Of Mice and Music

I'm on my third tube of mascara this summer. 

We've not had any fancy dates and I've spent most of the past few weeks in either pajamas or sweaty activewear (which does not bode well with an oversensitive post-Covid nose), so there's actually been very little make-up-wearing around these parts. I'm on my third tube because my hygienic little young'uns have been spreading the wealth that is pink eye not once, but TWICE this summer, thus infecting the fancy-pants cosmetics my mom bought me. Mom, if you're reading this, don't worry. I purchased some more of the good stuff rather than cheaping out. 

This past spring, however, I actually was wearing makeup. And real clothes. And showering before the kids were awake. Ah, life was grand before the baby decided to boycott his co-sleeper and nurse all night long. It was in those dreamy, blissful days that I delighted in the thought of a fast-approaching summer filled with popsicles, kiddie pools, and citrus-garnished Blue Moons. 

I was so naive. 

Our current season in life can be best described as, "Whatever. Good enough," so please excuse the errors and run-ons because as I'm typing this, my two-year-old is sweetly laying in my arms but touching every button and repeating, "Mommy, how could you make letters?" Where I was once looking forward to summer vacation as a chance to slow down, I'm now counting down the days until our homeschool year begins in the vain hope that the return of our normal, chaotic routine will somehow make us healthier. I don't know. But it has to be better than double rounds of pink eye. When my four-year-old first bestowed the lovely eye boogers upon us, she took her eye drops like an absolute champ. Then my six-year-old caught it and whoooooo boy, hell hath no fury like my daughter staring up a tube of antibiotics. Then there came the two-year-old, who tightly clasped both hands over her eyes (time to wash again) and bellowed, "I don't yike eye dwops!!" The joy repeated every two hours with each dosage. Then I caught it as a lovely sinus infection. Only the males in our house were blessedly spared. 

Once the goo resided, we'd surely sail smoothly into a sweet summertime with happy memories to be made, and so it seemed as we joyfully road-tripped to a reunion with my husband's large and loving extended family. There was bonding, swimming, and beer a plenty... and barf. First my four year-old's, then my husband's, and then, as we embarked upon our eight-turned-thirteen-hour drive home, the two-year-old's somewhere at a gas station in Kentucky. She'd barely eaten her lunch, but the sickeningly sweet smell of blueberries and Chick-Fil-A sauce erupted without end. If it weren't for their peppermint milkshake due to return this December, I doubt I'd ever be able to stomach the "Chikin" restaurant again. Once the downpour passed, she gleefully sat in the shotgun seat wearing nothing but a pull-up, while I stared down a puked-up car seat armed with a package of Costco wipes. All I could think of was Darryl Philbin scolding Michael Scott, "We're the ones that gotta clean that up."

With only half the wipes and minimal dry-heaving, we were back on our way home with only 7 hours, a screaming baby, and two more barfs to go. But hey, we made it, right? Surely now the rest of summer would be easy! 

Nope. We found evidence of mice in the pantry and family room and caught the perpetrator the next morning, but the fun was just beginning. John Paul decided sleeping on his own is overrated and Mom should be able to do without. The girls figured out new ways to make either bigger and more creative messes with their toys inside the house, or filthier messes of themselves in sand, dirt, and chalk outside. I like to think we keep watching television to a minimum, but my kids have watched so much Bluey that they now speak with slightly Australian accents (our niece has a slightly British one, thanks to Peppa Pig). There's a square-foot hole in our family room ceiling from a plumbing misfortune, and the only tree that shaded our backyard had to come down with a lovely price tag. PINK EYE CAME BACK WITH A VENGEANCE and I now shudder at the slightest sight of morning sand in any of my kids' eyes (I almost titled this piece "Of Mice and Mucus." Thankfully, I still have some teeny shred of knowing when it's TMI). Despite washing my hands raw after administering each miserable eye drop into the unwilling victims, I shared in the joy of a second lovely ENT illness with a second depressing trip to the CVS Minute Clinic (but at least this time it was viral, not bacterial, so that's something, right?). After some late-night gooling into natural ways to boost immune systems, I read that getting dirt-under-your-fingernails filthy is one of the best defenses, but holy biscuits my girls have spent half the summer like Linus! I should know - I'm the one who chose to bathe them every day at 1 pm (even when spaghetti was on the dinner menu) rather than have them track it all over the assumedly clean house! Just as I was about to lose my mind (and my voice), I was lucky enough to find MORE mice evidence on the exact floors I had just washed on my hands and knees. Uncle. At one point in the madness, we actually submitted an application for a golden retriever puppy because how could it get any crazier? Thank God for that $4,000 price, or I'd currently be (unsuccessfully) potty-training two small critters.

