Three Tons Wait

This I believe . . . “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

On my mind this morning is rubber, a lot of rubber. Last week the swing set we ordered for the backyard arrived in two large boxes that now sit on the porch. My husband and I, on track to be parents of the year, are investigating what, if anything, to put under the monstrosity to protect the kids from falls. Back when I was little, my sister and I rode our swings into the stratosphere over the concrete in the breezeway of our parents’ house. We never broke a bone or lost a tooth though we stood on the swings and did all manner of tricks. Still, today things are different. The kids ride in car seats, then boosters, our baby sleeps on his back not his belly and the water in our house never heats above one hundred twenty degrees. In the world of playground landscaping, the gold standard in safe surfacing is rubber mulch, which is currently used under the White House playground.

Made from environmentally friendly recycled tires and ninety-nine percent wire free, the rubber mulch is available in a rainbow of colors from earth toned brown, to eye-catching red, to shock-the-neighbors blue. Having done my research online, I place a call to the company to find out more. Someone named Julie tells me that the mulch arrives in two thousand pound bags. “Based on the dimensions of your playground,” she says finishing the calculation, “I would recommend three bags.”

“Where do they leave it?” I want to know.

“They deliver the mulch to the end of the driveway.” She says that we’ll want to make quick work with a shovel once we see the pile looming in front of our house. “Three tons of rubber mulch is very motivating.”

Undeterred, I wait while she calculates the cost. The gobsmacking quote she finally gives me turns out to be five times as much as the cost of the playground itself and convinces me that woodchips or even grass will suffice. When I recover from the shock, I thank her for her time and hang up but not before devising a motivational theory, namely– a job once started begs to be done.

Since the birth of our third child two months ago, time is a stonkingly hot commodity. (I am writing this essay while supervising our daughter’s bath and bouncing the baby seat with my foot.) With barely two minutes to rub together between feedings, diaper changes, and looking after the older kids, I am on a perpetual quest to squeeze extra minutes from the day. A dab hand at list making, I tried that approach. I gave it up though when I came across a list reminding me simply, “Eat.” Armed with a new theory I decide that I will approach tomorrow by starting a bunch of tasks, completing none of them, with the hope that, by end of the day, the sheer cataclysm that surrounds me will motivate me to complete the chores.

The next day begins full of promise. With the morning mayhem over and all but the baby safely on their way to work or school, day one of my experiment in slapdash living begins. “The perfect is the enemy of the good,” I say giving myself a pep talk. I make an imperfect attempt to fix my hair in the mirror then head into the house. I deposit the baby snug in his seat in the first floor laundry room. I start the dryer for background noise and close the door. If all goes according to plan, I have an hour before he wakes for a feeding.

After a quick call to the prothonotary’s office to check on passport processing hours, I dash around the house starting half a dozen small tasks. Up goes the lid on the coffee maker reminding me to make tomorrow’s brew, which my husband will drink and I will not. The sheets come off the beds though there is no time to put new ones on. Dental floss comes out of the drawer and onto the counter scolding me for forgetting to floss the kids’ teeth yesterday after school. The manual for the car seat hits the same counter reminding me that the baby’s five-point harness needs to be adjusted. The broom comes out of the closet hoping to be a guitar or a horse and play rock star cowboy with our son. Instead it reminds me of the unswept crumbs carpeting the kitchen floor. I am going full steam when the phone rings. It’s my husband calling from work. I provide a recap of the morning so far. “You sound like you’re on speed,” he says.

“I’m getting a lot done,” I say. So far, I’m half right. The house alarm starts to sound. “Got to go.” The keypad sends out a warning. “Zone 28. Low Bat.” I disable the alarm then head for the kitchen. I grab fresh lithium batteries from the freezer and put them on the counter. Then another sort of alarm goes off. This signal is coming from the laundry room.

“Hold on, Henry. Mommy’s coming.” After a diaper change, we settle into a comfortable chair for the midmorning feed. Holding my baby’s small hand in mine while he nurses, I remember my grandfather. His hands were wide and strong befitting of his name, Peter, “the rock.” A decorated military hero, college graduate, salesman and family man, his hands were forged through years of combat, study, work and sacrifice. I remember how he clapped his hands when he laughed, how he rested his bent head on them when knelt in prayer or how he’d make a point in Italian to anyone who would sit awhile. Most of all I remember, when his legs were going numb and he could barely stand, taking his hand for support and surprised by his strength.

After months of battling pneumonia and kidney failure in an intensive care unit, he died the day after Henry’s birth. Still, exhausted and elated from the delivery, I got the call in my hospital room. Unable to go to the funeral, I find it hard to comprehend his passing. Today, after feeding Henry, I place him in the bassinet and head up to my room for a moment. I take my rosary from its drawer and put it on the night table. When I can, I will say a novena for my grandfather, il mio caro Nonno. Until then the beads will remain, a reminder of my unfinished work. Then, when the time comes, I will feel my grandfather’s loss like a three-ton weight on my heart.