On Procrastinating Home Repairs

So we have had a drip in the master bathroom sink since, I don't know, last year, maybe? I can't even tell you how long that drip. . .drip. . .drip has been driving me nuts at night. Only, recently it has become more of a dripdripdrip and we HAD TO do something about it!

I know it's been going on for several months at least, because we wanted to get it fixed last time we had a plumber over (last summer?). My husband mentioned it to him. The plumber told him it would be another $175 to fix. We were already spending something obscene like $850 to have the kitchen faucet fixed.

The man who sold us our house nine years ago had the brilliant idea of putting in impossibly expensive fixtures and appliances that we could never hope to repair so that he could flip the property and make a fortune.

Unfortunately for him and fortunately for us, that didn't happen. He sold it to us instead.

But whoever heard of a kitchen faucet costing that much to replace?!!!

Anyway, I digress. We couldn't even hope to add to that expense at that time. And then I walked around for months thinking all we needed was a new washer in the faucet. And being slightly miffed in the back of my mind (to that drip. . .drip. . .drip accompaniment) that no one ever did anything about the new washer we needed.

It was Friday that my husband divulged (at least in a way so that I heard him) that our bathroom faucet was WASHERLESS! That's what the plumber said to him last. . .year?

Anyway.

Since then, we had the dishwasher go on the blink, but not before ruining the kitchen floor. We had to replace both vehicles. We had a two or three weddings in the family--one that we were directly responsible for. And two deaths (which we were not responsible for). We had a plastic wolf dropped in the main toilet. So the bathroom faucet waited.

And waited.

Meanwhile, the water company sent me a letter that they were raising our rates, effective July 1. I lamely tried to say that my son would be moving out then and couldn't we wait and see what impact that had on our water usage before we got hasty and raised the rates? They sent an investigator to the house. The first report I got was that the water meter was not moving, meaning there was no leak. In subsequent phone calls, someone said it had been moving. Personally, I knew there was a leak. At any rate, the higher rate stuck.

"Your usage has doubled since last year," I was told.

I couldn't imagine why.

Paul said it was because we were doing dishes by hand instead of using the dishwasher. I disagreed. But, eventually, we did agree on something. The dripdripdrip woke us up, and by Friday, it had come to the top of both my husband's and my lists.

He took the faucet off the sink and knew exactly where to take it. "Your dad probably came here a lot," he commented.

"Really? He wasn't a plumber," I said, but felt comforted anyway, like maybe we would experience a visitation while we were there or something.

We walked in and sat at the counter. I imagined the place had once been a sandwich counter and fantasized briefly about ordering a double malt for us both from the muscle man standing behind the counter. But it was too tinny and dingy for that. Not chromey and vinylly like the fifties would have had it.

The quiet muscle man behind the counter smiled at our story and brought us a tiny black dob of plastic with a tiny spring. He added a jar of putty to put the sink back together with.

The cost? Five dollars, four cents.

Or did you mean the cost of the water bill?

Vintage Wear

So I went through my overflow clothes that have been in my baby's closet since we moved here. (Doesn't everyone have a closet like that?) Never mind that who the "baby" in that room is has changed three times. And I thought that I would add some of those clothes back into my wardrobe.

Woot woot!

First off, who knew when I stored these clothes away that people would stop tucking shirts in? Some of my old shells and blouses definitely require a tuck-in, but I feel downright ancient doing it. Also, my waist isn't really quite ready for that display yet. Although I DID wear the mint suit at my son's wedding reception and my husband said that if I couldn't have looked any nicer without upstaging the bride. Who is movie-star beautiful and at least that tall, too. In her elaborate ivory wedding dress with her hair done up, she looked exactly like she could have been plucked from the heroine role in a Jane Austen film. So, I was forced to forgive him on the spot for all past sins. (Can you believe I'm going to have to start over now?)

Have you ever found a $20 somewhere and you have no idea how it ever got there or how you forgot about it? Well, no, I didn't find a twenty, but something like that. While excavating this closet, I found a perfect little black dress skirt that had NEVER BEEN WORN!

I KNOW! How did that happen? Slobbering, I hurriedly checked the tag, and it was a size 12. So I immediately grabbed an old mauve shell I'd been saving and put it with it to form an outfit for this week. "I'd better wear this thing quick before I can't wear twelves anymore," I said to myself.

Yeah, right. So, to figure out if this shell can really go with this skirt and what to do about tucking or not tucking, etc., I tried this outfit on in that small moment between when I walk in the door and when I am already wearing my nightgown for the night. (Paul calls me the fastest nightgown in the West, which really doesn't quite equal the earlier comment in any way but is still okay.)

I couldn't believe it. The skirt didn't fit. I checked the label again. Twelve. I weighed myself. I measured my waist. Of course both of those numbers were up a little because--hello!--this is evening and I never in my right mind weigh or measure in the evening. So I'm tearing my hair out wondering if I've really gained weight or if something else is off.

I'm thinking something really funky happened to this skirt in the factory. I've been wearing tens and this was not fitting like an 8 or a 6.

Which might explain why it's never been worn.

And why I forgot about it. I mean, who wants to remember a size 12 skirt that they could NEVER WEAR?

So I put it back in my closet--but only a week back. I'm still going to keep trying it until I can wear it--mauve blouse or not, tucked or not.

Truth Stranger than Fiction

On my son's last night at home, I entertained mixed feelings. Fatigue being among the top contenders, I headed to bed early. Also, I had nothing left to prepare and wanted a good night's sleep in order to be at my best for the next day's events.

