It will go down as The Week of Appliances Gone Rogue. They made this movie in the 80s, and I'm telling you, the AC/DC soundtrack song "Who Made Who" has been blasting between my ears for days.
Let me back up. It begins innocuously enough: in the middle of dinner prep last week, the microwave abruptly stops working. Now, for a mother of three children under the age of seven, this is an earthquake, magnitude 7.0. No warming coffee, in particular, proved to test us all, as did my five year old's refusal to give up his "hot milk." I challenge you to not use your microwave for a week as an exercise in gratitude. Insult to injury: can't replace the microwave for two weeks. I am now down two burned sauce pans.
Okay, so I once again apply yoga/meditation/breathing and get right. And I say to myself: Self! What a funny blog post these tales will make! Ha! It takes some effort, but I make some progress carving some new neuropathways about this farce: Oh, the microwave dying is really an exercise in gratitude for me. I will reflect on how rich I am because of this experience. Kumbaya, a little mental sweat, but I do seem to start not sulking so much about lack of caffeine.
I'm telling you, be careful what you put your attention on, folks; next, the Universe decided that since I was mining such wisdom from the microwave malady, I could really use some extra material. Because the next morning, at five of the clock, with sleet pounding on the window, on the coldest day of the year, I awoke to no power.
Have you ever attempted to dress sleepy, recalcitrant toddlers near open flames in sub-normal temperatures? The house resembled a Sting video. No hot water, also, means no bath for grubby mommy....who was due in for a long day at the sadness reduction factory. And have I failed to mention I'm kind of an indoorsy, American prinncess anyway (I can own it)? Surliness ensues.
After an epic struggle against the Universe...will I ever learn?...the power did return six hours later. But as a result? Both the stove and the electric garage door were broken, joined the revolution. And since all the cool kitchen accessories were doing it, my toaster handle came loose and half off just to keep up with the crowd.
Am I being punk'd? Is, to date myself, Alan Funk lurking behind a bush somewhere? Alas. I am left only to struggle to find the inevitable personal self growth inherent in this situation. And this premise under which I operate, that everything that happens as designed specifically for my growth, is how I'm going to play it. I am a powerful conjurer-upper of my own experience. And thusly, I have elected to think all these unbelievable stories happen to me so I may blog about them, be given some outrageous book advance, and live the rest of my life out like a Katy Perry/Molly Ivins hybrid.
So here's to picking the thoughts that make the most meaning out our Family Circus on acid adventures. Certainly, if I can help make you laugh about some of your challenges, there's meaning indeed to the truth of my life that is, indeed, stranger than fiction. As I always tell the little ones and clients alike: it's always better to share. And I share on twitter too at @eliskacounce. See you there.
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