The Easter Bunny Was Here!

Bill returned from England Monday night. His suitcase was filled with English Easter chocolate from Auntie, Grandma, and friends for the boys, for Bill, and for me. English Cadbury must be made by the same English cows that produce double cream for morning coffee and clotted cream for scones and jam. The creaminess is incomparable. Fresh Cadbury was much needed after a strange visit from the Easter Bunny. Will and Liam’s baskets were filled with little gifts but not a single chocolate bunny in sight. Or chocolate egg. Or sticky peep. However, the Easter Bunny had left his signature bunny trail of jelly beans. From the boys’ bedroom, along the banister, down the stairs, through the dining room and the kitchen, to their baskets in the living room. Liam usually has the trail half-eaten by the time he reaches his basket; however, this year he asked, “What kind of jelly beans are these? They aren’t the usual Jelly Bellies.” After lunch, the magic was gone and I swept up the line of rainbow rabbit poo and tossed it away.

When we left for church that morning, the boys saw there were plastic Easter eggs dotted all over the backyard! That’s not the norm for the Bunny at our house. After church, they went out and collected the eggs. They brought their stash in and emptied the goodies into plastic bowls.

Liam grabbed a handful of his favorite candy, Skittles. With one chew, he pronounced them, “HARD!” Skittles. Lindt Milk Chocolate Truffles. Pink Hershey’s Kisses. Godiva Pearls. Indeed it looked like the Easter Bunny had forgotten to bring Easter candy to the Malcolm house.

In fact, it looked like he had foraged through a cupboard and dug out Halloween, Christmas, and Valentine’s Day candy. Then stuffed them in plastic eggs and planted them out in the yard. The Easter Bunny stopped by after 1:30 a.m.; that’s when I woke up and had a peek outside. There were no eggs out in the yard then. When I glanced out at 3:00 a.m., I could just barely make out the little blobs through my blurry-eyed gaze.

Yup, by the the looks of the candy that the Easter Bunny left, our house must’ve been his last stop. We got the dregs, but it’s the thought that counts. And now, thank goodness... we have the English Cadbury.

The Flat Tire

My Mondays are ear-marked with three things: Food. Clothing. Shelter. I don my work clothes on Mondays and pull the curls into a messy bun, latching down loose ends with bobby pins. My shirt comes off the pile that all have holes in them. After a year or more, I realized that these “moth” holes were from working at the kitchen counter; the buttons on my jeans rubbed through on a dozen shirts. Otherwise, these are perfectly good shirts. Good for cooking, cleaning, and sleeping. My old denim capris are part of the Monday uniform. I think of them as new, but they are thinning. Some spots are rubbing into thin air leaving holes in places unseen – as long as I don’t try to clean under the couch.

Always, my Monday thought is to shower right before school pick-up. Always, I try to get one more task done and that 20 minutes for a shower is eaten up.

The pattern was the same this Monday. I threw on a thick sweater to cover the holes in my shirt and plunged my bare feet into furry snow boots. I tucked the short capris into the tall boots. I added a bit of eye brow pencil and mascara and a touch of bronzer to my cheeks. No way would I unleash the hair after it had been imprisoned all day.

After picking up the kids, I consider pulling myself together for the end of the day. Shower and shampoo. Make-up. Clothes without holes. But ten minutes before I need to carpool Liam and a friend to their gym class, I’m finishing up another task. As I call out, “Everyone in the car!” I am still dressed as I was that morning to take the kids to school: My work clothes to tackle Mondays' responsibilities and tasks under the umbrella of food, clothing, and shelter.

We had to make a short pit stop and as I pulled away from the curb, I felt my tire grind against something. In the rear view mirror, I saw a large lump of pavement. I believe my tire had made a 5 MPH exaggerated rub of this lump against the curb. Fifteen minutes later, I deliver the kids to the gym and know that the thump-thumping I hear and feel isn’t good. The front right tire was flat as a pancake. I limped into a spot where the tow truck could easily latch on to the front of the van.

The AAA dispatcher asked me what year the van was. 2005? 2007? Do you have a spare? I don’t know. Is it in the trunk? I don’t know. Can you look under the rear of the vehicle and see if it’s there? No, there are too many people in the parking lot for me to bend over right now. Shall I put the call in as a tire change with a possible tow? Yes. If the the tow truck driver can find the spare.

I was convinced the tire must be in a compartment under the storage in the rear of the van, aka: under the closet. I emptied the closet into the middle row. Quilts. Loose footballs, baseballs, Frisbees, tennis balls. Yoga mat. Baseball bag. Books. Plastic grocery bags. Plus all the miscellany normally stored in a family's mini-van. The seats were filled up to the headrests.

Forty minutes later the tow truck arrived. The driver looked like he just came on the shift; he was too clean. “So, you don’t know where your spare is?” Nope. We both looked at the floor in the back and agreed it probably wasn’t under the carpet. “OK, just a minute.” And he disappeared back to his truck. Was he calling someone? Referring to a manual?

