|This is how we entertain ourselves when we figure out we're all wearing purple.|
It's amazing how off it can throw you to go two weeks without cloth diapers.
This last week I have been desperately struggling to establish "normal" again. Reintroducing the nap, enforcing regular bed and bath times, even finally taking down the Christmas tree. This means stepping back while my kids watch "Yellow Submarine" and "Annie" ad nauseum. (By the way, the girls LOVE John Lennon. They refer to the Beatles as "John and his friends," and SI's favorite song is "Power to the People." My kids are awesome.) While the girls watch the movies, RH rolls around the floor, and I abandon my children to the electronic babysitter and attempt to reclaim my house.
|RH: Six months old|
|My house full of chaos.|
I have a simple goal: To be able to decide to mop the floor in any given room without spending an hour finding where things have to go first. Not putting them away, just figuring out where the hell I can put them.
Every vertical surface in my home was, until a few days ago, covered in crap. Unknown, possibly important, indecipherable crap. Two days of hard work and the addition of some shelving has yielded a kitchen that I can actually clean now. Where everything has a place to go. The dining room is next.
If I look at my home dispassionately, really, I'm just this side of a hoarder.
Know what I found in the dining room? A fondue pot. I didn't even remember that I had a fondue pot. It's still in the box. I could be using that space to stash the linens hanging out on top of the photo albums.
So how are my kids coping with all of this? Simple. Without me.
|Grandmommy in my personal chaos zone|
I am eagerly awaiting the day that I reach the living room. On that day, I will unroll my probably spider infested yoga mat, and I will do a sun salutation.
Because I have had it with my current lifestyle. The lifestyle of a person wallowing in the collected detritus of self pity.
I wander around my home, looking forlornly at puddles of dried playdough with wooden and velcro eggs embedded in them, sighing and thinking to myself, "I'm going to get to that..."
Screw it. I'm getting to that. And then I am getting to me. I'm tired of carrying around this spare tire from making three babies. I'm tired of just telling my friends to cram the crap on the table just anywhere when they graciously come over for dinner. I am getting my life into the kind of order where it might be functional. Where I could dance with my kids if I wanted to. Where the pre-dance party cleaning isn't just a stashing things out of reach because they have nowhere to go.
|Now picture them singing "Tomorrow."|
But with a little elbow grease and determination, I think that soon I'll have a functional coat rack, linens that don't live on the floor, and a routine that allows me to actually mop once in a while.
It's amazing how out of control things can get in just six months.
Six and a half months ago, I had a baby. My third baby.
And, because I'm not an idiot, I prioritized me and the baby and the girls and M over just about everything else.
But now it's time to start acting like I run this show. Because, as it turns out, I do. And I'm good at it.
And with that mantra in mind, I think I can lock up about two thirds of the marzipan hiding in my sock drawer, put away the plastic dishes, and make my home my home again.
Wish me luck, lovely readers.
Sometimes I think I'll need it.