Sunday, August 21, 2011

Dump Run Ramblings

I’ll call it the Dump Run Blog, because I’m writing it in the short window of time I have while the boys do their weekly male bonding dump run together. I don’t know what it is about the dump. It’s a guy thing. I think Cayce is just thrilled to be with his dad. It wouldn’t matter to him if it was a princess birthday party they were going to together.

But as it happens they’re heading to the big stinking mound of trash known as the Nantucket Environmental Park. It’s not the state of the art composting facility they're after. Dad in his salty New Englander manner will say that the whole thing’s a bunch of crap, a waste of money, and in the end they put all those sorted recyclables back together anyway. He won’t let me bring home any of that free compost, either. So while they’re not likely gawking at the miracle of renewable energy, they’ll have fun watching the big trucks and cranes pushing all that energy around. Then on their way home they’ll stop to see the horses in the pastures on Madaket Road.

A second pot of java’s percolating, because I’ve decided that if I’m going to have so little time to myself in my life then I had better be on speed during it, so I can make the most out of it as possible. Makes sense, doesn’t it? I pride myself in being more efficient these days not only in actions, but in mind. Necessity is the mother of invention, darn it. When I do get around to the cleaning, you should see how fast I’ll make that dirt fly. And if you could only hear my fingertips right now rapping the keys with furious speed and intensity. I’m a whirling dervish of multitasking because I need to be. Something needs to get sacrificed somewhere, and I’ll be damned if it’s going to be my shower.

Once, I said to another mother, “What do you do when the hairbrush goes missing? Am I the only one this happens to?”

“Stash a few around the house,” was her prompt answer, as if, indeed, she was an expert on this particular form of Mother’s Malaise, where all of your personal effects go missing.

So that is what I’ve done. Gotten multiples of everything. Except for the cell phone, which I’ve learned to do without entirely, because it was just one more damned thing to lose, and lose it I did, far more frequently than I ever found it again.

If you happen to spot me parked somewhere around town brushing my hair or plucking my eyebrows in the rearview mirror with my child watching from the car seat behind me, please forgive me. Some things are just easier to accomplish when he’s in bondage. The only straps that he’s not usually breaking free of these days are the car seat straps. It’s that simple. And the glove compartment is just a useful place to stash a spare brush and tweezer. And the mirror on the visor is, well, it’s the only mirror I never misplace.

If I have the forethought to tidy up before leaving the house, I try to at least perform my toilette in the privacy of my own driveway. But if I must stop everything to address some heretofore unnoticed offense in my appearance, I at least try to pull off the road. Don’t text and drive. Don’t tidy and drive either, Mamas. But always keep the AC flowing, the tunes blasting and your own little fashion consultant in the rear to remind you that in his eyes you’re beautiful, no matter what.

The boys are back. This Dump Run session is now over.