Turns out Wednesdays are ok for cleaning, once you get a handful of distracting detours overwith.
It took me a couple of hours to do it right. And no sooner did I put away the vacuum, when a five-year-old wandered through munching on a Pop Tart he forgot to ask permission for, dropping crumbs like nobody’s business. That is when he got the lesson entitled Always Ask Mommy Before Helping Yourself To The Contents Of The Freezer, followed quickly by What Plates Are For And How We Use Them.
I’m so happy with the way this room looks, and I’d love to rest on my laurels a bit, but the kitchen is still in a scary state. It may be necessary to go elsewhere for supper, as the spaghetti pot is buried under some unpleasant science experiments in the sink. Extracting it would be an arduous task better suited to an afternoon where I am not also expected to be running around taxiing an 8 year old to and from religious education class right in the middle of prime supper prep time. (What ever happened to Sunday School, anyway? Sunday mornings really would be so much more convenient than “almost supper time” on a school day.)
Anyway, if I position myself just right on the big chair in the living room, my back will be to the craziness everywhere else, and I can live in a delusional dream world – for just a while, just me and my take-out supper – and imagine that the whole house is as peaceful, uncluttered, and serene as this space. Ah, yes.
And Neil says I have no imagination. Ha!