No Joke

(Courtesy Google images)

Housekeeping ain't no joke!

 ( Little Women)

Haven't posted for a couple weeks.

Completely overwhelmed with our house.

Since we moved here, any time a friend has asked how I am doing, my response has been something like, "Oh we're good. The house is a mess--but we're good." I haven't had people over in a long time...because I don't know what to do with our mess.This is a common thread in my life. It's not new.

 In all honesty--I've been overwhelmed with our house for ten years. It's been great for me to be married to someone so opposite of me. He's actually incredibly helpful around the house. I know men aren't supposed to be. But my husband is. Alas, he's not here...and I am.

 I decided to purge as much as I can for the next couple weeks. To rearrange my house to better fit my needs (and weaknesses).

Last week when the garbage man came, there were all kinds of treats for him to take away.

 I've never thought that we had a lot of stuff. Compared to the average American...I thought we were normal. But, when you start adding up the treasures of 7 people. It's a lot! When you couple that with a lady in charge...who's really bad at throwing away artwork, books, and, "special toys." It can be a disaster. 

Consequently, it doesn't matter how much junk you do or do not have.  
It's all about how much you are willing to manage. Apparently, I am willing to manage very little. My goal is to cut back and cut back until I am able to deal more gracefully with the needs of my family, and the stuff we have. (By the way, that's the name of a really awesome book about hoarding. "Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things.")

I've called out an intervention on myself. 
No, I don't think I hoard...but I do think I have a really difficult time multitasking and making decisions. Not great weaknesses to have with five kids. It's not that we live in squalor. It's that we live in bursts of  clutter. The toilets are pretty clean. The dishes are done. But, I ALWAYS have a big pile...of something that I need to got through. A room that is a disaster, because I stuff all the things I can't sort. Clean laundry is almost always piled in my room. Not a load. Not two. But, usually a handful of loads. This post over at, Starry Star Ranch was totally inspiring to me. So much so that the kids and I move ALL the kids dressers into my room last week. The master bedroom is the biggest room in the house. And, currently...there is only one person living in it. Meanwhile, there are two small bedrooms for five children. So far, taking out the dressers, getting a bunk-bed, and loading up SIX garbage bags of unused or unwanted toys...has me feeling pretty hopeful.

It's hard for me to see the big picture when people are around. I've often been called a, "good listener." It's probably mostly that I am incapable of doing more than one thing at a time. If there are tasks, or people to tend to. I will tend to people. Problem is, people need tasks done as well.  I'm learning to see this for what it is and not, " I just had a baby. " Or, "We just moved." Or, "We just adopted and moved...and moved...and moved." It's a life skill that I've never acquired. Plus, every time your family grows or changes, you have to adjust for that. Five children is more than four every time I do the math. The little tasks and responsibilities add up. Having a husband gone leaves me with less work in some areas and more in others. This is something that everyone deals with. I'm just realizing                     it's no freaking joke. As much as I rebel against the barefoot and pregnant, empty-headed, stay-at-home, downing bon-bons, and legalistic portrayal of woman people tend to mock. Keeping a home is an art. It's a lot of work. And...it takes managerial skills I seriously lack.

I'm hoping this is the year. 

And, you know what? Maybe it's not super horrid. Maybe someone else would think our house was functioning. Another person might think it was a horrible pig pen. The thing is...I'm not functioning well in it. I never have. That STUPID freakin' saying, "A place for everything, and everything in it's place." It's been running through my head constantly the past few months. Since we moved here, I haven't  completely set up our home.   We have generalized locations. But, there's a lot missing. So, when piles accumulate--I freeze. I'm not really sure where anything should go...in my own home.

I read this post awhile back at Ordinary Time, "Why home disorganization is a lot like debt." That is such an awesome analogy! I would say the feelings are almost exactly the same for me. So, just like we are Dave Ramsey-ing it up this year...I want to live in a home that is functioning and orderly. It's doesn't have to be perfect. I'll take the wall scuffs. The stuffed animals. The shoes lying around. But...the school room piled high with junk. The garage with dozens of unsorted boxes still from the move. The bedroom with piles and piles of clean laundry. The boy's closet with coats, legos and shoes. No thank you.

This housekeeping rebel has been converted.

Six Banana Peels

Someday...

When you are recovering from a really intense THIRTY minute workout.

I mean, *phew.*

You get the kids on the bus.

You feed the babies...

And you think, "Wow. I'm really tired. That's pathetic. I shouldn't be tired from thirty minutes on an elliptical. But...I am really tired."

When you look  at the dirty kitchen you should be cleaning and children you should be dressing, and think again, "I am really tired."

