So, I’m at a point right now where having a mess around doesn’t phase me. Today, I sat at my desk surrounded by student projects, anchor charts, markers and crayons and colored pencils galore, glue drippings, paper clippings, and I didn’t flinch. No anxiety. No internal seething.
Right now I sit here typing this in a house with a sink full of dirty dishes, kids’ rooms with toys/clothes/sports stuff all over the floors, cups on tables, things where they don’t belong, and I’m oddly okay with not getting up from this mildly crowded couch to put all the things in their places. And that, my friends, should be a frightening thought.
I imagine my house will look fit for an episode of “Hoarders” soon. Crews will be called in. A peppy, annoying, yet well meaning woman will be trying to make me part with one of my gazillion throws as I yell at her and ask my family why they hate me and want me to throw all my things away. Then I’ll turn to the camera in a personal confession fashion and flashback to the time when I became okay with living with clutter. They will realize the error of their ways and blame themselves. They will vow to never leave their socks in the living room again or leave all their barbies sitting on the sofa. They will vow to wash their own dishes and clean their own restrooms and pick up the remnants of their millionth outfit change of the day. They will realize that mom never nagged, she merely pointed shit out that needed to get done. We’ll all cry and hug it out. And then I’ll evil laugh maniacally because my plan worked. It worked! Bwahahahaha!
And then I’ll wake up from the dream and see that the counters have still not been wiped down and there’s still toys in the living room and dishes in the sink and unfolded throws and so I’ll throw my hair in a bun, put on some gangsta’ rap and handle it because in the famous words of Tina Fey “Bitches get stuff done.”