Sunday, February 10, 2013

Very Superstitious, Wash Your Face and Hands


That extra sense is not to be ignored.  I don’t want to call it the sixth sense, because there is a really scary movie associated with that. Just like the thirteenth floor of a hotel. I would book another room on maybe, let’s say the seventh floor. Room 777. Superstitious, you say? To borrow from The Office, “I’m not superstitious, just a little stitious.”  I would call intuition the seventh sense. Seven completes a week. Seven belongs to God. Seven is holy. Intuition is holy. It is a gift.

Like other things that are holy, intuition tends to be ignored. Spiritual matters are spiritually discerned. How do you hear without ears? How do you see without eyes? I think everyone has a measure of the gift. Some are more in tune than others. Intuitiveness is an emotional intelligence, so I think that usually the female brain lights up a tad more vivid when intuition wafts through the ether. Am I being sexist? You bet I am.

I am a feminist, that way. There are certain things that we are just better at. It is what makes us women. Now I can only draw from my narrow world—where I live. I am married to a man who solves problems. It is one of the things I love about him. If it is reparable, he will find a way. I just saw an e-card on Pinterest that I pinned on a board I title, “The Man.” Atticus Finch is on there. Jimmy Stewart from It’s A Wonderful Life juggles his four kids with his adoring Mary (Donna Reed) around the Christmas tree. The e-card placards a Victorian lady and a gentleman. The card reads, “A real woman can do it all by herself, but a real man wouldn’t let her.” I don’t know about you, but I love this. In a word, resonates.  

I curtsy to this because as I remember Roseanne Barr said once, “There's a lot more to being a woman than being a mother, but there's a hell a lot more to being a mother than most people suspect”.

I have a whole hat rack of job descriptions entailing being a wife and mother. I easily fill up a day. It is an art. My masterpiece is our children. So far, the canvas is developing quite nicely. The painting isn’t finished yet. We have plenty of color, and shadows that make it interesting, like chiaroscuro. It’s taking a long time. We confer, we study, and we decide on just the right angle. After all, it took Michelangelo a long time too. Rob has his brush stroke technique, and I have mine. Together we can share it with the world.

This is where intuition comes in. That still small voice that says, “Whoa, something is going to happen.” If I had a quarter (nickels don’t go far enough anymore,) for the times this has happened, I could furnish a sweet shabby chic writing desk. I wish I’d written all these down. I’ll list a couple.

Katie is the first one up at our house. She’s in the shower at six and ready for breakfast at six thirty. She’s tender, but can be abrupt in her movements. I was just saying this to Rob the day before a small tragedy. She shares certain physicality with her brother, Scott. They are a female and male version of one another. Like our other son, Mark, and our daughter, Danika.

This particular morning, Katie’s cell battery died and her alarm didn’t ring. She was behind schedule, by her own standards. She stomped down to the kitchen with wet hair and scowl. I asked what was wrong. I tried to settle her. She wouldn’t be consoled. She slammed down the toaster lever. “You just need to calm down,” I chided.

When it came time to leave, I reminded the girls, “Be safe today.” They know what I mean.  Getting to school requires driving with the headlights on, smoky mornings. Throughout the day, thoughts, words, actions that reflect a young lady protecting her reputation are involved. Again, there is a lot more than suspected.

The door slams—another slam. I begin unloading the dishwasher. Thirty seconds later, Katie trudges back in holding her right hand, crying like my three year old used to.

“What’s wrong now?!” I demand.

 “I slammed my finger in the door.”

 “The car door?”

“Noooo, the front doooorrr,” she cries.

I knew it. I saw it coming. Not exactly a cracked middle finger, but I had a feeling something would happen.

Another time I made macaroni and cheese in a rectangular glass pan. I served it up as leftovers for lunch. I left it out on the counter for the girls. I actually thought that if I didn’t carry the pan back out to the extra fridge in the garage, Beth would try, and end up dropping it and breaking it. I saw the whole thing. But then, I second guessed it. Too lazy to do it myself, I guess.

I went back to work. I came home later to find Beth with bandages all over her hands. Danika swept up the glass and performed first aid on her baby sister.

Many times I’ll announce a warning. Rob will answer, “Are you hearing that small voice?”

Yes. It’s called intuition. It is a gift.

Don’t reason it away. It is an intangible.

Like faith. You can’t see it, smell it, taste it, or hear it, but it’s more real than anything.

I will cherish it.

I will listen more than I speak.

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