Soap-on-a-Rope

Day 126: Soap-on-a-Rope

Last night, I was alone in the house. It was the third evening I'd spent alone there. Rich left on Sunday for his last minute work trip to Marquette.

The house seemed large. Very large. It was hot, too, and humid. At one point I went out to the studio, where the climate control is better, to cool off and play music. It occurred to me that I could stay out there and sleep on the floor, or on the sofa. I might sleep better - cool and dry! - or worse - lumpy sofa! - but either way, who except me would care?

I know the kids still live in the house because when I came home, I found a bottle of spoiled milk on the counter, a cereal box open on the table, and dirty dishes in the sink. Earlier, I'd gone up to the attic to make a baby blanket for our almost-daughter Ina's new baby on the sewing machine. More evidence of co-habitation: air conditioner on and windows open; dirty clothes belonging to both kids; three food-encrusted bowls, a plate and spoons; empty Gatorade bottles and mega-Styrofoam cups with "Polar Ice" logos on them; unmade beds.

You might think all this would make me eager for peace and quiet. What I really want, though, is titration. I want company and quiet, responsibility and rest, purpose and order. I'm dropping Emma off to college three weeks from today. After she's gone, I'll have a lot more quiet, rest and order, and a lot less company, responsibility and purpose.

They aren't really kids any more, which is why they're out with friends or at work every night. They are ready to let go of these soaps-on-a-rope, stocking stuffers from their elementary school years. I distinctly remember having a Fuzzy Wuzzy soap-on-a-rope when I was a child. It looked like a little bear carved out of soap. When I got it wet, it grew a layer of mold that looked like fur. Was it intentional? Was it really Fuzzy Wuzzy? I don't know, but I loved scrubbing off the mold, washing, and seeing the layer of fuzz again the next time I took a bath. My kids didn't want to get these guys wet. They thought of them as bathroom decorations, and objected when I suggested they use them to bathe. The soaps have been hanging on cupboard knobs all this time, losing their scent and becoming slightly slimy. The bear hasn't held up as well as the owl; it's gotten moldy and soft.

For years, when I've gotten up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I've knocked toiletries off the tiny countertop onto the floor or into the toilet, or cursed the lack of soap in the dish or the missing water cup or the empty toilet paper role. I haven't been able to close the door because of the damp towels and dirty clothes on the floor. A few days ago, I announced that I was going to assume that anything left on the counter or on the floor was not valued: I would get rid of it. I figured I'd get rid of something Emma cared about, have a huge shouting fight, blog about it, and in the end, be delighted because at last, the shared bathroom was under control. Instead, we skipped the first three steps and went right to my being delighted because the bathroom is under control. No need to get rid of anything, no big fight. Out of chaos, order.

But still, I'm alone in our great big house. Can't wait til Rich gets home.