Home again, home again, jiggety jog

After 5092 miles, the last 200 or so along the gulf coast without a/c, we returned from our six week vacation. We got home with just enough time before bed to unload the vehicle, have a supper snack of baked spaghetti I put in the freezer sometime back in May, scout out 5 dead palmetto bugs and a rhinoceros beetle downstairs and a pale, blind baby gecko in the bathtub upstairs. The toilets were spotted with rust and mold, but otherwise everything seemed pretty much the same as we left it, including the laundry in the dryer, which, thanks be, had dried thoroughly.

Returning to temps in triple digits and humidity about that high made me wish I might have stayed a couple more weeks up north, but the kids were thrilled to see their toys again. My older daughter unpacked her birthday gifts, rearranged her doll tableau, and had her clothes put away before the boys were done getting in and out of the shower. Of course, they had wasted a bit of time making sure all their legos still existed. And they unpacked their bags, too. To them, this means dumping the contents of the suitcase on the floor and putting the suitcase over by the storage closet. My oldest has told me he is just going to wear the clothes on the floor until the pile is gone. I suppose I should be glad he’s not getting new clothes out.

Meanwhile, I’m feeling the way I often do after a long vacation: overwhelmed by stuff. If I can live for 6 weeks from a suitcase – and not even wear half of what I brought – why do I have so many clothes? (and the kids so many toys?) I fully intended to reduce drastically my skirt and t-shirt supply today, but when push came to shove, I couldn’t decide what I liked least. I like all my skirts. You’d think since I’d paid so little for them, I’d have an easier time parting with them. The problem with shopping at thrift stores is that, while you can buy a new outfit for $5, you’re always a little afraid that that outfit is the last cute thing you’ll ever find in your size. I need someone (Betty?) to come and tell me what to throw out. (Freedom in obedience!) It’s easier for me to sort through other people’s stuff: my mom’s, or the boys’, and pick out their week’s worth of clothes to keep. Plus, each kid only gets two drawers, so if they have more than what fits, the extra becomes hand-me-downs, but I have six drawers and a large closet, which isn’t entirely stuffed. After being inspired by the Franciscan way of life in The Right to Be Merry, I thought I’d have an easier time with cleaning stuff out.

I’ve had the same problem with the kids’ schoolwork, which was dropped in the office as we headed out the door back in May. Each kid now has a pile of artwork and papers. I’ve recycled all the worksheets and coloring pages, but I’m trying to pick out the few items that best express each kid’s personality to keep in a file folder until they grow up and decide what to do with it. I’m also trying to keep the piles even, so that someday in the future, some kid won’t question me about why so and so’s pile is bigger – did I think he was more talented? Did I love him more? But the kindergartener used reams of paper to illustrate his superhero saga and to design cruise ships a la Richard Scarry, while the seventh grader only has a few book reports that reveal something of his personality after I’ve thrown out the tests and quizzes.

Time to get rid of more paper before the mail arrives tomorrow.

Misunderstandings

Yesterday I had one of those nightmarish moments while driving down the street when I saw emergency vehicles and then realized it was my family in the car that was pulled over. My parents were visiting, so my husband, dad and 5 kids were in one car, and my mom and I and the other kid were in the other. "That's Daddy," said my daughter from the backseat as we drove by. I quickly turned to go around the block back to where a fire engine and 3 police cars were parked as an ambulance came whining around the corner. "That's my family!" I yelled to the police officer waving on traffic. Thanks be to God, no one was injured. My husband had lightly tapped a small sedan with our large GMC Yukon XL.

Neither car had any damage, but after the fear of injury left, the fear of losing money set in. The driver of the other car was extremely upset and nervous. He had refused to move his car because, as he told my husband, "I can't trust you! It might ruin my case!" He asked to be taken in the ambulance to the hospital, because "you never know what might be hurt," and his car was towed. As my husband filled me in on these details (including the policeman's comment: "That guy is nuttier than squirrel shit."), I began to envision a conspiracy at work. This guy must have just been begging for an accident. He accelerated and braked on purpose so he would get rear-ended. He was planning to sue us. My mom and I went back to the scene of the "incident" to take photos and ended up following the tow truck so I could obtain evidence to convince the prosecutors that no damage was caused to the vehicle. For 24 hours I was consumed by imagined courtroom dramas in which I either fall down crying in front of a money-grubbing, ambulance chasing lawyer or I stand up and launch into an attack on the prosecutor and the system for taking advantage of my family. I scripted various defenses and responses to calls from the insurance company and lawyers.

Then after Mass the next day, we received a call from the young man in the sedan's father. He had come to town from Texas to pick up his son and was calling to let us know there would be no lawsuit. His son has Asperger's syndrome and had been in an accident a few years ago where he was taken advantage of. He had followed his father's instructions never to trust anyone and always to call for help. The father was very apologetic and talked for some length about how his son loved to come to town to eat crab legs at the casino buffets for a little vacation. Perhaps he feared that this incident would end his son's limited independence. He thanked my husband for his patience and hung up.

As my husband filled me in on the details of the call, remorse and pity set in. I had wasted at least a day fearing the worst. I had let anxiety and distrust construct an elaborate situation that almost seemed inevitable. And I had wildly miscast the main character's intentions and motivations. Perhaps I should be calling the father of this guy to apologize for jumping to conclusions.