There's a Hole in the Bucket

My mother constantly sang as I grew up. She sang gospel hymns, folk songs, snippets of popular songs she grew up listening to, and tons of kids songs. One of my favorites was "There's a hole in the bucket". Let me share it with you now.

There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza,
There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza,
There's a hole.

Then fix it dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
Then fix it dear Henry, dear Henry, fix it.

With what should I fix it, dear Liza, dear Liza,
With what should I fix it, dear Liza, with what?

With a straw, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
With a straw, dear Henry, dear Henry, with a straw.

But the straw is too long.

So cut it.

With what shall I cut it?

With an ax.

But the ax is too dull.

So sharpen it.

With what shall I sharpen it?

With the stone.

But the stone is too dry.

So wet it.

With what shall I wet it?

With water.

Where shall I get it?

From the well.

With what shall I draw it?

With the bucket.

But the bucket has a hole in it!

(http://www.songsforteaching.com/folk/theresaholeinthebucket.htm)


I always felt so badly for poor Henry. Things just didn't go well for him. Nothing worked out right for him and Liza never understood. She kept telling him to do things that wouldn't work. In my mind, I equated her with my mom. Pushy and demanding, not listening to the whole story. Poor Henry.


And then I married "Henry".



This past month of moving has given me a fresh perspective on this dear couple. Instead of seeing a woman that couldn't understand that it was impossible, I found myself feeling badly for the woman that had to describe in detail every action that had to be taken. It wasn't enough to say "fix the bucket" she had to solve every single critical thinking problem that presented itself to Henry. (For that matter, why did she even have to tell him to fix it? Shouldn't he have been able to say "There's a hole in this bucket, I should fix it."?)



You would have thought that telling Chris to pick up a load of things from the old house to bring to the new house on the way home from work every day was self-explanatory. Apparently it wasn't. I spent all last week working my tail-end off at the house trying to finish getting our things out of it and getting it clean. Chris brought home a half-full cab of things every day that he remembered, but I always heard "I didn't know what you wanted, so I just grabbed a couple more things". I kept thinking that it's not that hard to walk into the house and determine what is trash and what is not, and bring it over. Apparently I was wrong.



I realized though, that when I stand there and give him very specific short directions, and don't expect any critical thinking to come from him, that things get (semi) accomplished.

Instead of "sort through the closet so that I can take what you're not keeping to goodwill and we can move the rest", I needed to say "Go into the closet." "Pick out all the clothes you don't want." "Put those clothes in the goodwill pile." "Take the clothes you're keeping out of the closet." "Put them in my trunk."



The last 2 days Dear Henry has been running through my head. The kids just about have it memorized. I wonder if Chris understands why I keep singing it?






Regardless, we're now moved (not unpacked yet, just moved). :) I will never again enter the old house. And I'm thankful for that. It takes a huge strain off my marriage. As a sort of celebration, last night a friend stayed over with the kids while Chris and I went out. We went to a Trent Tomlinson and Joe Nichols concert. FUN! We danced and sang and loved every minute together. I even got a nice new shirt b/c I stained mine. :) I wish I had remembered the camera, but by the time I realized I didn't have it in my purse, I had already gone back inside 4 times for things I forgot to do. I think Chris would have killed me if I'd made a fifth trip.

The Great Sock War

From time to time I see a therapist. Named Fred. Usually I go running into his office when I am so overwhelmed and stressed out that I am on the edge of a nervous breakdown -- or at least am at the point where any one and any thing can make me cry.

This last month I've been crying so very much, that I finally decided that if my period was even 2 days late, I was going to go pee on a stick. In other words, take a pregnancy test -- even though I have had a tubal and the chances of being pregnant are TINY. Thankfully, it was just one day late and I didn't waste money on a test.

So it was time. I went to see Therapist Fred. He always talks me through it. I gripe about kids, husband, finances, family, dog, etc. He listens, and then either makes me laugh with a bad joke or reminds me that I'm not supermom and can't save the day for every single person every single time. Apparently it's not quite sinking in because he keeps having to remind me ... but maybe one day I'll remember that.

During my gripe session I griped about the socks. You know, the dirty ones that husband leaves the floor next to the desk. The ones I've griped about before. The ones that pile up and pile up and pile up -- with me half believing the dear husband when every day he tells me that he's going to put them in the hamper that night before bed but then never being surprised when he doesn't. They're gross and disgusting. And then I finally get tired of letting them pile up and gather them up, trying to not breathe in their toxic fumes, and dump them in the washer. Yup, this was definitely worth a therapy session. ;)




Today, Therapist Fred told me hide the dirty socks under the bed. Or I could stuff them in his pillow case. (Chris...are you reading this? Because if you are, Fred said that you aren't supposed to know that he told me to do this, and so you need to pretend you didn't read it. :P And while you're at it, pick up your socks. ;) )



(FTR, Therapist Fred is not the first person to suggest such things, but it makes me laugh when my THERAPIST tells me to do so.)