Grayson and I were having a conversation recently, and I found out that it really annoys him when I mess up the words to "Rudoph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," no matter if my lyrics were better. He apparently doesn't approve of Rudolph as a red-nosed goat, despite what I think. He also thinks it's Windy the Pooh, and the cuteness of that makes me want to scream. I'm biased, but he is the most endearing child on earth. Ask my mom. No, she's biased. Ask Bridget. Well, she's biased too. Anyway, he is. My mother-in-law says Grayson is the spitting image of his daddy, and if that's true, then he's in for greatness. Pace is the most endearing grown-up I've ever met. He'll want to throw up when he reads that, though.
After we discussed Windy the Pooh, I sang my new curtain-related version of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat": "Sew, sew, sew your boat, gently down the seam. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a curtain." To which Grayson said, "Mama, you didn't brush your teeth." And I retorted, "Well, you didn't, either," and he just laughed and kissed me. There isn't another person less like me on earth that I love more. If he could just stay 4 forever, that would be fine with me.
I had a moment today when I panicked and decided that I have a brain tumor in my nose. Yes, you read that right. I've had headaches for about two years now, along with blurred vision, congestion, and my handwriting's getting worse. So I naturally chalked it up to a brain tumor in the nose. That rationale right there should verify the fact, right? Then I drank some Diet Coke, got my life together, and remembered that the headaches, congestion, and blurred vision are all due to allergies and a deviated septum. I've had a CT scan; there's no tumor. I don't have an answer for the handwriting, except that it looks the same as it did 15 years ago, but I just write faster. And it's generally in the form of lists or journalling with my eyes half-open in the morning. Pace may have been justified when he called me a hypochondriac. Oh, wait. Gray and I do have that one thing in common.
Speaking of my non-brain tumor in my nose, I had a lapse in mental activity when I special-ordered my dining room curtain fabric. I started cutting today and realized I'm 6 yards short. That's sort of a significant amount, you know. I realized I'd only measured for half the window. Maybe I should've skipped calculus in high school and taken practical math instead. So while I planned on sewing the four Roman shades and two goblet-pleated curtains by Thursday, so as to impress my parents when they get here Friday, I'm going to serve a double-whammy and impress them with four Roman shades and one curtain. If I remember correctly, I likewise impressed my in-laws at Christmas with half of the great room curtains.
There's a point to this: I realized, in a flash of insight today, that I'm never going to have it fully together. I have too many children, too large a house, too crazy a husband, too many great ideas, too much to do. . . Scratch that. The problem is me. It's my personality: I love to start things, and I'm not great at consistency and routine, and those together equal lots of projects, ideas, and irons on the fire, but I rarely have enough paper towels in the house, and I'll never have a fire escape plan or a fully-stocked pantry or vacation planned more than two weeks in advance.
And you know what? That's fine. I don't have to have it together all the time. My kids love being in our family, regardless of whether I ever finish painting the baseboards, or weed every flower bed, or serve dinner at exactly 6 p.m. every night. My husband loves me, even if I am a hypochondriac who stinks at practical math and decides now is a good time to order the rest of my china, even if we have looming medical bills. He didn't marry me because I'm a steady eddie; he married me because I'm hot. (Sorry, had to type that. I'm still laughing.) He married me because we were friends, and we made each other laugh, and I love him more than I love myself. So in that flash of a second, I realized that while the cupboards in the bathroom are never going to be fully stocked with extra rolls of toilet paper and hand soap and emergency supplies, it's okay. I can quit stressing about being able to do it all.
There's something happy about accepting that we're all a little bit different, and that we're never going to be everything we wish we could be. If it's cute that my 4 year old thinks it's Windy the Pooh, then it can be okay that I can't do practical math. And that I'm a slight hypochondriac. And that I'm not good at planning ahead. Because you know what? Even if I didn't brush my teeth this morning, he still wants to kiss me. I make them laugh, and that's what matters.