I just finished an all-day project that has been years in
the making and was completely not planned for today. Or any day, for that
matter, which is why it’s been years in the making. Today, after all, is Boxing
Day, and while that literally means nothing to those of us born in the US,
since it is printed on my wall calendar, I have long decided that Boxing Day
must be important and must be celebrated. By laying around and barely doing
anything.
But despite global warming, snow descended on Baltimore
today for about an hour, which put Child #2 in ecstasy. “Can we
pleeeeeeeeeeeease play in the snow? Please please please?” “Maybe,” I say,
“later, when the chocolate chip pancake crash is over. Besides, it’s Boxing
Day, and you know we’re not supposed to do anything strenuous on Boxing Day.”
#2 displays complete and total exasperation, complete with a deep sigh, a
“we’re never going outside, are we” grimace, and a helpless flop of his arms.
An hour later, he tries again, plaintively, “Mom. It’s beginning to rain. Can I
PUH-LEASE go play in the snow before it’s gone?” Before I can say yes or no, he
is digging in the front closet looking for snow boots, finds his snow pants
from goddess-knows-what-year-since-it-last-snowed, finds a hat and snow gloves
and heads out the back. Proud of his dogged determination, and his ability to
find snow-related outerwear in the house, I decide to go through that front
closet. At first, I am hoping to find snow boots for Child #1 so he, too, can
go outside. His derisive and smoldering 14-year-old look indicates he is in no
way desirous to spend one minute out in the cold. Fine. I’ll just see if I even
have any boots for him should I indenture him to shoveling later in the week.
And so it began, pulling out boxes of winter stuff that fit
no one in my house, gathering said merchandise into piles: 1) nice enough to
give to the refugee resettlement agency; 2) scary and weird stuff that I’m glad
#1 grew out of and will never want to see again on #2 or on any refugee (hence
the trash pile); or 3) stuff that is so overlaid with dust that I don’t feel
like washing it first (hence the trash pile).
But then I got all Girl Scout-y and couldn’t just leave the
closet at that. I vacuumed dust and found things. The George Forman Grill I
never even took out of the box (and still haven’t, but it’s on a shelf now
where I can see it should I want to take it out of the box and, shock, use it).
The electric tea kettle I bought for my old office and then took back when I
left the office, in a huffy kind of “hah, now you people can’t make any tea
because I’m taking this back” kind of way, and then promptly lost the kettle to
the back of the closet. The hat to a kid’s coat that got zipped off. The mini
chopper I used to use to chop whole nuts before I just bought them pre-chopped.
And wondrous of wonders, that age-old college staple, the
good friend in days of yore…the provider of snack at will…the popcorn air
popper. It was a gradual unveiling: first I found the butter melting cup, 10
minutes later the yellow plastic top, and then at least an hour later, the
base. I thought about it for over an hour. Are the 1980s really over? Even
though my cholesterol has been perfect all my life, should I bring the air
popper back regardless? Is microwave popcorn really the same? Is there some
kind of authenticity the air popper would bring back to my life, give it
meaning, metaphorically give me respite from global capitalism? Would bringing
the air popper back be a healthy move for my kids? Would it be fun, even, and
provide kid-bonding over the errant popped kernels as they fly out of the
popper? Would we engage in peals of laughter? Would we time the butter melting
phase well enough? Would that become some kind of science experiment where I’m
the fun one and they learn something and
like me? And then something brought me out of my wondrous mommy reverie: #2
came back in from that snow and said “what the HECK is that? Looks like it’s from
a science fiction movie.” #1’s withering look confirmed he agreed with his
brother, coupled with a suspicious glare that I might make him use it, whatever
it was. “It’s a popcorn popper,” I say, “when you plug it in, the air
circulates down here, gets hot, and pops the corn.” #2: “You mean, just like a
microwave? Why would you need something else just to pop popcorn? That doesn’t
make any sense.”
Yep, he was right. Why keep something that does only one
thing? Isn’t microwave technology also science-y? And I don’t have to supervise
microwave technology, which increases the amount of time I can both ignore my
kids and lay down on the couch. Besides, it’s Boxing Day and I should be laying
down and all this thinking is too much for a holiday. Hence the trash pile.
