Some days, I am queen of The House of Chaos. A figurehead, really. Even—even on occasion— a lame duck. Queen Lame Duck. My children listen politely as I outline terms and conditions and parameters and guidelines, and as I elaborate on appropriate protocol, and then… they do their own thing, under advisement. I’ve adjusted to this, mostly. Recognizing that not every moment has to be controlled by me, and that when a particular moment is important, I can find ways to influence (that doesn’t mean I always do; it just means I’m aware of the possibilities).
There are plenty of occasions when I feel a little crazy. It is bewildering and frustrating to Frank to live in this house sometimes. The other night, worried that one of the kids might have changed the thermostat upstairs, he got out of bed to check. It was well past ten, maybe even eleven (lately, he leaves for work when he’s in town at 6:45 am). He came back down, got back into bed, and said to me, “Every single one of your children is awake and out of bed upstairs, Lynaea”. “They are?” I said, pretending incredulity. “what are they all doing?” “They are all laughing in Michaelyn and Maurya’s room, ” he said. There was a long silence between us while I considered. “What are they laughing about?” I finally asked. “Well, apparently Ezra hid in Michaelyn and Maurya’s closet, and when they went to bed, he jumped out and scared them. They made such a ruckus that Meisha and Nora came running to see what was up, and now they’re all in there laughing hysterically,” he replied. I could no longer contain my own laughter. Frank chuckled.
I should point out here that I am not blithely unaware of the significance of Frank’s position in our household. I know it is not ideal; it is, in fact, quite problematic (lions and tigers and bears oh my). But his “visiting foreign ambassador” status is inevitable, after so many years of job travel, and we’ve all adapted in ways that help us find equilibrium. Sometimes even real peace. We’re just glad to have his company when we get it.
As I write this, I realize there are two more important facts I must point out. First, Frank has work. He’s on a four month contract, with about two months left to go. Some travel involved; we are so grateful he’s employed. Second, I realize that the phrase “every single one” is redundant. I may not have quoted Frank verbatim when I put those words in his mouth. But I think I’m close. He was emphatic.
I’ll continue with the House of Chaos. It doesn’t always stay local. A little over a week ago, Ezra and Meisha took it to church, with their overgrown limbs and overgrown hair. They couldn’t keep either to themselves. There was so much hair and limb flinging that finally I devised a look (austere, meaningful, direct) that I hoped would chasten them into sobriety. Meisha wrinkled her forehead and managed to look both confused and stubborn, and Ez popped his eyes at me and dropped his jaw (his own personal improvement on the “Calvin” look). Once again I was obliged to suppress my laughter, until Ezra pulled all his hair down over his eyes, propped his chin on the pew ahead of him, and gazed listlessly up at the bishop on the stand through his too-long strands. I was torn between the urge to flee, the urge to growl, and the urge to break down in a fit of uncontrollable hilarity. Not an effective position from which to parent.
Frank’s parenting tactic at church: He hands out gum. He also ignores bad behaviour, but then, he’s almost always distributed the gum already, which renders his ignoring somewhat superfluous. He carries three packs (three different flavors) in the pocket of his jacket, and all three packs get passed down the row from kid to kid. Once, I took a green piece and put it in a blue piece’s wrapper, and put the disguised green piece back in the blue pack. I was a little surprised at the resulting outcry when someone ended up with the wrong kind of gum. My children apparently need predictability and consistency, even in their gum. Well, good grief kids. I need consistency and predictability too!
Or do I.
My Grandpa Compton used to play the organ at church (I know I’m drifting here). He taught himself to play, and had his own ideas about dynamics, which was frustrating to the chorister, who was (I hear) a perfectionist with classical training. He’d play at his own tempo and with his own expression. During the sermon, he’d find a comfortable place on the floor, out of sight of the congregation… behind the chairs on the stand, I imagine, and he’d take a nap. It tickles me to picture the congregation (and chorister) waiting in silence, long minutes after the closing song has been announced, as Grandpa’s face slowly appears from behind a row of chairs (he’s gradually waking up), and then as he stands up and takes his place at the organ, and plays the hymn with gusto and verve and nothing like the way the chorister is leading.
Well, I’ve wandered a little (or a lot) off subject. I have much, much more I could tell about the House of Chaos. I’m sure some of it will appear in snippets and snatches in later entries. It will out, as I’ve read (my sister Nola shouted “I come anon!” out the window as Dad and Mom drove away with her this morning…I’m sure she read that somewhere too). But at the moment, as Forrest Gump said, that is all I have to say about that. The end.
