Hung out with Actual Moms yesterday. One of the Actual Moms came to my actual house for a while, which was probably an actual mistake because my house? Not guest-ready. For one thing, there are boxes. Have I mentioned the boxes? Because – funny thing! – they do not unpack themselves. Also, skipping laundry for the weekend because I have reached the end of my tether with all the not-sleeping the baby’s been doing resulted in charming little piles of clothes in every room. Because we don’t currently own any hampers. Actually. But none of this occurred to me when I was all “I’m tired of sitting on wet grass. Let’s go back to my house!”
So because I believe in quaint homilies like better late than never, I spent this morning unpacking to a soundtrack of the Screaming Baby Symphony. He’ll tolerate being put down nine times out of ten, but that tenth time he’ll scream as though I am stabbing him with wee little knives. Not that I stab my child with knives; I’m only guessing that’s what it would sound like. Good parents do not stab their children. You can quote me on that.
My cleaning binge was short-lived (and in my head I’m pronouncing that the right way, just so you know) but nominally fruitful. There is a path to the kitchen now! Praise be! I also discovered some broken stemware, which is always exciting, and found that my lovely circular magnetic board is now covered in rust and scratches, thereby rendering it unsuitable for my continuing admiration. This? This is why I hate moving. But at least now I can walk to the kitchen to drown my ire in food. Yay!
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