Surrendering Control

I'm convinced grandmas regain creative energy zapped from exhausted parents. This is why I pulled out my mother's dusty care package of 'Make Your Own Bubble Tea', hidden out of reach in the depths of a kitchen cabinet, when she came to visit. Who has time to make dinner, let alone bubble tea, with end of year concerts and baseball 7 days a week? Besides, the army of frozen bananas edging out the frozen veggies in my freezer drawer is evidence my former banana bread ambition had petrified. I surrendered control years ago to sandwiches in the car! Grandma surely has the stamina and fresh outlook I am lacking, rolling up her sleeves with a smile on her face as my eager 8-year-old son sidled up next to her at the counter to measure ingredients.

Grandma always has everything under control, I thought to myself stepping away, grateful to manage one less duty. "Careful," I cautioned my son who placed a glass measuring cup on the edge of the sink, "it could fall and shatter on my new kitchen rug." Yeah, he countered, "cuz the puppy ate your last one." A reminder there was little of value left to cherish in a household taken over by four children and two dogs.

No sooner was I tossing clothing into the washing machine, seemingly ahead of the game, than my son crept upstairs saying there had been an accident… something about Crystal Light Powder and the rug. Surely he was yanking my chain!

Leading me back into the kitchen, we both spied a pink spot on the new rug I had enjoyed for less than a month. My mother waving her red stained hand by the kitchen sink insisted she took care of it, assuring me she had shook off the red Crystal Light powder outside. I was glad to see my mom surrender a bit of control by age 75, caught imperfectly red-handed. Big deal, they're having fun I smiled.

Grabbing the rug to attack the stain, I headed back upstairs, leaving the two to finish their bubble tea experiment. Like invisible ink, the bottle of Shout uncovered an entire runner rug of blood red stain. With each spray, a red splotch appeared. I'll let it sit; I thought to myself, it's only a cheap Target rug to a mom of four messy kids.

My kitchen floor was another story. On my hands and knees with wet paper towels, there was no end to the extent of invisible red powder on the hardwood floor. Tempted to ask my son to help clean up, I was equally worried he'd track dye throughout the house. The sweet sugary substance would be a beacon to all the springtime ants in our hood.

Scrubbing with Cinderella fervor, I uncovered a veritable buffet from the kitchen sink to the back deck, clued in by the pink-pawed puppy that ran past me on all fours. Super spy skills were not needed to uncover further destruction on the back porch. Escaping outside to give my aching knees a rest, the hose on jet stream, a cathartic feeling as I blasted red foamy water off my deck with super hero force. (Weed whacking ranks a close second to a hose on jet blast to soothe any mother's frayed nerves.) My son and I couldn't help but laugh at the wake of red foam leaping off the deck, a science experiment of three generations dissolving in the emerging green grass.

It was a blood bath of horrific proportions. A half-bottle of Shout and two rug washings later, I was resigned to a semi-pink kitchen rug, less red, more grandmotherly pink. A memory I figured I could live with until I found the blue bubble gum later that evening.

Apparently my 8-year-old is not the Damian Lillard of free-throw garbage shots when the Portland Trailblazers are in the playoffs on TV. "Buddy, you need to come scrape this blue gum out, but get it cold first with an ice pack (or banana for that matter) from the freezer" I said. Little did I know he'd use our finest cutlery with razor sharp edges.

Golden State ended the Trailblazers as fast as my 8-year-old ended my rug that evening. Blue and pink like a baby nursery and frayed frizzy like my destructive Schnoodle puppy. The rug and I surrendered defeat at the red-hands of an 8-year-old wielding a knife.

Needless to say happy hour came early last Monday and the ants appeared by Tuesday. Marching in like Napoleon's army I squashed them with a wet paper towel turning red with every swipe, a reminder that control is merely an illusion. Having deposited my mother safely curbside at PDX, I headed to Target where I found my kitchen rug on sale, beckoning me as if to say 'hey Mom, you deserve a break'! I bought that cheap rug and some ant traps as a gift to myself, saving money and relative sanity in the end.

The picture doesn't depict extent of blue fray on top or pink hue.


Less red tho I'm still swiping ants 4 days later.

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