Walking back to me, he stated, “I believe the spare is under the floor in the middle row.” Oh, where I just stashed all the stuff from the closet? “Yeah, best bet would be to move all that to the back seat.” I did my best to move all of it without bending over. He spotted the flap of carpet on the floor of the middle row. “Yup, just where YouTube said it was.” He took a nut off under a flap and the spare tire fell to the ground.

I stood aside and wrapped my sweater around me. I grabbed Liam’s sweatshirt and wrapped that around my shoulders then threw my purse over my head to hold all the wraps together. I had no gloves. I had no coat.

As it turns out, the driver was a college kid on spring break working for his dad. “I thought your shoes were awfully clean!” I commented. We laughed.

“I may be in college, but I’m not afraid of working and getting a little dirty!”

Me neither. I need appropriate clothes to go certain places, and sometimes I just need comfy clothes that let me get the job done.

In the future, I want to make different choices about what I wear where. And to make sure I have season-appropriate outerwear in the van. The very thing I harp to my kids when they leave in the morning.

Perhaps this will sway them:

A mugshot of a woman whose van closet held everything but the warm clothes she really needed on the cold early-spring late-afternoon when her van broke down with a flat tire.

Sheer Trickery

By 8:30 a.m.:I’ve had two cups of coffee while watching Cartoon Network with Liam since 6:18 a.m. A bad dream woke him up. A bear came into his classroom and ate his friend’s face. Then it came after Liam. Probably one of these goofy bears on Cartoon Network.

Bill leaves at 7:15 to take Will to school. Liam at 7:45 has clothes on, breakfast eaten, teeth brushed, coat on, and lunch packed. Then, at 8:00, the yelling as he gets out of the car at school. His? Mine? My memory is fuzzy.

I’m at the car wash by 8:10. With an early release day for my oldest son, Will, I’m taking him and four of his friends to a trampoline park in the afternoon. The van needs to be vacuumed, and I find it easier to pay $2 at the car wash with that big suction hose hanging at-the-ready than finding extension cords and threading them through the garage to the Shop Vac. Not to mention finding that little R2D2-shaped sucker somewhere in the garage. Or basement?

There’s no line at the vacuum station. It’s raining heavily, yet I choose this outdoor hose. I manage to suck out the two bench seats and the floors on that $2, but not the front of the van. I’m only trying to excavate the back as that’s where the boys will be sitting, where my sons have their daily mid-afternoon snacks. At the grocery store check-out line, I ran into a friend who has five boys. In our discussion about van excavations such as these, she said, “I have only two words for you: leaf blower.” With the vacuum, I know I leave a lower level layer of unseen refuse.

I don’t know Will’s friends’ families. This is the first time I’m taking Will and his school buddies out for the day. I’m going to vacuum up he and Liam’s loose Goldfish and other crumbs, for he’s nearing that age where he might be embarrassed by the mess in the back seat. And on that note, I don’t want to embarrass him at lunch. When we go to lunch after the trampoline park, how involved do I get in their conversation? Do I smile and nod a lot? Take a book and sit at another table?

At 8:30 I arrive home. I have an hour before I leave again. I need to get myself cleaned up. I’m damp from the soaking at the car wash. A bath sounds good. I smile knowingly about my inventive bath.

I take a cup of tea to my bathroom and set it in the tub rack. I hose down the tub and rinse away a couple weeks’ worth of dust. I light candles on the side table. I start running warm water to fill the tub, squirting wonderfully smelling bubble bath into the stream of water. Then I leave the room and close the door, letting the bath steep.

Next door in the boys’ bathroom, I brush my teeth. Then I put away clothes and straighten up our closet and our bedroom. The sound of water running into a pool changes. I can tell the distance between the faucet and the water level has shortened substantially.

As I open the spa room door, my senses are tickled. The air is filled with the aroma of the bubble bath. Peeking around the door, I see flames quietly flickering, just enough light for reading or writing in the tub. Clouds of bubbles hover a couple inches from the top edge of the tub. The tea is a drinkable temperature. The only noise is rain on the window and bubbles popping. My journal and pen are on the side table. I smile and think, “All for me! I should come here more often.”

That three-minute steep makes it feel like all was planned by another. All just for me. Sheer trickery. Akin to walking into the house at Christmas time and seeing the tree completely lit up; in turn, I light up at the sight of the tall glowing bush in my living room. The hours spent wrapping the 6-foot green tree in lights and hanging nostalgic ornaments all made for the moment of walking in and seeing this beautiful sight. Waiting for me. And every night during the Christmas season, I go to bed leaving all of them on as Bill stays up and snags quiet time for himself. He’s my elf that darkens the lights for the night. Every night I go to bed with the light of the season shining bright.

From the bath tub, it’s too dark to see the clock on the opposite wall. Sweat is running down my face: a sure sign the bath is nearing its end.

I blow out the candles, pull the plug, and dry off. I get ready as I would on any normal jump-in-and-out-of-the-shower morning.

I don’t worry about the empty tea cup, the ring of bubbles on the floor of the tub, or the journal and pen on the side table. I’m sure someone will be up later to clear this spa room. Perhaps the Laundry Maven, for she seems to have conquered the laundry room.

A family ski trip is torturous: The Laundry Maven: Up in Arms... Again.