Don't Cry Over Spilled Milk

When I was about 5 years old, my brother Andy and I were in the kitchen and he spilled a glass of Kool-Aid or milk or water or something. I don't remember exactly which beverage it was, but I do remember what happened after the spill.


Quickly, Andy grabbed a dish towel and started soaking up what had dripped down from the counter top. He began at the floor but couldn't keep up. This is where my dad stepped in. I remember Dad calling Andy out for being too stupid to start at the counter top where the spill had originated. By leaving the top of the mess alone and cleaning up what was dripping to the floor, Andy was in a sense just chasing his tail. Andy's method of cleaning instantly changed, and the spill was no more. All was well in the Lester kitchen again.

Most of the time when my dad was mean and rude about his "lessons," the lesson learned was simply that he was mean and rude. A few times though, the lesson he intended to instill actually sunk into at least one of us. At the tender age of five, I learned how to clean up a spill. I learned to stop the leak at the source. This has grown into another lesson of treating the cause, not just the symptoms. As an adult, I see so many occasions where this lesson should've been put to use by the powers that be, but sadly those powers must be a seven year old Andy themselves.


Today is Day 71 in the Gulf Oil Spill courtesy of BP. I'm not even going to attempt to apply any of my life lessons to this one yet. I will apply the spill lesson of my life to Border Control though. "Comprehensive immigration reform" must occur according to everyone. There is not a single citizen who could argue with that point. The argument is when it should occur. Border control is needed like the deserts need rain, but the current and even past administrations have no intention to do address this problem logically.


[Sidenote] The immigration debate is not new to me. I spent a lot of years in Arizona and there wasn't a day that went by where I wasn't directly impacted by an illegal immigrant. I knew that when Filiberto's had a CLOSED sign up, it meant that ICE had been there cracking down on illegals. I love my Filiberto's carne asada burrito and I love the notion of a 24-hour Mexican drive-up. The fastest service always came from Mexican restaurants that were over-staffed by most other restaurant standards. Most of the staff "surplus" never hit the books. They didn't sign the guestbook on the way in to the U.S. either.


[Another sidenote] My friend Juanita who was part of the custodial staff in the building where my office often talked to me about the climate of her job. Juanita is a citizen of the U.S. She works very hard for her money. She works very hard for too little money though. Because there are so many illegal people willing to work as hard as she does but for so much less money, Juanita's worth is lessened...monetarily speaking. This was very frustrating for her. She couldn't understand why these people refused to "pay their dues" and become citizens properly...the way Juanita's parents did so many years ago. It's a good question. My guess, though, is that if people are never expected to answer for their misdoings, then their misdeeds shall continue.

How my 5 year old lesson applies: once the border is secured (the spill on the counter) then the immigration reform can take place (cleaning up the rest of the spilled mess). We will never be able to catch up with all of the illegals if they're allowed to continue to just spill into our country. We must fix the border first, and then deal with the rest of the mess on the floor. It's a 5 year old's lesson...this one really isn't hard. It saddens me deeply that the integrity of our nation's borders are being compromised not only by the people crossing the fences & sneaking through the deserts, but by politicians who have more to personally gain by not doing the right thing. (Perhaps I'll go into that one more another time.)

So there ya have it. All apologies for the poor writing. I've had many distractions while writing, and at a certain point I just wanted to make my point. Perhaps it was made, but I can't even think about that now. I have to somehow find out if my dog did in fact eat the 6 or 7 tampon applicators or if he just hid them throughout the house. Gross.

'Til they shine like the top of the Chrysler Building!

I just spent nearly two hours dust-mopping, sweeping, vacuuming, and mopping my house. I feel very good about this. This is the first house I've lived in that had no carpet; every room is either tile or laminate flooring. It's great for keeping the house cooler and it's pretty. The long hallway provides endless laughs when Kramer chases after his ball...think Scooby Doo legs. Anyway, it always feels good to break a serious sweat from cleaning. I broke that sweat and then some today.

I like keeping house. I'm not that great at it, but it's a good feeling and I get a sense of pride in a clean, nice-smelling home. When I was done mopping, I drank from my cold bottle of water and thought to myself 'good job...now if only you had a small child napping, life would be just about perfect.' Sigh. I have no babies, but I do have hope. And Kramer. For now, life is good...and I have clean floors.

Hanging on the family room wall of my childhood was a decoration that my mom had embroidered. There was a woman rocking a baby in a chair. Her hair was in a bun, and all looked peaceful. Up in the corner of this wall-hanging was an embroidered spider in her web. The following poem was embroidered on it as well...

Cleaning and scrubbing can wait til tomorrow

For babies grow up

We've learned to our sorrow

So quiet down cobwebs

Dust go to sleep

I'm rocking my baby

And babies don't keep

I believe that was my most favorite thing on any wall growing up. It was confirmation that my mother felt tenderness for her babies. My mom never was a lovey-dovey kind of mom. She did not express traditional affection toward us. She was good to us, but hugs, kisses, and I love you's were never the norm. I remember my dad saying that when it came to babies, he never knew a mother who loved her babies more than my mom loved hers. But as we grew, the affection withdrew. I don't know why. Maybe she was embarrassed. Maybe because her folks weren't so affectionate with her she just didn't know how to be affectionate with us. I guess it doesn't really matter. I know she loves me. She now tells me everytime I talk to her that she loves me. And in any case, I love my mom. She is very special to me. And when I try to remember my mom loving me as a kid, I always remember this wall-hanging. She couldn't always tell me to my face, but she could tell me with a poem hanging in the family room. We all know that cleanliness is next to Godliness, but being a mother is Godliness.