The Plate Spinner Chronicles

by Barbara Valentin

  3. Get giant suspension hooks.

  Imagine if you will giant hooks affixed to the ceiling of your garage from which you can hang things like bikes, rolled up tents, and your college-aged child's laundry when they bring it home on break and expect you to clean it. You'll be amazed at all of the floor space that suddenly opens up.

  4. Have a garage sale.

  Purchase a sheet of little round stickers. Write numbers on them ranging from .50 to five in whatever increment you care to. Walk around your garage, randomly affixing a sticker to each item left standing. Poke larger objects first. If they are breathing, they're likely a member of your family or a household pet and are, therefore, not for sale.

  5. Ditch the rest.

  When your garage is just about empty, look around and see what's left. See the old paint cans, the half used bag of charcoal that was left out in the rain because you thought your husband had brought it inside but he thought you did, and the broken scooter that you planned on fixing, but when you finally got around to it, your child had their driver's license? Drag them to the curb, slap a garbage sticker on each and call it a day.

  ~ A Stitch in Time ~

  After a long day of slaving over a hot laptop, I had no sooner collapsed on the couch when one of my sons stood in front of me, holding a pair of his Boy Scout uniform pants.

  I looked up at him. "No thanks. Olive green isn't a good color for me."

  Without missing a beat, he informed me that they were too short for him. "And we have to leave in ten minutes."

  When I didn't respond, he shook them at me. "Please?"

  I looked over my head to see how I could've missed the large flashing sign that read Seamstress—Needs Work.

  "Mom, just adjust the pins so they're longer." With that, he dumped them in my lap and I tried to figure out what he meant by the strange "pin" reference. On closer inspection, the memory came flooding back. It was a similar night, three years earlier, when a shorter version of this same son pulled on a pair of new, un-hemmed pants and, in the interest of time, I pulled out a box of safety pins and adjusted the length.

  That I completely neglected to go back and properly hem them came as no surprised to my husband. He learned early on in our marriage that if he wanted a button sewn on any of his clothing, he would have to do it himself. After years of walking around with bandaged fingertips, he finally gave in and enlisted the services of our dry cleaner.

  Unlike my mother before me, sewing is a plate that I refuse to spin. Maybe it's because I remember her spending night after night hunched over her old Singer machine, making my sisters and I everything from matching culottes, Easter dresses and Halloween costumes, to elegant bridesmaid dresses. Or, maybe it's because I have all boys. Whatever the reason, in my house, if it rips, it gets replaced, not repaired.

  For like-minded plate spinners, I'm thinking that Scouting organizations ought to publicize the sewing requirement before accepting membership fees from parents of eager would-be Scouts. The uniforms constantly need adjusting as the Scouts progress through their program. And then there are those stiff little circles of appliquéd fabric backed with dried glue that parents are somehow supposed to affix to their kids' sashes and shirts with a needle and thread. Whoever came up with that idea must be behind those flimsy hangers on which my husband's shirts hang all pressed and lightly starched. I'm sure of it.

  If it weren't for my dear mother, willing and able to sew these badges on my sons' shirts and sashes, I'd have no choice but to send them to the dry cleaners.

  Hey, wait a minute…

  If you'll excuse me, I've got some pants to pin—I mean, hem. I sure hope we have Band-Aids.

  ~ Delegating Dilemma ~

  A couple of weeks ago, I issued an appeal for innovative, non-PB&J lunch ideas for my sons' brown bag lunches. I'd like to thank all of the plate spinners out there who generously responded with suggestions ranging from ham and cheese tortilla wraps to cracker sandwiches to mini-subs. All ideas were greeted with enthusiasm by my boys because none of them required peanut butter, and by myself because each item is easy enough for them to make on their own. As a mother of all boys, this supports my mission of raising self-sufficient future plate spinners—something I hope my future daughter-in-laws will one day appreciate.

  While lunch making is one chore that I delegate without pause, at the beginning of any given weekend, I always have a lengthy list of tasks that must be completed in order to keep our household humming along smoothly. However, future daughter-in-laws notwithstanding, there is one chore that I am reluctant to delegate.

  Laundry.

  Pre-children, laundry was a chore that my husband and I tended to when we ran out of clean clothes. We could go for weeks, if we had to, without doing a single load. Then came our first child. Initially, we were shocked to discover that this tiny infant's new wardrobe could fill the industrial-size washing machine in the apartment building we were living in at the time. We barely had time to recover before being stunned by the frequency with which we had to clean said wardrobe. Short of laminating his clothes, we had no choice but to do more frequent loads.

  Since becoming homeowners and adding four more boys, we are on our third washing machine, upgrading to a larger capacity with each replacement. And, with each upgrade, the settings have become more sophisticated. Where our first machine boasted two cycles—hot and cold—our current model provides touch screen options for choices such as "jeans" and "cotton kitchen rugs" (not to be confused with cotton bathroom rugs, apparently).

  Logic suggests that such sophisticated features would enable even my first grader to run a load of laundry without turning a load of whites into a load of pale blues. Yet, it only took one harried morning trying to find a white blouse that had not been rendered pale pink or gray, for me to realize that providing more options does not necessarily guarantee that the correct one will be chosen, especially if the items were not sorted correctly to begin with.

