A Barrier Day

Wednesday was a Barrier Day. Nearly all of my undertakings were hindered by a significant barrier sprouting up at the most inconvenient moments. I dropped or fumbled well over half of the objects I picked up. Every time I looked down to read a scripture verse, I was immediately interrupted. A trip to the toilet was accompanied by cannon-blast-pounding on the door or shouts of "MOMMY! WHERE ARE YOU! I NEED TO TELL YOU THESE TWELVE THINGS RIGHT NOW!"

Before school, Jay and Rose have to get dressed, do the dishes, and practice piano. On Wednesday morning, Rose delayed loading the dishwasher for a solid 20 minutes because she was "too cold" and she couldn't move well enough to unload while wrapped in a blanket. She stormed and negotiated and complained at me, shooting down all of my most sensible suggestions, like "if you're cold, put on a jacket!" All of her storming, stomping, and mourning practically screamed "STOP BEING RIGHT AND STOP BEING SO SENSIBLE!" with the less-than-subtle undertone of "I'm tired!"

Rose wanted to ignore my practical helpful advice and think of her own solutions, but she wanted to run me through her emotional gauntlet along the way. This is her favorite way to get through any of her difficulties: ignore advice and shred the adviser. She worked herself into her trademark Rose state of stubborn irrationality and the simple five minute task of unloading the dishwasher turned into an ordeal of mountainous proportions. Eventually she finished unloading, but she never did put on a jacket.

After the lengthy emotional dishwasher debacle, Rose was struggling to switch gears to get in her piano practice before the school bus arrived. In a brief flash of motherly intuition, I realized that she was done for the morning--completely maxed out. So I stopped encouraging her to hurry, hurry, hurry up to practice and instead sat on the couch, held out my arms, and hugged my intense little daughter. I tried my best to soften my heart enough to forgive her and show her love. After some effort, I managed it in the end.

"Do you want to practice piano after school instead?" I asked her. She nodded.

We sat snuggled on the couch together for the entire final half hour before the school bus came. Rose thawed out under my huggy attention. She has always been a snuggler, so I let her into my personal bubble. She talked and talked, and I listened without opposing her. It was tough to let go and just listen with the before-school clock ticking, especially when she retold the entire Curious George story that she had heard at school in long-winded, excruciating detail. I reminded myself that this was a morning that I would never regret, hard as it was in the moment. The thought softened me up considerably and I kept listening to Rose's cheerful chatter. At the end of our half hour, Rose had regained her center and was all plucky, recharged, and ready for school. She boarded the bus with a confident spring in her step, leaving her drained shriveled shell of a mother to yank on some clothes and get moving on the day's errands. OH my thorny sweet Rose-barrier.

Right after the kids left for school on Wednesday morning, I gathered my remaining wits and took our van to the dealership in Yakima (40 minutes away) to have one of the sliding doors repaired. (blessed warranty, covering the extravagance of automatic sliding doors!) The repair was supposed to take two hours. Amber and I went on a run on the Yakima bike path while we waited--she in the stroller with her purse full of books and ponies, me behind the stroller with my knee high rainbow striped compression socks and sunglasses. On the roadside, we passed a couple of guys wearing woven tasseled hoodies and dreadlocks. One of them called out "your socks are awesome!" His voice was reminiscent of the sea turtles on Finding Nemo. I waved and kept running. It's nice to know that my socks inspire admiration in roadside van-dwellers...

As I jogged along the Yakima River, the blooming yellow sage brush caught the mellow September sunshine in such a friendly way. I was feeling all of the autumnal joys until I decided to get creative on my way back to the dealership and a single wrong turn took me an extra two miles out of my way. My enjoyment and refreshment in the run waned and I shifted to endurance mode. For the rest of my run I pondered whether "going the extra mile" counts if it is done by accident. I'm still not sure. About 3/4 a mile from the dealership, I stopped and walked it in, fielding Amber's frequent questions. Whew.

