“If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.” ― Albert Einstein
Under the constant scrutiny of my mother, I was able to accomplish the things that were necessary to get ahead, like homework, but other than that I was busy solving crimes as an amateur sleuth, slaying dragons to rescue folks from a fiery breath, hanging out in the wooded area behind our house with my fairy companions; no not the fake ones who supposedly bring money for teeth, but the real, ordinary, everyday kind, that dwell in the forests, hiding in tree trunks that most will never see because they foolishly fail to believe.
Yup, my head was in the clouds and maybe the high altitude played a part in the fact that it was difficult to focus on any task at hand especially weekly chores or bedroom cleanliness. Saturday was the day to clean the house, not that it needed cleaning, our mother was a bit of the white tornado sort, eat off any corner of any room, sort of deal. She thought it would build character to be entrusted with a little light cleaning duty and although her motives were admirable it had to eat away at her as she watched my room transform into a nightmare, housing goodness knows what as I dragged in all kind of bugs and filth, things necessary to perpetrate my rich fairy-tale life. Yes, at times there were bugs and worms, little sentinels for my castles, pollywogs from the pond in the back yard swimming around in bowls, substitute sharks for the castle moat. A few toads and frogs for the kiss the prince thing; so I was literally kissing toads long before I actually dated. Crickets refused to be seen and not heard. Usually mom would just give up and give in, push the mounds aside and run the vacuum around but it seemed easiest to just close the door and forget that part of the house if only to keep the crawly things in.
So every Saturday my chore was to clean the upstairs bathroom. While school was in session I had to get up and keep a normal schedule but once summer holidays hit I didn’t do much and stayed in bed until late afternoon. My curtains were dark and filtered out most of the light so it was easy to just lay there and play pretend. My surreal world was always more exciting so why crawl out of a warm cocoon?
I think my mom finally gave up on me because I overhead her tell dad in a frustrated tone “At least I know where she is…” so she just let me sleep or do whatever it was that I did and when I got hungry enough I’d readily emerge from the room on my own terms so it didn’t wreak havoc on her nerves trying to scream me out of bed. But on Saturday she'd brave my room and stand over me until I awoke to remind me of the dreaded chores and tempt me with the notice that it was once again allowance time. I did like money, it meant candy, so there was motivation, just not enough to zip through the work and be on my merry way.
No lie, I would go into the bathroom shortly after breakfast and I’d be there until five o’clock with only a break for lunch. I would dilly dally the hours away on a sojourn to another place and time. She always gave me a deadline to work within but time meant nothing to a kid bursting with make believe. I would sit there and pretend away the afternoon, playing with the Avon perfume bottles, looking out the window wondering about the people in the neighbourhood, watch the rain, name the shapes in the clouds drifting by, follow a spider’s expedition across the bathtub, mist the mirror with breath and draw things, do crazy stuff with my hair, pull it back into a bun, pretending to be a sophisticated movie star "dawling", sing with a toothpaste tube microphone, flush the toilet and watch the water spiral down the drain, taking with it the spider. Whatever it took to kill five or six hours I did it in spades.
Occasional I had to leave if someone needed to use the john but I’d be back at my post sitting and daydreaming, ignoring the threatening calls of my mother in an attempt to force some kind of motivation to get the job done. I didn’t want to be in the bathroom, my bedroom would have been more desirable, but I just never learned to do the work first, get it over with and then enjoy myself. I was too full of fancy and doddled until the very last minutes of the clock ticked toward 5:00 and then I would swing into action and scrub that room lickety split just in time for my mother to abstain from a coronary at the frustration of me. I’ll bet she wondered more than a few times if there was a mix-up at the hospital, or if I had something borderline wrong with me.
Anyway, that was the young, lackadaisical me. My desire to clean or lack of also carried into the weekly maintenance of the bedroom. In my secret haven there were hundreds of distractions to procrastinate or daydream on. My poor mother hollering for me to pick up clothes that she’d washed and ironed that I’d worn for less than five minutes and then discarded as if lifting an arm for a hanger was a threat to my person. I threw everything on the floor, sometimes the clothes were ankle deep. A rake would have come in handy but I never thought of it back then. That was something my current hubby said when he saw me in action after we moved in together. Old habits die hard and I’ve never been able to pick up after myself. Maybe I was meant for a real castle where servants do that sort of thing. Maybe I was born without the gene to pick up after myself, that bend over and grab a handful of laundry kind of action…I’ll betcha there really is such a thing!
So to get to my point of this story.....when the clothes came off they were thrown on the pile and somehow socks would always go missing. My mother was always frustrated trying to make up a pair until she gave up and bought all the same colour so I would be assured a matched set right down to the last surviving two.
Socks are a very interesting phenomena in that they travel, maybe in the dark of night they succumb to sibling rivalry by their twin and run away from home. Maybe sock gnomes invade while we sleep or night critters crawl out of the cracks and drag the tasty treats away. Who knows where the socks go but we can’t always blame the innocent dryer!
So my bedroom is always a mess. Right at this moment I would be ashamed to show you the room. Socks and other things are everywhere. It isn’t a room I spent time in. With a bathroom downstairs I hardly go upstairs until nighttime to sleep, so out of sight out of mind. I am better though, get into a fit every now and then and gather it all up and throw it in the laundry room; a closed door on that puppy solves all the problems. I love the feel of a tidy bedroom and for one or two nights I’m a queen......but it never lasts. So I don’t fight it any more. I am what I am whatever that may be. I heard on TV that messy chaos is genius…and I’m inclined to agree.
So when I was drawing out this sweet little rug I was thinking about my mom and how I must have dangled on her last nerve. I wish she could be here so I could hug her and thank her for being kind to what had to be a thorn in her backside.
Lots of funky socks to add all those bright and wonderful colours. Stripes and zig zags with animal prints and dots, this happy little pattern will be a conversation piece or make for a lovely gift for someone special. I called it "Sock It To Ya". Hope you enjoy! Remember guess a number from 1-50 and leave on the comments here on the blog and this new "hot of the press design" can be yours!
No one guessed my number yesterday' which was #1....Ern was the closest with #2. So we have a winner for Bottoms Up! Please email me your mailing address. Congrats!