Entropy: the Accidental Mud Room

Once upon a time, in a previous house, we had a mud room: a vestibule that was mostly entered by those of us who lived in the house. It was allowed to get messy. Hats, jackets, and boots were jumbled willy-nilly.

It was great, especially for a family with four young-ish children. I am nostalgic for those days.

This house has a moderately large entry hall -- one of the deciding factors for our purchase -- which we have fitted out with a few storage solutions.

Unfortunately, the human element kicks in - and those storage solutions are seldom as well used as they ought to be. This house is home to five people, a dog, and a cat. We come and go at every hour of the day. (Except the cat; she is housebound.) And this is what happens:

Most of this mess is mine - can't really blame it on the kids.

We come home. We are tired. We drop our bags on the floor and kick off our shoes rather than putting them in the shoe-hanger in the closet.

We're running late, so we grab a jacket and dash out the door without closing the closet.

We take off one jacket and hang it on top of our previous jacket, rather than putting either away.

That cone-topped thing on the floor is a mitten dryer.

We don't like hunting for frequently used items, or putting away things that we know we'll be using in a very short time.

And what happens is that our entry hall ends up looking like a mud room. The messier it gets, the less likely I am (or anyone is, for that matter!) to take care of where I put things. I just grit my teeth as I walk through.

Until, that is, I reach my limit. Today was that day. In a 15-minute flurry of tidying, it went from what you saw above to this:

I do confess that most of the mess that was in the "before" version of this picture was mine. My handbag, my overflowing basket of shoes, my "bring upstairs" pile. But a few things belonged to the kids; those I brought to their respective rooms.

This took far less time to tidy up than I expected. Most of the things went into the closet, a few were brought to the kids' rooms. Yet other things were tucked into the (almost empty) storage baskets.

Here, I compromised. After putting the mitten dryer, Peter's work bag, and the extra dog-poop bags away, I left it as it was. There really is no better place to put the dog's "walkies" things.

It didn't take long to do, but I've already received some pushback from the kids.

"What's the point of having the coat hooks if we aren't supposed to use them?" one asked.

"They are for guests," I answered, "so they don't have to go digging through the closet." I'm not sure he's convinced.

"But I'm going to be using that bag later this afternoon! Why does it have to go upstairs?" asked another.

"It doesn't belong in the front hall," I replied. "And you have to go upstairs to get ready anyway, right?"

[Son grumbles but stops arguing.]

For my part, I will miss my shoe basket. I've brought it up to my room (and have tucked a few of my favourites into the shoe-hanger in the hall closet). But I was able to point out to my kids that I've moved my crap as well - which went a long way to stopping the whining.

All of which contributes to this.

Much, muuuuuuuuch better.

Steve just got home from church and (after asking about Scooter, who has a sore hip today) immediately commented, "Wow! It's tidy in here! Only one pair of shoes per person!"

To which I replied, "You didn't close the closet door," which he had left very slightly ajar.

"We have a Front Hall Nazi!" he retorted.

So be it.

Ah, sleep!

As I lay there the other night trying (and failing) to fall asleep, I starting thinking about sleep. And the more I thought about it, the weirder it seemed.

We willingly spend significant chunks of our day comatose, periodically paralyzed and hallucinating, I thought. If we don't get that time, we can actually go insane. Once we fall asleep, most of us have a hard time waking up. At least, I do.

Love not sleep, lest you come to poverty; open your eyes, and you will have plenty of bread.  Proverbs 20:13

As I reflected, I concluded that even more than being asleep, I love falling asleep. Oh, that sweet drifting! And the irresistible tug of sleep in the morning, my head feeling heavy, my breathing still slow. The pleasure of falling asleep is like falling in love; it's not the actual thing, but it is more thrilling.

He said, “Go away, for the girl is not dead but sleeping.” And they laughed at him. Matthew 9:24

For several years, in fact, I experienced a stomach-dropping sensation - like what you experience on a roller-coaster - just as I was falling asleep. It was a little like a panic attack, but without the adrenalin rush. Not unlike the stomach-flip that happens when you see your beloved, in those early passion-laced days.