  Since my idea of unwinding at the end of a busy workday does not involve anything having to do with a bottle of detergent, for my own sanity and that of my future daughter-in-laws, I am in need of a solution to this dilemma. Short of posting a simple workflow diagram above the hamper in our bathroom or using color-coded laundry baskets, I am open to ideas.

  ~ Pastel Green Persuasion ~

  The recent Fourth of July weekend held much promise for this plate spinner. With my husband and older boys out of town for a 10k race, aside from the obligatory parade and fireworks with my younger sons, the family calendar was as empty as a golf course during a thunderstorm.

  I made the mistake of mentioning this to my sister who is known in more intimate circles as the "DIY Diva." Her ability to transform the dreariest of dwellings is admirable, but her powers of persuasion are the stuff of legend. If she'd been given the opportunity, she could've sold a tube top to Coco Chanel. She's that good.

  After my last brush with a can of paint, I vowed that I would never tackle the task again. But, like labor pains, the memory fades. In five short minutes, she managed to convince me that the yellow walls in my kitchen had faded to a dreary beige, the sponged walls of my foyer predated poodle skirts, and the wallpaper in my bathroom was recently seen in an episode of The Brady Bunch. On returning home, I wondered how in the world I could have subjected my family to such horrid conditions.

  Before I knew it, while the country was awash in red, white, and blue, I was stuck inside, taping trim and covering the inside of my house with the so-not-patriotic colors of key lime pie and pistachio pudding. It's no wonder I spent the better part of the weekend fighting the urge to rush to the store for a can of whipped cream.

  Instead, the only store I visited—several times as a matter of fact—was the home improvement store. Oh, and that reminds me. I'd like to give a shout out to the guy who recommended that I apply two coats of custom-color, non-returnable paint before deciding whether it was the shade I had in mind (you go, Gary!). And who knew little sponges on s
ticks provided better coverage in tight corners than a brush? I also discovered on one of my many trips there that, when trying to avoid getting oil-based primer on the leather-lined steering wheel of my car, I can drive just as well with my elbows. It's a wonder I don't just ditch this whole writing thing and take up professional house painting.

  With the outdoor temperature and humidity level registering in the upper nineties, my sister and I worked in an air conditioned, but largely unventilated, environment. I expected the headache, but really didn't remember ever liking the oldies station so much. Good thing it came in loud and clear on our bathroom radio. And good thing our windows were closed.

  The job is done, the paint has dried and I have to admit that my house looks mighty fine. Now, if I could just get Gary to take me up on my recommendation to install a cooler filled with cans of whipped cream in his paint department.

  It would've saved me a trip.

  ~ Seasonal Clothes Shuffle ~

  At the beginning of my working parent tenure, with a little practice, it didn't take long before I was reveling in the reliable rhythm of my routin—sleep, go to work, make dinner, help with homework, sleep, go to work, make dinner, help with homework. You get the idea. Once I had that pattern humming along nicely, I was able to enhance it into something a little more complex—sleep, take a shower, go to work, make dinner, help with homework.

  While practice makes perfect, some things that still throw me for a loop are the plates that only require occasional spinning—like holiday decorating or school supply shopping. After one of my older boys heralded the arrival of Spring this year by heading off to school wearing shorts and flip flops (the temperature was, after all, over forty degrees), I let out a heavy sigh, realizing it was time for the dreaded seasonal clothes swap-out.

  Even as an infomercial played in the background, singing the praises of giant plastic bags into which you can allegedly stuff your entire closet, suck out any trace of air, and be left with a bag flat enough to slip through the mail slot in your front door, I scoffed and lugged out our giant plastic bins that were ready to burst with my family's warm weather clothing.

  After years of doing this, I have a practiced plan in place.

  Certain that I had stored the clothes by size last fall, I instructed each boy to gather their winter items, bring them to me and I would exchange them for a bin containing the same-sized summer items. Once they deposited their summer items in their drawers, they would return the empty bin to me and I, in turn, would transplant the winter items and tuck the bin back into storage. Simple. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes, I reasoned.

  Like a quarterback, I huddled them around me and quickly briefed them on my strategy. I ignored the skeptical glances they exchanged with each other as they headed off to their respective rooms. Instead, I sat with a smug smile plastered on my face as I listened to hangers scraping along closet rods and dresser drawers being pulled out.

  Within minutes, I was surrounded by sweaters, long-sleeve shirts, jackets, mittens, scarves, and all manner of long pants, wondering how I could've neglected to tell them "one of you at a time, please."

  As I worked my way through the heaps of clothes, I opened the first bin. Perplexed, I asked no one in particular, "OK, why does this just have shirts in it?"

  By way of reply, the boys began claiming theirs. I watched, stupefied, as they opened the remaining bins and dug out their shorts, bathing suits, and summer pajamas. Within minutes, my family room looked like a textile mill had exploded.