When we arrived back at the dealership 8+ miles after we left, (rainbow knee socks and all), I was informed that our van was still in pieces and the replacement part that they had ordered was just as faulty as the original. They had to order yet another part to replace the replacement, and the van would not be ready till tomorrow. I sagged. The dealership guy gave me his last loaner car, a dusty VW Jetta which was so cramped and low to the ground my knees came up practically to my ears while I sat in the driver's seat. We transferred the car seat, stroller, and my purse into the Jetta and drove the 40 minutes home, stopping briefly for a few groceries on the way. The gas light came on halfway home. Since when do they give a loaner car with an empty tank?? I sighed, pulled over, put a couple of gallons into it, and finished the drive home.

When I pulled up to our house, I realized that our garage door opener was still clipped to the visor in our van back at the shop. My house key was on the key chain with the van key, back at the shop. I considered my options: Jeff's parents have one of our spare garage door openers, so I could drive the 20 minutes to their house to retrieve that. I could search around outside for the house key which we hid so well that none of us can find it. I could attempt to get Amber through a window (undesirable because I detest removing window screens). At last I hit upon my first step: check the back door to see if somehow someone had left it unlocked. I lucked out. It was unlocked. 

"See, Mr. Frodo! Some luck at last!" 

When I opened the back door (which leads into the playroom), I encountered yet another barrier, this one more literal. A wall of boxes was piled all the way to the top of the doorway. Jay and Rose had dutifully cleaned the playroom the day before, tossing all of the cardboard boxes that they love to play with into a big heap against the playroom door. This was probably the first and last time I ever wished they hadn't cleaned the playroom! I clawed a small opening in the box-heap, lifted Amber through, and asked her to go open the kitchen door for me. She actually DID it without delay, miracle of miracles, and at last I was inside our house. 

Next I had to carry the groceries from the car, across the lawn, into the house, then down the steep narrow basement staircase to our spare fridge and pantry in the basement. Normally I bring groceries in through the garage, straight into the basement. I could've gone down, opened the garage, then run back around and moved the car into the garage, but it seemed ever so slightly easier to stay parked outside and carry the food across the yard. This is totally starting to sound first-world-whiney, but I had just run 7.5 miles pushing the stroller, I was tired, and Amber has a knack for being underfoot during delicate operations (like carrying three milk jugs down the steep basement stairs). I got everything put away, turned a movie on for Amber, and then had about 90 minutes to breathe before cross country practice.

Cross country practice brought my daily total distance run up to nine miles on Wednesday. It was a barrier day for the books. At the end of the day, I was drained dry both physically and emotionally, but craving quiet alone time too much to go to bed for some [also] much-needed sleep. The endless dilemma of an introverted parent: sleep or quiet alone time? Note: sleep does not fill the same needs as quiet alone time. I chose a little of each, which of course resulted in neither requirement being filled sufficiently.

Conclusion: Wednesday was a Barrier Day, but I soldiered on and eked out a few victories amidst the difficulties. Success feels good, but boy was it hard-earned. Why is it so hard to feel successful at the end of a Barrier Day?

It was tough. I prevailed. That is all. 

Pictures from that lovely run in Yakima:

• This pond took green slime to the next level.
• My layered view: hand, stroller, pathway, rocks, Yakima River, shrubbery, brown hills, blue sky.
• Fall colors in the Yakima Valley are vastly different than my beloved Shenandoah Valley back in Virginia, but they are still rustic and pleasing.
• Sage brush: the prickly bushy wild growth that takes over uncultivated areas around here. It blooms yellow during September and that burst of happy color is always a pleasant surprise.
• I propped my phone on a trash can to attempt a picture, but I didn't know how to pose/didn't get into position fast enough, so it was weird and I gave up.
• Attempt #2 at a picture together: that sunshine was bright!
• The pathway passes through Sherman Park--a cool shady green area with a few benches and a dog park. This tree, hinting at future color, caught my eye.
• Above the Yakima River, just before I discovered my wrong turn.

After the wrong turn, the blissful beautiful photos stopped. I also had to go into Yakima to get back to the dealership so the views were much less nature-ific.

In the loaner car: my weight was all on my tail bone. This picture does not really illustrate my discomfort, but I had to try.

The back door: a victory, then a barrier...

Here are a few behind-the-scenes outtakes snapped while I was typing this post. Sometimes it's worthwhile to pause in the middle of the storm to sneak pictures like these to remind myself how AMAZING I am for ever getting anything done.