You know that clean, chiseled, aesthetically perfected feeling of a fresh haircut? Or the just-for-you fit of a brand-new piece of clothing—tags still on, not too snug, not too bulky, straight from the fitting room?
That’s my refrigerator right now.
Its facelift came after my 11 p.m. impulse to pull out every last item, wipe away crumbs and sticky patches, slam-dunk expired jars into the trash, and rehome bulky jugs and Tupperwares into sleeker, better-fitting containers.
The final hurrah complete, I snuck off to bed—like Santa after a night of dashing and dancing—waiting for the morning reveal. Surely Evelyn would open those doors with wonder in her eyes at the magic I had done.
She did not.
Upon showing her the gleaming shelves, she simply shrugged: “It doesn’t look any different.”
That stung. But I still had Dave. His snooze came to an end, and I lurked in the shadows as he pulled the milk from the door. And I waited. And I waited.
Finally, I paused writing this and read the above to both of them aloud. And suddenly—they left up, dashing for the fridge and turning into the transformed little tykes I’d hoped for, oohing and ahhing on cue, exactly as I’d primed them to do.
When homeschooling Evelyn, I range from being the “best math teacher in the world” one day to Dave’s unsolicited assistant who accidentally throws fuel on his fire the next. Knowing something is one thing—but teaching it, breaking it into digestible pieces—that’s the real challenge. Sometimes it feels impossible.
Good thing it’s break time, before I have a nervous breakdown.
Meanwhile, the frog. The one that somehow got stuck between our double-paned window. Green little guy with suction mitts, alert and happy, but how he got in there is a mystery. The only way out was to go inside. Dave was tempted to slide the track, transform the window into its flat cleaning mode (have you ever seen these Transformer windows?). I’m undecided on their sorcery. But one thing’s for sure—no one is closing that window if I think Mr. Frog will get hurt.
He’s fine, by the way. After some slow, strategic inching, he hippity-hopped back outside to live another day.
And now? Now there’s this restless feeling. A little heavy, a little mournful—like the end of a sad classical movie. I feel foolish, the same way I did after ending unhealthy relationships. Why didn’t I notice the signs sooner? Maybe it’s natural to feel this way. Maybe it’s only temporary.
Or maybe, none of it matters anyway, because Mama’s got a pristine-looking fridge!
See ya!
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 