He had been going in and out of the house, cleaning his car and attending to last-minute details before his wedding the next morning.

As I went through my bedroom door, I glanced at the digital clock on the dresser. Eight-thirteen. At the same time, I heard the front door of the house close behind my son.

Wow.

I could hardly believe it. Eight-thirteen p.m. is the time my son was born.

So, exactly 8770 days from the moment he was born, the last day of my life with him in my home ended and I heard the door shut behind him.

I couldn't write fiction this good if I tried.

I have noticed this at other times in my life, like when my daughter, through a series of strange small events, was born on my parents' anniversary, as I'd wanted her to be because my mother had recently joined my dad in the hereafter and her due date had been close to their wedding date. My doctor had said it was impossible for her to be born that day unless it happened on its own (and I only once in seven children went into labor on my own), because she was going to be on her way to China that day. But, the universe smiled on me and gave me exactly what I wanted--a daughter I could name after my mother on the day my mom and dad had been married.

And the time I was writing about my life and saw how certain events had fit together just as smoothly as a jig-saw puzzle to make things work out. And when I struggled for the exact words I needed to express something very important that had happened and they came into my mind and I knelt with tears streaming down my face to thank God not only that I had the ability to write what had happened, but because I could finally see that the misery I had passed through fit with the writing talent and other blessings I had been given to allow me a way to do some good in the world.

Sometimes, I think the entire history of the world is a very good, long novel of the most intricate detail imaginable--like zooming in on the pattern of a flower far enough down to see the pattern of its cellular structure, and then the patterns of the molecules, and then the patterns of the atoms themselves. A novel with characters of every sort, a meaningful plot line, important themes, life lessons, and a glorious ending we're still waiting to get to. God knows every detail and has the thread to every plot line in His hands.

As my own section of this novel whizzes past, I have to marvel as I see its plot line fall into place. With my son getting married, I am scared to realize how far through this story I am, and I feel the same sort of longing I feel when I realize a good book I can't put down is going to end sooner than I want it to.

Here I was, the mother of the groom, giving him the wedding luncheon I wanted to have for myself--at the Lion House. Here I was, going to bed like an old person, while he shut the door without a care on my significant moment and moved on--as he should. Here I was, not the young person any longer, but the wiser, more worried one, watching and hoping with all my might to see how it turns out. Glad that he is in a better situation than I was in. Glad he has made better choices, is better set up, better equipped. Glad that the wedding luncheon I can offer him is not at an all-you-can eat buffet, as mine was, by his father's choice (due to his own sense of taste and not financial concerns). That should have been one clue to me of the life I was taking on, but I guess I couldn't see the red flag for the orange centerpieces.

When this son was serving his mission 6184 miles away--farther away than almost all of Europe, his twentieth birthday fell on a Monday. I thought that would mean that I would get an email from him that day, but the day waned on with no word from him. It turns out to have been the best reason possible. The people he knew there were taking good care of him.

I had become interested in seeing how light or dark it had been when each of my children had been born. For middle-of-the night births, of course it had been pitch black, but five of my children had been born in the morning or evening. Light in the morning or evening varies according to the time of the year, of course. So, on his birthday, I went outside at 8:13 to look at the light.

I found out the next day--when I was able to read the email message that did come late--that he had been looking out at the sky at the exact same time (only it was 11:13 where he was), wondering how light the sky was in Salt Lake City.

When life can give us moments like that--moments that connect us with each other and time and space and the universe and what's meaningful--I'll devour it like any great novel and hope against hope that I can catch on to what it's all about.

Waving the Banner

It's great to sing "The Star-Spangled Banner" in church on the actual Fourth of July. This doesn't happen every year. I have the whole thing memorized, so I stand and sing with gusto. (And with apologies to anyone standing in front of me.) My only regret is that I miss the third verse that was taken out of the hymn books twenty-five years ago. It was probably deemed too violent and bloody, but, hey! That's what revolutions are about.

Also motherhood, at it's early stages.

The early years of my experience in motherhood are why I love "The Star-Spangled Banner" so much, and why I have the whole thing memorized.

But family life isn't meant to be a battlefield, actually. We usually think about war as something "out there," removed from us.

When being at home, or with our closest family members, becomes a life-or-death situation, something is terribly wrong.

Two tiny Utah children recently lost their battles for their lives. Behind the closed doors of their parents' homes, they were wounded, tortured, and killed. Both were mere toddlers, having what the courts like to now call "parent time." Both were away from their custodial parents who had their best interests at heart. In both cases, the custodial parents knew that the child was not safe during "parent time" with the other parent, but were helpless against power of the law. Both "other" parents were creating new families with very violent partners.

Both of these stories could have been different if the custodial parents had had more support--from the courts, from the community, from the law.

I love America. We've come a long way. Nowadays, I can hear even women who rightfully think themselves anti-feminists express gratitude for the privilege of voting. Child murderers in Utah can now be charged with murder, whereas a few years ago, the worst charges they could get were for child abuse crimes.

We also sang, "America, the Beautiful" today. As the line, "God mend thine every flaw" passed my lips, my heart sang a prayer for this particular flaw that still exists in America's court system, and for better protection for our tiniest, most vulnerable, citizens--from the "terror of flight," "havoc of war," and "gloom of the grave," among those trusted (not by them nor those closest to them, but by the court system) to protect and care for them. "Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, and this be our motto: In God is our trust. And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave."