Don't Tell Me to Come Out of the Closet

When I was a little girl, I used to spend a lot of time in my step-mom’s closet. What took me there was as varied as the imaginings of a child. One day might have found me crying over an argument with a friend, while the next day I’d have been pondering my adolescence or maybe even “What do I want to be when I grow up?” No matter the reason, one thing was certain – Dad would always join me there if tears were involved.

There were several reasons I chose that particular closet of all the places in the house. First, it was a place I knew no one would come and interrupt me. There was simply no reason for anyone to knock on that door and ask if they could come in, like the bathroom. Second, it was large enough that it didn’t make me claustrophobic and I could conceal myself behind the hanging clothes at the farthest recesses of the closet. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly - I could turn off the lights and vanish. I spent many hours like that, wishing I could disappear. This was my haven; a place of refuge from the storms that brewed in my life, both real and imagined.

Dad and I like to joke about the times we spent in that closet, bonding. Sometimes we even moved a fan in to get some circulation going. It could get pretty stuffy. He gave me fatherly advice and listened when I cried. In many ways I grew up in there. I can’t recall the exact words of wisdom that emanated from that room and though there’s no doubt they helped to mold and shape me as I stumbled through adolescence, more important was the fact that Dad took the time I needed to see me through it. Thank God for Dad. (Of course thanks to Mom too. What she and I shared wasn’t a closet, and will be addressed in a later writing.) Thank God too for a place I could go to figure things out - away from my siblings and the other craziness of life.

Speaking of craziness. Today I was nearly a crazy woman. At first glance it’s going to be difficult to see how this day and the days of my closet adolescence are connected, but it’ll soon be clear.

We headed out to Virginia Beach to buy Koen’s Boy Scout uniform, looking forward to having lunch together at our favorite place, Chipotle. Everything was going smoothly until we pulled out of our driveway, and the tears began to flow. Karter and Lisse cried inconsolably for the first hour we were out. Here is where I will tell the story slightly in high gear so as not to mentally wear the reader out. I wound up sitting on the floor of the van between the front and middle seats feeding them their lunch while we were stuck in traffic. With me turned around backwards and on the floorboard, hence not navigating, Arie dislodged us from the traffic, only for me to realize he was going the wrong way on the interstate. After lunch, Koen spilled an entire soda on the floor of the van. Then we were off to the Boy Scout store where they didn’t have one item of clothing in Koen’s size after we drove nearly 1.5 hours one way to buy his uniform. We then made our way to run another errand, during which time my normally wonderful husband morphed into a jerk. Out of respect for my husband I’ll spare these details. We were sitting in a parking lot while Arie looked for directions to our final stop when I decided to get out of the car and walk over to a Starbucks. I needed a few moments alone and I was annoyed with Arie, so the thought of a frappuccino was consoling.

I was slightly steaming as I stood in the store contemplating the notion that I’d somehow got back at Arie by not offering to get him a Starbucks. If you know Arie, you know this would be a major letdown for him. I felt justified, even triumphant, and finally peaceful just getting away from the stress that was in the van. As the glow was just building in me, either from the triumph or from my previously noted steaming, I got a text message and photo from Arie. He said, and I’m quoting here, “:( I’m sorry I was a..."



I about died laughing! After chuckling at Arie’s photo and feeling like he had sufficiently apologized, I texted him back with an offer to buy him Starbucks. He responded with a request for an iced coffee and I patiently waited in line not realizing the horror that had begun unfolding in the van. Yep, it only got worse from there, just when I thought things were looking up.

I crossed the parking noticing that Arie was no longer in the front seat. As I opened the door he said something like “you have no idea…” Lisse, who had not pooped at all the previous day during our trip to Busch Gardens had had massive diarrhea while sitting in her car seat and blew out her diaper. Arie said he actually heard it. He might have even gone on mumbling something incoherent about a geyser afterward, but Koen distracted me with a request to go in the grocery store for something to drink. I think he was partly trying to get away from the smell. Climbing out of the van, Koen inadvertently kicked over my mocha frappuccino, spilling it on my floor mat. I could tell he felt horrible for spilling another drink, so after my initial ARE YOU KIDDING ME? reaction, I dialed myself back and told him to let it go and that it was okay. I handed him my wallet and sent him off for his drink.

Upon pulling out the mat to clean it, I unveiled a soggy floorboard indicating a possible problem with our a/c leaking under the carpet. Then Arie, while cleaning up Lisse, began to laugh hysterically. I turned thinking I was about to witness my husband’s nervous breakdown when I heard him say, “She’s peeing!” He could barely get the words out of his mouth from laughing so hard. Whatever parts of her clothing that weren’t covered by poop were at that point soaked in urine, as was a portion of the carpet where it had run off the pad.

The next thing I knew, Koen was opening the back hatch with no drink in his hand and he was crying. When I asked what was wrong and why he had no drink he said, “I can’t do anything right today.” I consoled him and had him repeat after me saying, “Today is the day from hell.” I thought I said it as calmly as I could and though I was giving him permission to say his first ever 4-letter word the day seemed to warrant it. His lips parted into a strained smile that said “I don’t really want you to make me smile while I’m trying to feel sorry for myself.” Once I told him about Lisse peeing on the floor we both fell into each other laughing. I told him, “I KNOW! IT’S A HEAVENLY CONSPIRACY! All the drama,” I said, “must be a heavenly conspiracy to keep us from going home.” Maybe God was keeping us out of some sort of trouble by stalling us with so many distractions.

There are detailed portions of the story I have left out, like Karter almost ripping the signal arm off the steering column, Arie missing our exit (again), and Lisse biting me, but you get the gist I’m sure. It really WAS the day from hell. At the time I could only imagine that short of an auto accident, an acute medical condition (each of us was already having an acute mental condition), or a death in the family, nothing could have made the day more stressful. I said as much to Arie, then thought better of it and acknowledged it could have indeed been much worse.

Speeding as fast as we could safely get away with, we bee-lined for home. After more screaming, all three kids finally fell asleep, leaving me and Arie with some much needed quiet time. For a time we sat silent or maybe I should say shell-shocked before I inquired, “How’s pizza for dinner? I’m not cooking.” Arie asked if I meant the frozen from the store variety. “I said I’m NOT cooking,” shooting him a playful, yet serious look while he laughed.

We eventually made it home, fed and bathed the kids and played until they were exhausted from repeatedly climbing onto the couch only to be dragged off again each time. After one last bottle and teeth cleaning, they went down without so much as a whimper. Here is where I was thanking God again.

After lying Karter in his bed I stepped into the bathroom to brush my teeth and carry on my nightly routine, which includes stepping into my closet so that my electric toothbrush doesn’t wake the baby if it rattles against my teeth. (He’s sometimes a very light sleeper.) I stepped in and out of my closet a few times before pausing inside. With the door pulled shut and the light on, I looked around and pondered the quietness of the space. Actually, it was more like I was soaking up the peace. I began having flashbacks of my childhood days in the closet and what it meant to me then. It occurred to me that at that very moment I was doing exactly what I did as a kid – taking refuge from the storm that was my day.

Thankfully, nowadays I have better coping skills than when I was a kid. However, admittedly there are still days when I step back into my closet, shut the door, turn off the light, and hope no one comes looking for me. Having kids can drive parents to get creative with their hiding spots. Sometimes you just can’t get away from all the noise, sometimes you don’t want to, but during those inevitable times when life gets to be too much or too loud - there’s always the closet. :)