My husband is right. Our house is a mess. Not a gross mess, just a very... er, distracting mess. Want proof? Okay... (Not for the faint of heart or neat freaks - Dad, that's you, just in case you ever happen to read this post.)
Yeah, it's hard to be upset, just as it's hard to get up off the couch and do anything about the mess when one is in the first trimester of pregnancy. (Good heavens, what's the THIRD going to be like?!?!) I have a good friend, the one who reminded me it had been a while since my last post, who has three little ones. That means she's been through three third trimesters. Try even SAYING that three times fast! Oy!
So, to say that I'm living in a bit of a wasteland at the moment is the unfortunate truth. My dear, sweet husband has tried to keep the nomadic tribes of wandering toys and mountainous piles of laundry confined to relatively small areas, but I think his patience with me is wearing (read: has worn) a bit thin. From whence do I beg, steal or borrow the energy after a full day of work to come home and clean? My perennial monkey-on-the-back question. I don't have the answer yet, but on my way home from work this afternoon, half falling asleep at the wheel, I thought - as I often have - it doesn't have to be like this.
Not the Post I Wanted To Write
4 weeks ago