If you lie down, you will not be afraid; when you lie down, your sleep will be sweet.  Proverbs 3:24

I've only had anesthesia a couple of times, but I know that waking up was the hardest part. I just wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep . . . Quite honestly, I understand how Michael Jackson became addicted to induced sleep. (Not that I excuse his doctor for providing it.)

O sleep! O gentle sleep!
Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull’d with sound of sweetest melody?
2 Henry IV (3.1.7-16)

Anyone who struggles with insomnia knows the misery of being absolutely bone weary, but completely unable to make that delicious transition from tired to asleep.

Of all the comments I've posted on Twitter, this is the most "favorited."

More than 80 days since I posted that, it still gets "favorites."

For his part, Stephen rarely has trouble falling asleep, but when he's stressed, he often has trouble staying asleep. A friend of mine has the same problem.

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,
That, if I then had wak’d after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak’d
I cried to dream again.

The Tempest (3.2.96-104)

I think either one is bad. It means we aren't getting our rest.

Weekends, of course, are positively rife with potential to sleep: Naps! Sleep late! Go to bed early! (If that's your thing.)

On that note, I will wish you a good weekend and sweet dreams. I am off to read in bed and sleep in tomorrow morning!

Stinky, Part II

To read part I of this story, go here. I'm too lazy to give much of a back story, except to say that the city planted a tree right on top of our sewer and storm lines. The tree subsequently grew thick roots through the pipes and managed to cause a sewage back-up into the house.

This year, the city scheduled a two-year check up and found that roots had re-invaded the pipe. The solution was to clean it out again and then, this time, line it with a "cured-in-place pipe."

Today was the big day for the laying of the pipe. (Stop snickering.)

It took two men a full day to line our existing pipes, all of which went smoothly, though dinner was delayed because we couldn't run water while this was happening.

What I hadn't expected was the stench, though I suppose I should have if I'd done any research. Turns out the product is a resin-saturated tube of felt. If you've ever worked with resins, you know that, even in small quantities, they are pungent. This was enough resin to saturate more than 30 metres of pipe.

They left the house about four hours ago, and we've had the windows open all day and evening (thank God it's mild!), but it is still unbearable to enter the basement. Worse, we don't have a door to the basement, so the fumes are infiltrating the rest of the house.

Our daughter usually sleeps in the basement. She won't be doing that tonight.

I don't know what we could have done differently. Perhaps gone camping? Still, I wish I'd known. And, like I said, I'm glad it is neither stinking hot nor bitterly cold right now, so we can keep the windows open.

Who's a good doggy?

You are! Oh, yes, you are!

Isn't she sweet? Scooter has really bonded with Stephen, and, when he got home today, she demanded to be taken for a walk. She's not usually a very vocal dog, (though she does bark when someone comes to the door - but only if there's someone already at home), but this evening, she was eager to go for another W.A.L.K.

So Steve took off his bicycling shoes and slipped on his sandals and we three went to the park.

Eager, but well trained.

Pat and Ross did such a great job training Scooter that we feel like we are the ones who need training.

Here's Steve performing the "Here" command and gesture.

Patience

She's doesn't like to let go of her toys at the best of times, but when she's tired, she just refuses. She stops running around and just holds it in her mouth so you won't throw it again.

Then we know it's time to head home for a drink of water and a rest.

Happy, tired dog.

Unravelling the Mysteries

A photo of me and my siblings, taken sometime before 1980.
Top: Christine
Middle: Wynn Anne, Pat
Bottom: Andrew, Stewart, Douglas, Harvey

That picture was taken when we were all young and healthy, while our parents were still (relatively) healthy. And it was taken before much usable research was done into the mysteries of the human genome.

Since then, the world of genetics has blossomed, and we've learned more than we ever dreamed. Cystic fibrosis, from which two of nieces suffer, was one of the first diseases whose genetic marker was pinpointed by researchers. It is now one of the first to be targetted for gene therapy!