I drink from Alex’s sippy cup. At the beginning it was the only way I could get him to drink from it. He wanted it because I had it. Now, I think it’s communal.
I also pick his nose. Which is gross. But it grosses me out more to see that boogie just sitting there. Staring at me.
Sometimes, I wear my jeans until they can walk themselves.
I leave pans to soak over night in the sink. Others may do this but it grosses me out.
On Sunday, I found some food Alex had hidden under the couch. I hope it was from Sunday.
Sometimes, especially on weekends, I find my shirt has food stains on it. I blame the baby but at this point, I’m not sure anymore.
I am not sure the last time my bathroom floor got cleaned. That’s my husband’s job? Is that an excuse I can use?
These statements are not just a lot of malarky.
My point is, shortly I will have a house. A nice house.
And I am afraid. Because I want it to stay nice. I tell myself our house is cluttered because it’s small and we have a baby and only one bedroom and no cabinet space left to speak of.
But what if it’s just….me? What if the sippy cup drinking is an indication of a deep set laziness that cannot be undone?
Or worse: what if I undo the laziness and my family doesn’t like the uptight wench I become? Have you all seen that crazy mom in American Beauty? What if I somehow become her? I don’t WANT to sleep with Peter Gallagher people!
It will all work out. It will all work out. Somehow.
Good thing I’m not freaking out about it.