me a toy, a seashell that when opened lights up to reveal a baby mermaid and is supposedly allowed in the bathtub, and asked if I would put in new batteries as the toy was not lighting up. I agreed to do this and proceeded out to the garage where I spent considerable time unscrewing the six tiny screws holding the cover in place. It took three AAA batteries and much to my surprise those were in abundance in the battery cabinet.
I changed out the old with the new and before putting on the cover (this lesson I learned from my father and his buddy Karl) I tested the shell. Nothing. No go. No light. I took out the batteries and saw some corrosion on of the "thingies that the battery sits up against". I told Madison who was shadowing and watching my every move, "It's broken. You'll have to wait until your father gets home and he will fix it."
WHAT? Suddenly I heard my father telling me to fix the damn shell myself. Having watched him enough in the past to at least attempt to fix the shell, I gathered my lost wits and some tools and went to work. I used alcohol and a Q-tip and rubbed it on the corrosion. Still having trouble removing the gunk, I had to remove three more tiny screws to get further into the inner workings of the shell. I used a knife and more alcohol and scraped and scraped until the "little thingie" was clean.
Madison, still attached at my hip, asked a million questions. What are you doing? Why are you using that? What does that do? I explained everything patiently while I worked, channeling my father. I had to explain what corroded meant which led to three more questions, but finally it was time to put in the batteries and try again. When it worked, lighting up brightly, I took the moment to deliver a well meaning lesson to my five year old.
Me: "Madison, in life you will find that there will be people who will tell you that working on this type of thing, fixing things, is not something women or girls can do. They will tell you that men are the only ones who can fix things. I mean, I myself told you to wait until your father got home. That was wrong. Women and girls can fix things. Your Grandpa Russ taught me how to fix items when I was your age and older. In fact, he taught me how to do a lot of things, how to build things, and I should have tried to fix this shell before saying we should wait for your father. As you can see I could fix this shell. I did fix this shell."
By now I was beaming with pride, holding the shell high in the air, remembering learning the alcohol technique from my father.
Me: "So don't let people tell you that you can't fix things. Or do things. Girls can do anything, and if you do what I did and follow your father around while he fixes things then you too can learn how to repair items."
I gave her the shell and smiled widely, settling back in my chair at a job well done and a lesson well taught. Madison was quiet for awhile taking in everything and then she looked at me.
Madison: "Or Mom, I can just follow you around and learn how to fix things from you!"
And she took the shell and left the room, leaving me sitting there in stunned silence before I burst out laughing. Thank god my daughter learned that lesson far better than I did.
No comments:
Post a Comment