I don’t have my wits about me to write proper paragraphs today, so bullet points it is, my friends. You’ll find that I’m on a roll with the things:
We took our house off the market, at least until the contract with our agent is terminated/expires. And because I’m too chickensquat to tell our agent to her face (or ear, I guess) why we’re so unhappy with her, I just sent her a long, detailed, professional-yet-oh-so-pointed email explaining all that David and I have been railing and gnashing our teeth about in private. I even included bullet points. A bit much, maybe, but seeing how we’ve talked with our agent about once in two months, I figured I have to get everything out while I can, right?
Yeah, that’s how bad it’s been. Someone please tell me that this process can happen without being so draining. Anybody? Anybody?
I scrubbed the kitchen floor just now, hands-and-knees style. It’s all rainy and dreary out so I really had no excuse to leave the house and avoid the three-inch layer of spilled milk and crusted carrot peelings I’m convinced are lying there in an invisible force field of muck all over my floor. My friend Molly joked once about how her usually impeccable (i.e., pre-children) cleaning standards had lowered to now staying one step ahead of the health department. She may have my head for saying that, but you all know what she means. Just trudge through the muck-filled force field as long as you can and you’re good until that inevitable day where your legs get stuck, you can’t move, and the muck swallows you whole like the quicksand-like bat guano I once saw on Dirty Jobs.
While I was scrubbing said force field, Saoirse sat on a stool watching me intently, while Quinn gleefully ignored my reprimands to get the heck out of the kitchen, instead hopping from one soap-slicked tile to the next, playing some sort of homemaker hopscotch. I think scrubbing the floor needs to happen more often if it becomes so novel it turns into a spectator sport.
I do not want a huge house, mind you. But one day I want a home with enough closet space that I can keep all of my children’s clothes (and ours, for that matter) in the same room, no matter the season. How many of you guys have to do the winter-to-summer switcheroo of clothing? It’s the pits, ain’t it? And then throw in all the sorting and organizing and storing of grown-out clothes and hand-me-downs and oh my gosh this process could take weeks. My kids are going to be wearing snowflake-covered turtlenecks for Independence Day, I know it.
I’m still going to the gym at 5 o’crazy in the morning. If I told you that I’m actually enjoying it, you may punch me, so I won’t. So I will tell you that each morning when the alarm goes off I have to mentally berate myself for five minutes before I drag myself out of the covers, silently curse every single adult in the land who as the good sense to keep his eyes closed before 6 in the morning if he can swing it, and that when I trudge through the front door into the halogen-lit world where I exercise I can barely manage to mutter “Good morning” to the front desk attendant without snarling or collapsing over my complimentary, freshly rolled towel. “Pre-dawn” and “sports bra” are two phrases that normally don’t go together. But I do like being able to tell Saoirse that I worked out and have some “new moves” to show her (so far kickboxing is the favorite, and squats bore her silly. Smart girl). And being able to lift Quinn without collapsing over backwards is nice, too, so 5 a.m. it is. I’m out of my mind.
That’s it! I really have nothing. Let’s see…um, nope, nothing. I took the girls to the park the other day? Nope, that’s not exciting, either. I don’t know, folks. I’m a stay-at-home mom. Some days are like that. The exciting happenings to me lately are that Saoirse has, for some reason, started using the word “quite” in her conversations, as in, “Mom, I’m quite happy that I got to paint today!” which makes her sound like an overeducated 55-year-old who’s flipping adorable, and Quinn has taken to hugging me around the leg, looking up with that dimpled smile and saying, “Mommy! I’m happy.” So there’s that. And I guess that’s pretty good.