I don’t know it all. Far from it, in fact. But there are a few things I do know…like every day is a new day.
On top of editing, I’ve been planning a bridal shower for my sister-in-law, cleaning and cooking like a madwoman and taking care of my usual motherly summer duties (like taking kids to play dates and sports events). I’ve held it together rather well, with only the minor occasional freak-out. (Very typical of type-A personalities, I must say.)
But yesterday I lost it.
It seemed like every room I cleaned was dirty within two minutes of me walking out the door. Every time I looked at the kitchen sink it was full of dishes again. And every time I came home from the store there was something I forgot to pick up. I’d finally gotten my living room and kitchen cleaned and decorated for the shower, and walked into my son’s room to put away laundry. I kid you not–I couldn’t put a thing away. The mess was unbearable. I made my way to his bed, zig-zagging around Handy Manny’s tool set and Spiderman four-wheelers. I tripped on Mr. Potato Head (totally wrenched my knee avoiding his damn pointy green hat), sat down, and had a good cry.
The Husband came in and found me a few minutes later. He asked me what I was doing (with a half-laughing, half-concerned “are you having a meltdown?” look on his face). I told him “I just needed a minute”. He said something like “Want me to leave you alone?” I shook my head, dried my tears with some clean baby wipes, and got back to work. I kept thinking tomorrow is a new day. Hell, six o’clock is a new hour and there are things to do.
No rest for the weary, I suppose. At least not around my house lately. (After working a 13 hour shift this morning and 4 hours sleep the night before, The Husband cleaned out the rabbit’s cage and hosed off the patio for the party this afternoon. He grumbled, but sucked it up too.)
That brings me too another thing I’ve figured out along the way.
Even though we celebrated our 8 year anniversary with a fancy-dancy trip to San Francisco a few days ago, there’s a deeper level of appreciation when he offers to mop the kitchen floor and do some laundry than go somewhere romantic. Don’t get me wrong…there’s much to be said for a kid-free night out…but there’s something about a man with a mop that’s sexy as hell. Love is shown that way, people, not with roses or candlelit dinners.
Now if I could just figure out how to get my kids’ bedrooms to clean themselves.