Yesterday was one of the days I call "A Day in the Life." To me, it's an ordinary day made more ordinary when enlightened by an extraordinary event. A day to appreciate the ordinary, the rut, the stride, the laundry piles, the broken pieces around the house.
All in all, life around the homestead has been progressing smoothly. So the other night, my mama balance tipped over when my second son, Tristan, could not shake off the night terrors. Perhaps it was a fever, I suggested. We took his temperature, but it did not read out of the ordinary. My stomach sank with dread remembering when I was young and how I had the worst nightmares that just never went away. I knew exactly the horror he was feeling even though I could not see the images of his complex imagination.
And then a deep, soothing voice filled the bedroom:
"Son, it's gonna be okay. You're okay. It's just a dream. Daddy's here. Mommy's here. There's nothing to be scared of."
We all finally fell fast asleep through to the dawn of yesterday. The Ordinary Day.
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Just Another Day in the Life began with bumping into the trash compactor. It broke a few days ago. Actually, it started to smoke and I had to call Hubby at work for his step-by-step instructions on how to unscrew the machine. Not the first two screws I unscrewed - not those - screwed those back in before unscrewing the other two screws. Then I had to muster some muscles to pull the compactor out of its tight under-counter cave. Little peanuts from the gallery chimed in: "Mom, what are you doing?"; "Mom, what's that smell?"; "Mommy, is our house on fire?"; "Shoo, Flies!!!" The smoke dissipated. And the compactor has been sitting broken, unplugged and pulled out of its domain for a few days.
Yesterday afternoon, the kids delighted in playing soccer and football in the front yard with Daddy while I nailed and netted a new chicken run in the backyard. Everyone was busy and happy. But when I overheard that they needed to take break, I joined them in the house. Aidan, our almost 8-year old, had retreated to the garage crying. Apparently Daddy's super goals and light-hearted "In Yo Face!" unsportsmanlike conduct were too much for our first born child. With a bruised sensitive ego and tears running down his dirty face, he sulked in the garage, aka: the playroom-in-progress, where he played Wii Madden instead (to build up his football confidence again.)
So during half time, Hubby decided to try to fix the broken fire starter pipe in our fireplace. I had started this filthy ungrateful (get it?) chore a few days with no luck at all despite the fact that the expert at the fireplace equipment store assured me replacing a fire starter is easy. Hubby was discovering for himself how not easy it was when he exclaimed, "YES! I got it!"... "NO! I broke it!" in one breath. He held the old pipe in his hand, but the pipe's threads were still in the L pipe. We need wrenches and all sorts of gadgets to unscrew the rusty L hook without damaging the gas line that runs under the house. (Because that means calling the plumber, which we all know is the very last resort!) While I frantically forged through the garage to find a tool, I knocked over a glass jar filled with tidbits like random buttons, broken toy parts, beads, dust bunnies, marbles. Glass shattered all over. At least this gives me chance to share with you one of my Mama-isms: There are Three things that will guarantee that your child(ren) will run to your side, like moths to a flame. 1) The Almighty Cookie, 2) The Important Phone Conversation, 3) The Sound of Broken Glass.
Two hours later...
which included a can of WD40, 5 various wrenches and a trip to the hardware store, the broken fire starter pipe was in the trash, the new shiny one still waiting on the floor next to its future home, and the kids started the second half of football. There was a trail of ash across the floor thanks to the tiny hole in the trash bag. I went to yoga class. And I came home to a kitchen filled with the scents of steak, fries, herbs. Hubby handed me a glass of Chardonnay. Everyone was happy and hungry, and a little bit chilly.
The later evening brought a task I have not needed to do in quite a long time. I needed to press my husband's Navy Class "A" Uniform. I pulled the freshly laundered dress trousers from the dryer - the ones with the bleach stains in the crotch - held them up to him and asked, "Do you have another pair?" "No, those are my best ones." I do not understand why these have been the best ones. Why these? Has he gained weight? Lost weight? Comfy because they are old? Comfy because they are the newest of the old?
I examined this only pair of uniform trousers in this house. Before I ironed, I whipped out my black Sharpie and blue Sharpie and started to "paint out" the Gawd-awful bleach marks. The Nomex fire retardant fabric resisted the ink, but I kept "painting." I thought it looked pretty decent... Until my son sauntered passed and inquired, "Mom, why are you drawing poop on Dad's pants?" He has since regained his confidence, I see. Undaunted by my little critic, I continued on my artistic quest.
Finally satisfied with my work, I pressed the pants and dress blues shirt. His bell cap and tie waited on the table until morning. End of an ordinary day.
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Today is an extraordinary day. He left early in the morning, dressed for the Walking Procession. The last thing he does before he says goodbye is put on his Black Bell Cap. Today he is one of thousands of Firefighter Brothers attending the Last Call of a Fallen FireFighter, an extraordinary man of family and service.
Today Ten Bells ring.
“Since the beginning, in the Fire Service the bell started the day, rang through out the day’s work and at the completion of each every alarm, the fire department signals that they have returned to the station and are ready for duty. The next Alarm.
In times past, the bell was used as the signal. We signal today with Ten Bells that our brother, Firefighter Glen Allen has lost his life in the Line of Duty and has returned home safely and awaits his next assignment. Gods Speed”
xoxo
Breeze
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