Perfect House

My grandmother lives in a perfect house.
Not a house that makes you feel stiff or inadequate or poor, but one that makes you want to better yourself in the right kind of ways. 

At my house, if my son spills something on the floor, I roll my eyes and leave it there for a day when I am less tired.  But at Nana's, when he dumps potpourri all over the carpet, I cannot leave it.  I am compelled to pick it up, piece by piece, and then vacuum over it, and then vacuum over the mismatched vacuum lines on the floor.  She begs me to leave it until Monday, "When Nell comes," but that wouldn't be right - not at Nana's house.

Things are prissy at Nana's house, but not rude.  She has a sitting room filled with tiny teacups and pictures of trees and rivers that I liked to look at when I studied there in middle school.  The room has a hush about it, reminding you that some things are meant to be sacred.  But it is a kind hush that beckons my 19 month in and urges him to lift dainty china to his lips in uncharacteristically mannerly play.

At Nana's house, everything has a place - and at one point in time, I knew about every thing and every place.  I would roam through the cabinets and the closets and the button jars and the drawers while she teased me about being a snoop and warned me about dinner parties where hosts filled bathroom cabinets with marbles to trap unsuspecting, nosey guests.  I would laugh at her warning and move on to the next cabinet, soaking up the same sort of comfort I got when reading Little Women or The Boxcar Children.

Food tastes better in this perfect house than it does anywhere else.  Even fruitcake, which somehow tastes like candied tar everywhere else, comes out soft and second-tempting.  Traveling salesmen, army boys meant to be "surviving in the wilderness" from Fort Stewart, dogs, wild cats, hungry grandchildren, and then hungry grandchildren's spouses, have all been in on this secret --- showing up hat in hand or purr in throat at just the right time.

At Nana's house - we talk about the best part of our day, not the worst.  Everything feels better there.  And we always leave better than we came.

It is a perfect house.     

Yellow Nursery

Some girls dream
Of the perfect wedding:
The dress,
the favors,
the attendants,
the cake.
Not me.
I really just wanted to look beautiful
And have dancing. 
Lots and lots of dancing.

What, then, were my little girl dreams
made of?
White cradles,
yellow walls,
stuffed animals,
cheery pictures,
crocheted blankets,
sunny corners,
and
well-stocked closets
full of tiny
perfect
precious
things.

I did not know
That - when the time came -
I would rent
a condo
Full to the brim
With the collections
Of just two.

I did not know
That my first baby
Would be such a shock
To the system
That indecision would
Prevent any
Tasteful Choices.

I did not know
That parenting
And pregnancy
Would be so exhausting
For both of us
That my husband's
Top wish as
We wait for baby number two
Would be more time
. . . . . to sleep.

I did not know
That painting a nursery
Would be
The straw that
Might break the camel's back
And that I would come to a place -
This place -
Where I pray that
Little girl dreams
Of a yellow nursery
Don't trump grown up priorities
Like love and common-sense.

Apple Salad

Son in crib
Singing softly
His first Doo-Wop:
"Waa Waa Waa Waa."

We think its cute
And we surrender
Our tired feet
To the bed
Where we stare
At the baby monitor
And listen to his
Fading murmers.

Long week!
And it's only
Wednesday.

Husband closes tired eyes
And I shift
From the left
To the right
And to the left again
Seeking comfort
For that growing
Belly of mine.

Two days of traveling
Have worn me out in a way
That makes my faults
Shine like Miss Hannigan's
Version of the Chrysler Building.

Just as things are starting
To look really bleak,
Perfect, Loving, Dutiful
Husband sighs, says:
I should really go
To the grocery store - 
Get something for dinner tomorrow.


Not tonight, I say.
Maybe this weekend.
And (says growing baby #2)
Maybe then we can buy 
Apples
And make a salad
With cherries
And raisins
And maybe bananas.

I look at Husband,
Who is always
Gleeful about food
And I am shocked!
He is not smiling.
He is not even a little
Excited.

It hits me,
But I can hardly believe it:
He does not like apple salad!
Over six years I have
Been married
And I did not know that
He does not like apple salad!

I say it out loud
The blasphemous words
Shooting off of my tongue
And he turns to me, sheepish:
It's not that I dislike them . . .
he stammers,
And then he drives the nail
Into his own coffin:
It's just that fruit and mayo,
he says,
well, they must be a Southern thing.

But the combination!
I hear myself say,
The apples, 
And the cherries,
And the raisins,
And the bananas  . . .
I can't even finish the description
It is too lovely to describe
In this apple-empty house
So I simply sputter
The accusation again,
Forever damning his
Credibility
As the foodie he believes himself to be:
You don't like apple salad!

He tries once again to justify
But I interrupt him
With a crowing cackle
This is just the boost I needed!
Not only is he tragically flawed
(Hallelujah!)
But there will be more
Apple salad for me!