We’re nothing if not predictable around here, and right on time, along with the very first second of cooler weather, we have contracted the first cold of the season (this isn’t “we” in the royal sense, but “we” as in the entire family). Let’s see … what day is it? October 12? Yep, you could set a watch by us. From here on out until May, it’s unlikely that we’ll go longer than three weeks between bouts of upper-respiratory crud.
For about a month, my new-found combination of extremely strong iced coffee and the fact that Elder Girleen is now in school five days a week fostered the delusion in me that I might actually become a productive member of society again. Laundry would get folded, dishes washed, life lived, each and every requirement of the Girleens’ upbringing/schools/social lives would be a cakewalk, plus the novel that’s been on the back burner for the past four years would finally be slid to the front one. Oh, and the 14 books that have been on my bedside table for two years would get read, the yard would get landscaped, my wardrobe refurbished, and the ten extra pounds I’ve been calling “baby fat” for almost three years would be lost.
And now, here I am, back to bailing out our leaky boat with a sieve. And as always seems to be the case, when water starts slopping over the gunwales, I jettison what seems most expendable, which is basically…everything …except putting food on my family and getting them to bed at a fairly close to a decent hour.
It’s a state of affairs recounted in just about every motherhood blog out there, a page out of every motherhood book.
If nothing else, parenthood teaches you how to prioritize.
(This was all an elaborate way of informing anyone who might stop by that we are up to our eyeballs in dirty dishes and unfolded laundry around here).
Now I have this vision of you putting food on the family, and all of you going to bed wearing some vestige of dinner…
Leftover tomato sauce and quesadilla grease are great for the complexion — if only they could cure the common cold.
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