It Smells Inky in Here

I have come to realize that the storms in this life are the norm.  Life is an uphill mountain range, filled with a whole lot of climbing with occasional bouts of refreshing and rest.  When it seems almost insurmountable, we are pushed to what we think is our limit and then just a little more.  Then we are given a bit of release.  we are granted just enough to be able to take the next climb and to be able to choose whether to be joyful or not.

Last week, I had terrible vertigo for several days.  I had to go to the emergency room on Sunday.  That made for an interesting week.  My chiropractor worked wonders on Wednesday and the vertigo was completely gone by Friday morning. 

I slept better last night than I have in over a week.  This is very good, because I would need that respite and calm for the storm that was heading my way.  I had been awakened a couple times by the children in the middle of the night, but overall it was peaceful.

"Let me out!"  I awoke to the sounds of Nathaniel's screams and to banging on a door.  Getting up quicker than Spiderman can scale a wall, I went into the hall to see his door open but Nyssa's door closed.  The sound emanated from that direction.  It was also locked.  This was definitely the source of my rude awakening, as well as the unnerving sound of squeals of devilish delight.

I unlocked the door to find a frightened Nathaniel holding his hands to his ears and stripped completely naked.  he looked like a Native American Indian covered in warpaint.  Backtrack.  Stop the film.  What?  Yes.  He was covered in...not paint, but ink!  So was the carpet, Nyssa's bed, and Gabriela's sheet.  Benjamin (the squealing one) was gleefully coloring the wall.  Nyssa was initially giggling, but gave me an opened gasp and said, "Oh!"  At that point, her mouth clamped shut tightly, her eyes opend wide, and she attempted to stifle the laughter.

All of my precious inks for drawing and writing were emptied from their wells.  Nyssa's carpeted floor had become their newest canvas.  Carpet, curtain, sheets, beds, children, clothes, and books were all revealing the artwork of the likes of Jackson Pollack.  Spatterings of black, navy, indigo, magenta, and yellow were covering a background of golden beige short shag carpet.  Silver lined the top of my daughter's greying head where Nyssa had poured my silver ink over herself.  Browns and greens canvassed the girls' sheets and pillows.

I would love to say that I was very rational, calm, cool, and collected when I saw the paintings.  BUt there was no still life around me.  The scribbling on the wall continued as I told Benjamin to stop.  I would love to say that I slowly gathered myself together as I rustled them into the bathtub.  It would be so wonderful to say that I kept my voice gentle, yet firm.  But I cannot say so.  I simply said, "WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?"

"RICHARD!"  I shouted down the stairs, knowing my husband would hear me and bound up momentarily to the certain inflection in my voice, "Children, this is mommy's stuff!  How did you get it?  Who got into it?"

Sure enough, as I stared at the children in wonder and shook my head in disbelief, I heard the clomp of my beloved coming up the stairs on his white steed.  Ok, so there was no horse, but he did round them up faster than a cowboy herding a steer back to its corral.  He set them in the bathtub while I attempted to so something with the mess.

I gathered the items and separated the painted from the untouched and wiped as much off as I could from the wooden beds, the wall, and the books.  I shoved the ruined clothes to the corner and stared at the floor.  Richard, on the other hand, sat in the bathroom giving the kids the third degree and reading them the riot act.  The blame game began.

Fortunately, we already knew we could rule out Nathaniel because he was absolutely horrified at what was going on.  Gabriela was playing in it, of course, but she was not capable of getting the ink from its location.  That left two children still in the frying pan.  Eventually, Nyssa confessed that it was her initiation, though Benjamin gladly jumped on the bandwagon as soon as the can of worms was opened. 

Furious, I started to rip questions at Nyssa when I realized it was no use.  The questions I really wanted answered could not be solved by my little mischievous pixie fairy.  No, I had to stop and walk away, because yelling at her and demanding some logical, rational explanation was foolhardy.  There are some things we can do.  We can get righteously angry over injustices, but cannot tear our children apart verbally in the process. 

I simply stopped and looked at Richard.  We got the kids cleaned off and dressed.  He told me to go on and go to my Weight Watchers meeting and try to cool down.  I nodded my head in assent.  I walked to the girls' room and locked their door, both at the doorknob and at the chain lock up high, so nobody would go back into that mess.  I then got my wallet and my keys and exited the house with Gabriela in tow as she was very reluctant to leave my sight.  We drove away in the white 2012 Dodge Grand Caravan that we're renting because our Toyota Sienna's engine had been burnt to a crisp on Thursday.

It was a respite from the battlefield of Nyssa's room.  It was encouraging news of me being 3 pounds lighter.  It was an escape from the two current partners in crime who can't seem to get it through their thick skulls that they don't get into other people's things and destroy them.  It was a breath of fresh air.

When I got back home, I was feeling much better, ready to tackle the room once again.  Richard took Nathaniel with him on his errand run after we explained that Nyssa and Benjamin would have no videos and no computer for the next couple of weeks because of what they did.  I first tackled the kitchen and the lunch dishes.  Then I made my way upstairs for round one of carpet cleaning detail.

Three carpet shampoo sessions later, the floor is still covered in ink.  It's there to stay, at least half of it.  We're getting more out, but it's a slow process.  The children are now all tucked into the boys' room, with closet locked, and all the other rooms locked up to avoid them getting into them.

I did it again.  I lost my temper and yelled at them.  I'm not proud of it.  I could have handled it better, but that's the truth of the matter.  I didn't think I could handle any more of it when my husband gave me a way out, a way to escape the temptation to keep berating them.  I was given an escape route when I was about at my worst.

That happens in life.  We think we can't handle it any longer.  We are pushed to the limit, and then our child says something that pushes us further.  But then something happens, an escape trip to Weight Watchers, a smile with the words, "I love you," from the little rugrat, or the sight of a little chipmunk scurrying across your lawn.  And something breaks inside of us, the anger and frustration melts.  We are frozen in time, sucked away, for an hour, or even just a few moments, and we have regrouped and are ready once again to face the smelly, inky mess in the carpet floor. 

I have a challenge for all of us.  Next time, why don't we try thinking of that little chipmunk, replay the vision in our mind, next time we feel we are about to go over the edge.  Let's see if that helps us keep the temper at bay.  I'll try it if you will.  After all, if I cut loose, my life will look and smell just like that carpet, and believe me, it is a pill to clean up afterwards.  It takes layers of shampoo and scalding water, several times, and sometimes the stain never completely comes out without a diligent cleansing scrub over, and over, and over again.