Some days I walk around the house and become very overwhelmed. I see dirty dishes overflowing out the sink, a blanket of crumbs on the floor, and disorganized stuff and toys everywhere except out of my face. My heart starts beating a little faster and my skin starts to tingle. The baby starts crying even after I’ve given him everything but heaven and the older two squabble over something about as important as mud. I go upstairs to try and ward off the laundry monsters and almost trip on the bags of trash I’ve left in plain sight for my husband to notice.
I pick up the bags and, after a quick check for any unsuspecting victims below, I hurl them down the stairs. Of course, one of the bags opens scattering dirty diapers, snotty tissues and who knows what else all over the stairs and floor. This is when it starts to get ugly.
“Why can’t he just pick up the trash!”
Crying baby in tow, I gather the trash back up and shove it into the overflowing dumpster. I pass by the bathroom on the way back upstairs and catch a quick glance in the mirror. Were those scales growing on my skin? “Great, how in the world will I find time to add body lotion into my morning prep routine? Oh well, like my husband cares.”
Oh-oh.
Still unable to satisfy the baby, I decide to…
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