The sad man who lives in our basement

I would like to preface this post with: I am of (relatively) sound mind and body. Unfortunately, a summer cold was caught and passed around our house this week. Last night, the girls ran me ragged bringing tissues, glasses of water, and snuggles from room to room.  When I finally did land on the first horizontal surface I came to (the love seat) around 5 o clock in the morning, I got all cozy, (again relative to a version of cozy), but I couldn't sleep because there was something knocking around in our basement. I thought it was almost certainly Muggles, our cat who is only active at nighttime. Eventually, I must have fallen asleep because I was woken up by Paisley putting her wet underwear in my face (this. is. motherhood.). She is potty trained, you know, except when she isn't. It's a rough stage. Anyway, I woke up and asked Paisley to take her wet clothes down to the basement and set them by the washer so I could put them in right during the first load of laundry for the day. Side note, there is nothing worse then finding a peed in set of jammies tucked in to the bottom of a laundry basket a few days later.

We have started making the kids be responsible for their own care. Washing their hair (with help), brushing their hair (with help), vacuuming up spills (with help), sweeping up after meals ( with help), taking their own laundry to the basement, folding it, and putting it away (with help).  Sensing a theme? That 'with help' bit, that means mom eventually does it...but the point is to foster a sense of independence and responsibility.

Where was I? Oh yeah, peed underwear in my face immediately upon waking. So, the following is our approximate conversation:

"Mama, Here!" (wet underwear in my face)

"GRRRUUUUGHHHLLLL" ( This is me waking up. I don't know what it sounds like but this is how it feels)

"Uh, Oh! Did you have an accident in your bed?"

"No."

"Then why are your panties wet?"

"Because."

"Take them to the basement and put them in the basket by the washer."

" I can't. The mean man by the wall scares me."

"OOOOOOOOK....... what?"

" I can't go to the basement. The sad man lives down there and he scares me."

"Can you show Mama the sad man?"

She shakes her head no. She is obviously scared. I'm getting totally creeped out. Eventually, she agrees to show me the sad man who lives in our basement.

Okay, I really want to impress upon the reader of this blog that I'm (relatively) sane. I do NOT believe in ghosts, but in our dark cinder block basement, that I often make jokes about being like unto a third world prison, I'm a little more open minded.  Also, I'm hyper rational. So, as I descend the stairs, I've also conjured in my head this scenario/urban legend where a homeless man breaks into our basement window and lives in the corner of our basement in a pile of our dirty laundry, unbeknownst to Dan and I, but befriends our children and makes them promise to bring him food and keep the secret. All of course while doing "tricky" things to them and making them feel scared. I have anxiety people, and an overactive imagination.

Where was I? Oh yeah, descending the stairs armed with a prayer, a little slugger baseball bat, and the tiny hand of a 3 year tucked in mine.

"Why do you have a bat Mama?"

"Mama is just putting it down in the basement. Paisley can you show me the sad man?" (totally creeped out.)

She points deep into the dark corner of the basement. I see a lurky shadow. I flick on the lights to find.....

The sad man is actually our porch decoration of Uncle Sam that we usually bring out in July, but this year kept tucked away because the brim of his hat is loose and I haven't gotten around to fixing it. 

Relieved, I explain to Paisley that he is a statue, hitting him a few times for emphasis, that he is not real.

"He doesn't like when you hit him."

"PJ, he is not real!"

"Then why does he talk to me?"  

AND... We are BACK. TO. CREEPY.

So I'm contemplating moving and burning Uncle Sam in a bonfire tonight, but Paisley starts laughing and we talk about how she was just using her imagination. But seriously, Uncle Sam might meet an unhappy end.

EHHHH, EEEEE, EEEE, EEEEE

(that's that stabby sound in old movies)

( is stabby a word?)

( I said "relatively" sane right?)

Neville Longbottom

My daughter Brighton has always been a daddy's girl. From the minute she was born she wanted her daddy. He would walk the floor with her on his chest for hours at a time, when she had colic. She goes to her dad when she is hurt, feels scared, or needs comforting. I don't have negative feelings toward this relationship dynamic at all. My husband is an amazing father, and I'm glad my daughter has someone who loves her that she can confide in. But, there are sometimes, I wish we could be closer. We have always connected over arts and craft; something we both love. Then, this last year Brighton's reading skills and comprehension just blossomed and I so started reading them chapter books at bedtime. I was thrilled that I could finally share with her something else I love. That we could talk and connect over my favorite books.

 Last night we finished the first Harry Potter.  From the very first time I opened it in the Middle School Library when I was in the 5th grade, I have loved the book. Not surprisingly, it was a book about a child with a difficult life, who was felt different and unloved, who one day finds out he is special, even magical. He gets to escape that life, and be a hero. I related to this because so much of the time I felt...unvaluable.  Brighton lives a much better childhood then I remember living. When I was younger, I felt very different from other kids, like I was somehow built wrong. My brain didn't seem to process information like other people. And I was socially defunct. Unfortunately, this seems to be Bright's inheritance as well. Add that with a natural proclivity toward weirdness, and BINGO we are raising a geek. In our house Geek, Nerd, Weird...those are not negative words. Being a geek simply means you love something a little more then the average person. It simply means you love more, and that's not bad.

Brighton LOVED  Harry Potter. She begged me nightly to read just one more chapter. It was slower going then we both would have liked because her little sisters kept falling asleep through it. Last night the little ones fell asleep with just 4 pages left. It felt like a shame not finish for Brighton's sake, so we continued.  When I read the part where Dumbledore gives Neville 10 points for standing up to his friends, I heard the shuttered breathing from the top bunk of Brighton holding back tears. I understood. I think I was too at that point. I finished the book and slid out from between the other girls on the bottom bunk.  I told her that when I was younger I felt like Neville all the time, and so that part when he is the hero makes me cry too. She said she is Neville too. We talked about how being different isn't necessarily bad. How feeling different much of my life, lead me to be an independent thinker. Eventually, I think I grew into my weirdness, and made friends with people who value me for it.  We talked about how difficult it is to stand up to people, and how much harder it would be to stand up to your friends. Sometimes in life you have to do that. I told her about the time my best friends in the world asked me to do drugs, and they all did, but I said no. How I sat apart from them feeling alone. And how that was one of the most difficult experiences of my life. And she talked about how far apart she is getting from her friends. How they want to be all grown up; do and say teenager things, and watch teenager shows, and wear teenager clothes and how she  is happy just being 7.

and...That makes my heart happy.
and it's all thanks to Neville Longbottom.