I'm caught off guard.
Mr. House continues, "You look Chipper"
Ah ha! I knew it was going to start. Wait for it...
"You finally going to do something about me? It's depressing. You look like you have all the energy in the world. You've slept, you've exercised, you're ready to move on in your life. Right?" Mr. House looks hopeful.
Funny, I thought hope could only come from something with a soul. Glowering, I survey the damage. Mr. House is right. It is depressing. Dishes left undone by the chiclets. Mail waiting for Important Decisions.
Sighing I begin my script. I see Mr. House glaze over with boredom, "Well, as soon as I'm done with breakfast, then therapy for Chickadee, and grocery shopping then I can. But I'll have to make a list first. And I haven't helped the kids clean up their playroom in a while. They must've sat on all those bags of clothes I sorted. It looks like they exploded everywhere."
"Yes, I am aware of the situation." He said archly.
It seems he will soon begin his tirade, so I try to head him off. "But, I'm trying..."
"WRONG!" Mr. SnottyPants rants, "You are a failure as a housekeeper. FAIL. You used to be so uptight about it. You laundered the sheets every week. You even had a day of the week for it. And another day for clothes, a day for groceries, and a day to vacuum. You even had the last weekday for cleaning the bathrooms!" His tone implies that life was perfect then.
"But that was because I was working too hard to be perfect, taxing my brain cells beyond their capacity, using my 'get it togetheredness' as a measuring stick for my worth!"
Mr. House deadpans with hands splayed wide, "And the problem with that was?"
That ladies and gentlemen is my cue to light my fuse, "Are you KIDDING me? My psychosis..."
"Whoa, whoa" he says. Good thing he's a Little bit smart.
"Sheesh. You should..."
"Well, you've got to plan. You can't let the kids just destroy the place. You need to train them better. If you just ride them a little harder. Or perhaps if you tie them down to the floor." Mr. House flounders.
The conversation stalls until tomorrow.
*Mr. House is just a figment of my bipolar mind. He is NOT Hubbend. At all.
Please note that there is a widget installed in this post allowing you to vote to give $250K in research money for Rett Syndrome, the disabling condition that Chickadee has. Please visit my site to click through.
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Love you AND your messy house. Thing One and I were watching Marley and Me, and I was so excited to see that when Jennifer Aniston was playing a SAHM, her house was a mess, too. Being at home does not equate to having time to clean it.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThis little poem I love
ReplyDelete"
Excuse This House
Some houses try to hide the fact
That children shelter there.
Ours boasts of it quite openly,
The signs are every where.
For smears are on the windows,
Little smudges on the doors;
I should apologize I guess
For toys strewn on the floor.
But I sat down with the children
And we played and laughed and read,
And if the doorbell doesn't shine,
Their eyes will shine instead.
For when at times I'm forced to
Choose the one job or the other,
I want to be a housewife...
But first I'll be a mother.
"
Take care sweetie <3
( and I clicked )
I voted for it, and also posted it to my Facebook for my friends to vote on.
ReplyDeleteAnd my house is a mess too.
I will go vote and hey no worries about the house.
ReplyDeleteYou will get to it when time allows.
Babies Don't Keep
ReplyDeleteMother, oh Mother,
come shake out your cloth,
empty the dustpan,
poison the moth,
hang out the washing
and butter the bread,
sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house
is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery,
blissfully rocking.
Oh, I've grown shiftless as Little
Boy Blue (lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).
The shopping's not done
and there's nothing for stew
and out in the yard there's a hullabaloo
but I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren't her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
The cleaning and scrubbing
will wait till tomorrow,
for children grow up,
as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs.
Dust go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.
It is the last refrain from "Song for a 5th Child" by Ruth Hamilton.
You are never a failure when your house is not clean and you are loving a baby who is traped. Keep your chin up your doing a great job no matter what the house might look or talk back about.