Oh, and the same poor toddler who puked her guts up in Kentucky also took a terrible spill
and knocked out one of her front teeth right before months-long-planned family pictures (complete with coordinating outfits). She's quite proud of the plush puppy purse she found under her pillow the next morning, but the tooth fairy still shudders at the memory of all the blood. Wouldn't you know that as she took that spill, I was scolding everyone about cleaning up yet another gargantuan mess? Momguilt has THE WORST timing. As I'm typing this, I hear that very same Bluey-loving girl sigh, "Oh, biscuits."

Indeed.

So yes, this summer has been one for the birds. We're all fine and happy and healthy(ish) and blah blah blah, but man. I've never been so ready to restart homeschooling so maybe MAYBE things will be easier. Yeah, right.

BUT, as always, Christ makes His way through the mess and the madness. Serendipitously, my snaggle-toothed two-year-old just crawled up next to me wearing only a pull-up and a smile. Family life is full of chaos and headaches and thankfully, ours are all passing. None of these constitute actual "problems," just another excuse for more chocolate. In the midst of vomit, mice, and conjunctivitis, I was blessed with the unique opportunity to see a dear friend for the first time in nine years! As it turned out, a former classmate who is now a Dominican priest would be touring with his fellow friars and their band and had planned to play in Chicago on the same weekend we had already planned a trip to see my family in the Windy City suburbs. With tickets in hand and my mom babysitting our dingo babies, my husband and I had our first date in months to see The Hillbilly Thomists and it was, quite literally, music to our souls. At a vintage theatre showcasing all things true, good, and beautiful, we enjoyed originally-written and beautifully crafted bluegrass music (way better than Lollapalooza, let me tell you). After praying Vespers in the beautiful St. Alphonsus downtown church, my husband and I enjoyed a truly refreshing visit with my-turned-our good friends. It was a good visit; the kind of laughter and conversation that you wish could go on for hours were it not for the bedtimes of parents with small children. 

There's a point to all this, I swear. However, I can't get to it. My two-year-old is scrunching down under my bed sheets and keeps asking me to count to ten as she "hides" under the covers. There's multi-tasking, and then there's trying to write coherent sentences while counting to ten and conversing (AKA repeating) with a two-year-old, who is now pointing at my laptop's power button and asking, "What does dis button do?" Yikes. 

Hah! The two-year-old has toddled out of the room with a mischievous smile, so I have anywhere from twenty seconds to ten minutes to make my point! Here's hoping my brain cells have a little fuel left. While sharing rich laughter and conversation after the concert, Fr. Joseph remarked on what a blessing it is to see young married couples who clearly love each other. I was confused, as I thought the blessing was in seeing talented, joyful friars giving their lives in humble obedience to Christ. As I watched them perform in their white habits with a galore of stringed instruments, the words of St. Irenaeus came to mind: "The glory of God is man fully alive." These men were the glory of God in their music, their community, their joy, and their humor. It gave us respite from the demands of family life and rejuvenation for its return, mice and all. 

Life with four children aged six and under is chaotic and messy and hard. But I once read that in motherhood you may lose your mind (as I believe I have), but oh, how you find your soul. In the kissies, the sleeping-angel-faces, the baby giggles, and the sweet sibling play. In watching kids play outside until they're good and dirty, in the weight of a sleeping infant on my chest, and in celebrating my grandmother's beautiful life. In the sacrifices of sleep, uninterrupted writing, real clothes, and proper grammar. I'd usually ask my husband to fix my many errors due to sleep deprivation, but as I said before: Whatever. Good Enough. In these early days of parenting, unlike any other time in our lives, we will never have more opportunities to serve Jesus than in the constant needs of our children. Who ever thought He'd ask for so many snacks? 

It was pretty dumb to expect an easy, peaceful summer with little kids. Ten bucks says my husband knew all along but was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Jesus doesn't give us easy (at least, not according to our plans). He gives us opportunities to serve and sacrifice; He invites us to take up our cross and follow. He reminds us, along the way, that there is beauty and joy in the giving of ourselves to one another. As I write this, I can't help thinking of how my mom (and other family members) are taking up the very hard cross of caring for my aging grandfather, and how many other loved ones are carrying their heavy, heavy crosses. However, as the Hillbilly Thomists witness through their music, there is beauty and purpose in sacrifice, even if in the moment it just feels like mousetraps and eye drops. 

Short-Wilson Family Reunion Pre-Barfnado