Here I am, late again. Good intentions don't mean much, apparently. And I'm up to a week (couting the post I wrote the day before I decided to start this).
There's something about Sunday mornings at my house which I really love. (That is, after we quit paper routes.) I can't say exactly what it is that makes me smile. Ask a friend who's spent Saturday night about watching my family go through the Sunday morning routine. Running dogs in and out and telling them to hurry up and eat, now adding fowl to the list of animals to care for, siblings getting up hours earlier than they would the rest of the week to take showers they didn't want to take the night before, Mom hunting for a lost article of clothing or piece of jewelry or shoe, all to the soundtrack of blow driers and running feet. Always fun.
There are certain things that happen in this house which are seen as perfectly normal but, in any other house, would be a complete oddity. Like the eyeball in the bathroom cabinet.
Yes.
I went to get my toothbrush out of the cabinet this morning and started at the glass eye staring back at me. In another second I was back to squirting toothpaste onto the brush and absently wondering if Wes's allergies were acting up. Mom made a passing comment about it later, but that was all the attention anyone paid it.
Needless to say, our family has its own quirks. We get so used to them that we never think twice, while everyone else is staring at us in confusion. And, in my opinion, jealousy. Wes's fake eye is one of the quirks. We've all grown up with that one around us. We're conditioned to it, in a way. People will come to me months after we've met and make some remark like, "You didn't tell me your brother had a fake eye," as if it should have been near the top of the list of things to know. I'll shrug. "Yeah, he's had that since he was 1." To them it's special; strange and unusual, sometimes gross, and somehow great for conversation. To me it's the source of a few good stories and the knowledge that, because my brother has a blindspot, it's easier to steal his fries when his head is turned. He and his one-handed buddy at church crack all kinds of jokes. Everyone else stands back in a mixture of confusion, horror, and embarassment, wondering if it's really appropriate, as if those poor boys shouldn't be laughing at their own expense. I roll my eyes.
It's just another little quirk that makes my family all that more endearing to me, like Mom's pouty face when she's not feeling well and wants me to grab her a glass of milk, or my youngest sister when she paces through the house with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and that creative gleam in her eye, or my other sister's reckless abandon when she belts out a song that's intentionally off-key. Like the looks passed when Dad is enjoying too much his day off or my brother pulls another "your mom" pun; the way Mom and I can have a complete conversation without either ever completing a thought; my youngest sister's ability to stare down anyone, friend or stranger, and make them twitch.
Yes, I truly do believe people are jealous when they see us tramping down the store aisles, one of us girls on Dad's arm and another bouncing around while trading jokes with Mom: that boisterous family clearly just from church service calling back and forth about how much milk we consume and if we'd prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream and making some comment about our chickens. We're genuine, that's for sure. We don't put on a show when we go into public; we're the same people as we are at home. Sometimes it seems the world can't handle that much awesomeness. It's okay; be a little jealous. My mom was always the coolest person to have on youth activities, and inevitably my brother's eye would come out for the sake of the new kids. Only the bravest dare to spend a night at our house, where we have impromptu karaoke in the kitchen and odds are good you'll find an eyeball in the bathroom cabinet.
There's something about Sunday mornings at my house which I really love. (That is, after we quit paper routes.) I can't say exactly what it is that makes me smile. Ask a friend who's spent Saturday night about watching my family go through the Sunday morning routine. Running dogs in and out and telling them to hurry up and eat, now adding fowl to the list of animals to care for, siblings getting up hours earlier than they would the rest of the week to take showers they didn't want to take the night before, Mom hunting for a lost article of clothing or piece of jewelry or shoe, all to the soundtrack of blow driers and running feet. Always fun.
There are certain things that happen in this house which are seen as perfectly normal but, in any other house, would be a complete oddity. Like the eyeball in the bathroom cabinet.
Yes.
I went to get my toothbrush out of the cabinet this morning and started at the glass eye staring back at me. In another second I was back to squirting toothpaste onto the brush and absently wondering if Wes's allergies were acting up. Mom made a passing comment about it later, but that was all the attention anyone paid it.
Needless to say, our family has its own quirks. We get so used to them that we never think twice, while everyone else is staring at us in confusion. And, in my opinion, jealousy. Wes's fake eye is one of the quirks. We've all grown up with that one around us. We're conditioned to it, in a way. People will come to me months after we've met and make some remark like, "You didn't tell me your brother had a fake eye," as if it should have been near the top of the list of things to know. I'll shrug. "Yeah, he's had that since he was 1." To them it's special; strange and unusual, sometimes gross, and somehow great for conversation. To me it's the source of a few good stories and the knowledge that, because my brother has a blindspot, it's easier to steal his fries when his head is turned. He and his one-handed buddy at church crack all kinds of jokes. Everyone else stands back in a mixture of confusion, horror, and embarassment, wondering if it's really appropriate, as if those poor boys shouldn't be laughing at their own expense. I roll my eyes.
It's just another little quirk that makes my family all that more endearing to me, like Mom's pouty face when she's not feeling well and wants me to grab her a glass of milk, or my youngest sister when she paces through the house with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and that creative gleam in her eye, or my other sister's reckless abandon when she belts out a song that's intentionally off-key. Like the looks passed when Dad is enjoying too much his day off or my brother pulls another "your mom" pun; the way Mom and I can have a complete conversation without either ever completing a thought; my youngest sister's ability to stare down anyone, friend or stranger, and make them twitch.
Yes, I truly do believe people are jealous when they see us tramping down the store aisles, one of us girls on Dad's arm and another bouncing around while trading jokes with Mom: that boisterous family clearly just from church service calling back and forth about how much milk we consume and if we'd prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream and making some comment about our chickens. We're genuine, that's for sure. We don't put on a show when we go into public; we're the same people as we are at home. Sometimes it seems the world can't handle that much awesomeness. It's okay; be a little jealous. My mom was always the coolest person to have on youth activities, and inevitably my brother's eye would come out for the sake of the new kids. Only the bravest dare to spend a night at our house, where we have impromptu karaoke in the kitchen and odds are good you'll find an eyeball in the bathroom cabinet.
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