  Several hours later, I collapsed onto the couch. The boys' summer clothes were neatly folded in their drawers and hung in their closets. The winter clothes that had survived the season were stored away in the bins. A large bag, filled with items too small for my youngest, sat in the corner, destined for the next charitable pickup.

  I groped for the remote, hoping to catch the local weather forecast and heard, "Possibility of record-breaking cold."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Holiday Plates

  ~ Halloween Costume Countdown ~

  It is with no small amount of regret that I've come to accept that in just a few short years, Halloween will be a very different experience for me. Gone will be the days when I rush to catch the costume parade at my youngest son's school, then stroll the neighborhood with other parents as we watch our trick-or-treaters scramble from one house to the next. Before long, I won't have to referee any intense candy trade negotiations between my boys, breaking them up when they turn ugly.

  Perhaps most regrettably, I'll miss being able to confiscate any and all chocolate after convincing them that it was all part of a national recall.

  Since I can't imagine any other use for green glow-in-the-dark skeleton gloves or a battery powered Buzz Lightyear wing jet pack, the big bag of costumes that we've accumulated through the years will be relegated to a closet, forgotten. And what a waste that would be. The polyester ghost costume that has seen better days now looks truly spooky. No longer bright white, the purposely frayed edging is downright ghastly.

  All in all, that bag must contain a dozen or so costumes of varying sizes that were brand new when I got them for my older guys and well worn by the time the younger ones were done with them. And yet, I just can't bring myself to donate or give away this bag of memories. Not yet, anyway. I'm sure my youngest will soon be foraging through it looking for this year's selection. Loathe as I am to plunk down my hard-earned cash for a new costume that will get limited use, I wonder if I could talk him into wearing the same dinosaur suit that he wore in preschool. Since much of his arms and legs would now be sprouting out of it, I could pitch it to him as an archeologist-eaten-alive-by-a-dinosaur costume. Not sure if he'll bite.

  Maybe I'll just rummage through our closets. There are scores of abandoned sports uniforms—everything from soccer to karate outfits. If he takes a pass on those, maybe one of my husband's old suits, rolled up at the arms and legs, would do the trick. If all else fails, I could wait until the night before when my adrenaline levels spike and I come up with some truly scary costumes like "Crazy Colander Head" or "Vacuum Attachment Boy."

  If only I'd inherited my mother's love of sewing (and her sewing machine to go along with it). Despite having a full-time job, she stayed up late on many pre-Halloween nights creating the most lavish and well-crafted costumes for my sisters and I, including, but not limited to, princess gowns with lots of itchy crinoline, furry pink bunny suits, and Raggedy Ann and Andy frocks. Seeing us in the finished product would leave her beaming. These days, seeing me sew on a button leaves my guys speechless.

  Oh, I've got it! How about the Ghost of Buzz Lightyear Meets the Green Skeleton of Doom? Wait…I'm pretty sure he wore that last year.

  ~ Thanksgiving Grace ~

  In my plate-spinning world, if preparing for Thanksgiving were an Olympic event, my sisters and I would be gold medal contenders. Drawing a stark contrast to our childhood when we sat across the table arguing over who would get a coveted drumstick or who had more whipped cream on their pumpkin pie, we learned long ago that we work better as a team.

  As she did back then, our mother tries to calmly remind us, "It's not about the food." My sister Mary, the one who studies cookbooks like a new parent does Dr. Spock, respectfully disagrees.

  We appoint her our unofficial captain.

  After we reach a consensus on both the venue and the menu, she delegates who's bringing what and when. Each of us does our part, trusting that, when the day comes, everything will be perfect. And, with the exception of any conflicts arising over who has to sit at the dreaded "kiddie table," which way the food should be passed, or whether it's too early to be playing Christmas music on the radio, it usually is.

  If you are fortunate enough to find yourself surrounded by family and friends this Thanksgiving, before you dig into your sumptuous feast, take a moment to remember that, as self-sufficient as we like to think we all are, we are not invincible. At some point, we all need a helping hand. Not convinced? W
hen's the last time you treated a child's broken bone all by yourself, or helped one master a math concept that you yourself had long-ago forgotten?

  This holiday season, before you set out to tackle another busy day, beginning every sentence with "I have to," take a moment and think about all of the people behind the scenes who help us along without any expectation of thanks or recognition. Teachers, clergy, coaches, and neighbors.

  Before you put so many plates in motion that you fool yourself into believing that the whole world revolves completely around you, think about those people who are always there when we need them, willing to put their lives on the line for us, yet we rarely give them a second thought. Firefighters, police officers, doctors, nurses, and those serving in the military.

  Before you find yourself having to walk over plates that have crashed to bits around you, stop and think of the people close to you who may be in need, but know better than to ask. Your friends, your kids, your parents, your spouse.

  You get the idea. I'm sure you can think of more examples of people without whom your plates would come crashing down faster than you can say, "I appreciate everything you do."

  So, during this holiday season, don't just say grace, show it. Instead of worrying that your gravy may have too many lumps or that your dressing may be too dry, slow down long enough to spend some face time thanking people who matter.

  And remember, it's not about the food. Really.

  ~ An Ode to Thanksgiving ~