A while back I wrote a post about my desire to have some space of my own. Any space. All I was asking for was somewhere that I could have to myself, and that would stay clean because no one was messing it up. Of course I realize this isn't going to happen anytime soon. And even after the kids have moved out I plan on keeping my husband around so even then, while I will have more space, it won't stay clean.
During the school year this is an endless source of frustration. Now that it is summer I am overwhelmed by *togetherness*. Don't get me wrong, I love my children. I love spending time with my children despite the fact that they fight more than all the Kardashians put together, and their arguments are just about as petty. They are some of the funniest people I know and my biggest fan club. But the mess...oh lord, the mess.
I am reaching the point in the summer when I give up my efforts to keep the house clean. After over a month of repeatedly putting the exact same items away 10 times a day I need to admit defeat or I will go insane. Realistically, if I don't pick it up to begin with I won't be complaining that I have picked it up 15 times if it just stays put. But I am incapable of following that basic logic, so I spend my days shuffling from room to room returning things to their rightful place like a children's librarian whose spirit has been broken from attempting to shelve books in the middle of tot time. And by the end of the day it isn't unheard of that I finally take said item and just chuck it in the trash.
Yesterday, in my quest for cleanliness and order I came across a random pile of...scissors... on the kitchen floor. There were about 10 pairs (who knew we had so many?) and no one could tell me why they were there, or how they got there. I am guessing it is the household equivalent of a crop circle. Come to think of it, no one can ever tell me who got something out (except it wasn't them). I am starting to suspect the dog is secretly doing art projects while simultaneously attempting to complete a puzzle, playing a few rounds of badminton and of course, playing poker (oh Lucy, so cliche). How else can you explain how these items got out if my children didn't do it?
I spend a lot of time picking up various sports action figures, balls, random scraps of paper, feathers, pens, underwear, swim suits, towels, lip balm, legos, books, magazines, book marks, pencils, tape dispensers, playing cards, and the most reviled things of all - darts to a Nerf gun. Somehow those stupid darts seem to breed and multiply overnight, so that it isn't unusual to find them in every nook and cranny of the house. It drives me nuts.
So this morning my son decided to build a fort. In my room. With my blankets and pillows. And what does he tell me it is for? It is a bunker. And into the bunker he loads every Nerf gun and dart he has. It's like Waco in there. But it's 8:30am and I am all sweaty from having gone running in the 90 degree heat with 99% humidity so I grit my teeth and decide that if playing Montana militia man will keep him happy and quiet so I can take a shower in peace so be it.
And there I am, in the middle of my shower, relaxing in the heat and suds all.by.myself when I hear the sound. Pop pop pop. And I open my eyes and what do I see? Nerf darts. In my shower. Where I am (obviously) naked. And foolishly thinking I had five minutes to myself. Only now I am yelling at the top of my lungs at the retreating back of my alleged sniper. And I suspect the dog is snickering at me.
Only 50 more days left until school starts. But who's counting anyway?