Here I am, sitting at the computer which is conveniently located in my kitchen at the desk some builders in the the eighties thought might be a smart addition, trying to write amidst UTTER chaos. Three of my kids are rolling on the floor next to me in the music room with the dog and their dad, and it’s so loud I swear my eardrums are cracking open. They’re having a ball, but we’re one good kick away from disaster for someone. And the screams will not change a decibel, I’m sure.
Is this normal, I wonder? Whatever happened to the halcyon image of bliss and order? Why does it have to be so loud? And am I expected to just sit tight and wait for the dog to stop barking. . .
Ah, there’s the cry. Evan got hurt and he’s holding his nose. “Mom. . . ” He’s coming right for me. Paul intervenes. “Evan come here. . . Oh, it looks crooked. . . I think we’re going to have to have it removed. Let’s look inside of there. Oh, we can’t have it stay that way. No, that won’t do at all. Please Evan, hold still.” Screams from Evan. “There, there.” He’s pandering and I don’t want to know what else, but it’s working. No more crying, only punching–which is okay, since they both love UFC fighting so much and practice on each other so often. “Ow, Evan. My shoe. . .” Paul knows just how to avert any kind of crying. Wish I had that skill.
Now Chloe and Ruby are chasing each other around the circle of our rooms. The dog loves it; she’s barking up a storm and to tell her to stop I’d have to stop reporting here.
Evan’s crying again. Paul sings, “Oh, Evan, what’s happened?” Ruby runs over to defend him; starts punching and jumping on Dad. Evan’s had enough. “I HATE those shoes! Why don’t you ever take them OFF!” Evan is definitely mad. As he’s stomping off to his room, deep shrieks: “WHY is it ALWAYS ME?” Slam.
Chloe, who delights in moving in for the kill, runs after him. “Evan. . . ” “CHLOE!” Paul’s tone commands immediate stoppage. She halts, thinks, and tisks, “Temper, temper. . .”
Ah, from the elevated position of scribe, this all takes on a rather comic hue. I believe this is my bliss; here writing, I understand that this too will pass, and if I were managing it all like I normally do, I’d have made things worse (like I normally do). Besides, this way, you’re in on it, too.
P.S. We’re officially in mixdown–the part of the album that makes all the sounds come together and jive. Pray for wisdom and insight, musical genius and supernatural understanding about what’ll make these tunes live lives of their own. Thanks. Your prayers move the car along.
