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Miranda: Creativity and a bit of green grass

Yesterday was one of those days.

My hair looked such a disaster that “bad hair day” didn’t quite cover it. “Finger in electrical socket” would have been a more accurate description. The rest of me wasn’t going to win any beauty prizes either, but I checked my ego and made it to the grocery store with my 3-year-old and 5-week old boys. While I was tanking up the little one in the parking lot, the mother of one of my daughter’s friends pulled in to the spot next to us in her black BMW. Perfectly coifed, dressed, and made up, I hoped feverently that she wouldn’t notice me. But she did, sticking her perfectly highlighted head into the passenger side window to say hello. I hope I only imagined the pity in her eyes.

Despite having nursed, the baby was unhappy while we shopped. I had to perch the infant car seat across the shopping cart so that the baby could suck on my pinky knuckle while I pulled the boys through the store at top speed. Unfortunately, the large “transition” capris I was wearing were too loose around the waist and kept falling down. I’m sure I exposed more post-partum midriff chub than anyone in the store had ever hoped to see.

Then, naturally, we got the SLOWEST cashier available—she was busy talking to another cashier and chewing her gum while I frantically threw my items onto the belt, rocking the car seat with one foot. The baby was getting frenetic, as was I. The cashier turned to me. “Aw,” she said, slowly zapping each of my 13 Balance Bars one by one, “How old is your baby?” “Well,” I wanted to say, “He’s five freaking weeks old, obviously in distress, and if you could speed it up JUST A LITTLE BIT I might be able to get out of here before I let down all over your scanner!”

We made it out to the car, loaded it up, and I fed the baby (again), even though we live .6 miles from the store. On the way home, the SUV behind us honked hard at me for no reason (he didn’t like the fact that I was turning left while using my signal?) which rattled me more than it should have. (Note to self: do not honk back and use the F word while three-year-old is in phase known as repeat-everything-Mommy-says-and-relate-story-to-Daddy-later.)

I pulled into my driveway to discover the well repair guys and their large truck; in my sleep-deprived haze I’d managed to forget the 10-12 window I’d scheduled to assess my broken sprinkler system. Luckily they had already assessed; unluckily I learned that the irrigation pump was broken but could be replaced. For $2,100.

When I started breathing again, I choked out an approval of the work order. Our house is on the market and trying to sell it with a broken irrigation system and a lot of dead grass probably wouldn’t be a plus. Not sure where the cash will come from, but that’s what visa cards are for.

I managed to get the perishables put away. While getting my three-year-old ready for his nap, I discovered that the liner bag inside the Diaper Dekor had run out and slipped down inside the bin, which meant that a week of very yucky Pull-Ups had piled up in a disgusting, stinky mess.

By the time I got things cleaned up, the baby was fussing to nurse again but I had to scoop him up and run downstairs to answer the door. It was our new real estate agent, dropping off our listing sheets. She had bad news. All of our septic records indicate that our system was installed for a four-bedroom house, not the five-bedroom house that we bought five years ago. We’re still doing research and exploring options, but the bottom line is that for now we have to market our house with one fewer bedrooms than we paid for.

While we discussed how this discrepancy hadn’t been caught by someone before, and I wondered about the economic wisdom of switching to this by-the-book-agent who had found a problem that our two previous agents had not, my fussy baby spat up over my shoulder and down the back of my shirt. The agent politely ignored the puddle of milk on the floor as she left.

What does all of this have to do with creativity? A lot. Under normal circumstances, a day like yesterday would have been enough to send me to my knees on the kitchen floor, crying while I nursed the baby on the cheap-but-decent-looking new tile we installed to help sell the house. I’m sleep deprived, hormonal, I work part-time from home, and I have five children. Who wouldn’t be crying? But I wasn’t feeling overwhelmed, or even close. Here’s why. Read more