When the t.v. that is mounted to the wall starts beckoning you with promises of free babysitting. When it promises you that your children will be so entertained by whatever it is spewking out--they won't think to cause havok. When it tempts you with thoughts of sleeping past six a.m. for the first time in a month.

Do the right thing and say, "GET BEHIND ME SATAN!!"

Or you may or may not wake up from THE most blissful slumber by the little voice of your son saying, "Mom. I so, so sorry. I so, so, so, sorry. I was haynding from da turtain rod...and it fell. It fell ALL da way down. I pulled it from da wall. I so sorry. So, so, so sorry."

You may or may not run out into the living room really ticked off, only to find the curtain rod was indeed pulled, "...all da way down." And you may or may not find your daughter covered in not one...not two...but three very expensive, goopy hair products. You may find that she found it necessary to cover her entire face, portions of her legs, her hands, and her arms. But not a drop in her hair. As that was the only part of her body she couldn't reach with precision. You may find that goop on carpet, on the couch, and on her sister's coloring books.

And finally, you may decide that no, you will not take any pictures of the event, because...you are too angry.  And they aren't even cute. Little punks. Little deviant, destructive, disastrous children. Why do they have to act so...so...so much their age?

Is it so wrong to leave a 22-month-old and a three-and-a-half-year-old alone for almost two hours? Unattended, and only supervised in that you groggily remember saying yes, they could have more bananas and to please put the peels in the trash can. You were present in body...but your spirit was far away. Dreaming of a clean house, swimming in a triathlon and beating EVERYONE, and finally getting to pick your husband up from the airport for R&R.

Not that any of this happened to me.

I would never be such a delinquent parent.

And, IF I were...I suspect that this would teach me a lesson or two...

(By the way. I found SIX banana peels in the trash can this morning. SIX.)

When something comes out of a chicken's butt...

You might think this is a blog about adoption.

Or about military life.

Or homeschool things.

Marriage. 

Children.
Truth is, I don't even know.

This morning I woke up to what I usually wake up to. 

Probably similar to what a lot of moms and dads wake up to across the planet.

Grant was yelling at someone to give back a toy that was his. 

Then the pad, pad, pad of his feet running down the hallway to tattle. 

Then the questions that come every morning. 

The questions that I've never once, not once said, "yes" to, but still he asks. 

"Mom, can I have a popsicle for breakfast?" 

"No." 

"Okay, can I watch a movie?" 

"No, not until after breakfast, and chores." 

*whine* *wail* *waah*

Then Reagan came in doing the potty dance, and I yelled at Kennedy to take her potty. Uh. I mean, I was a responsible parent and got out of bed to take her potty. Then I climbed back into my bed to enjoy its king-sized goodness. Goodness that just 30 minutes before, was filled with sweaty, snoring children. I tried to add up the hours of sleep I had accumulated during the night, but that just made me depressed. Legs cramps. Nightmares. Children are such complicated beings.

I figured it might be a rough Saturday.

 I managed to get out of that soft haven and step out into morning time with deranged children. I'm not really sure why I can't stay in bed all day; because that's just what I'd like to do. Something in the pit of my stomach says that that would be slovenly and wrong. 

 I took one look at their tired, bickering faces, and decided to step outside to, "check on the chickens."

That's what I say when I'd really like to go on a walk or sit on my porch swing and stare into nothing. The problem is, I think it's a questionable practice to leave your children alone in the house while, "you go for a walk."  When I sit on my porch swing, the children seem to think that that's an invitation for them to join me. When I have shooed them away, they press their smudgy little faces against the glass of our back door, and stare at me in a way that both seeps the enjoyment out of my bones, and makes me laugh.

So, I check on chickens.

I walked out to the chicken coop. After I stepped into the pen, those birds gathered around and eyed my sandaled toes  hungrily. I thought they must be starving to look at my feet like that. But after checking their food supply, I discovered that they were just being mean. This hurt my feelings. Since I am the one who gave them life, put up with their stinky little bodies while they were babies, and cleaned out their poop when it became overpowering in its smell.

For 10 days we have not had a single egg. It's been on my mind night and day. Day and night. What could make them stop laying? What varmint could be sneaking away those eggs? 

I made a little cardboard house of death. One that the chickens could not get into, and I put out some poison. I hoped that if my problem was a rat,  it would go to heaven and my golden eggs could again be found.

Five days went by. Still no eggs.

Today, I lifted the lid to the nest box...and VOILA!

An egg.

And that is all there is to this post.

I found an egg today.

And that makes me very happy.

"I'm the one on the left."

      

"Toes. "

"Sometimes something coming out of a chicken's butt can make even the worst mornings great."