“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…”
These are the words that keep flowing through my head as I find myself going through the motions today. Its just another one of those days that has decided to zap the last of whatever it is that keeps me going. Let me take you on a mental tour of my home right now, shall I?
As you walk though the front door, you’re greeted by something that’s akin to Hurricane Katrina with just a hint of “God, what’s THAT?!” You check the address outside the door in the hopes that you’ve made a mistake- this cannot POSSIBLY be the right place. But it is, so you attempt to trudge on.
Easier said than done.
You wade through the mounds of toys and -God help you- empty boxes that you realize were SUPPOSED to be turned into cars, trucks, playhouses, etc., but have now been broken down into unrecognizable forms. You look around, wondering where FEMA has disappeared to, because this should most definitely qualify as a state of emergency… and then you realize that if they ARE there, you couldn’t find them anyway. Suddenly, it hits you that you’ve only made it through the front door, and the rest of the home is waiting for your inspection. After trying -unsuccessfully- to brush off the shudders that are now coursing through your body, you put one foot in front of the other.
In the dining room, you look under the dinner table and you see crusty breakfast cereal that was never cleaned up and has now permanently attached itself to the carpet. No need for a baby book, here! Dynamite will not loosen it! You’ll be able to point out to the kids -once they’re grown ups- the ACTUAL food they used to eat. Astounding!
You walk- well, you shuffle, anyways- into the living room, scream, and search for another room -ANY other room- to run to. You at once think about attaching yellow caution tape to section off the unnatural disaster, but in the end, all you REALLY want to do is find a safe zone. Every man for himself- if someone else is crazy enough to enter, that’s THEIR problem. You hurry past the living room, trying desperately to rid your mind of the horrors you just witnessed, as well as trying to find your footing on a floor you cannot see.
You say a small prayer and work your way toward the kitchen- or, what, in an ideal setting, MIGHT be a kitchen. You know that before this place was inhabited there was a sink. You look to where you saw it last and gasp- a pile of dishes 50 feet high now engulfs the entire left side of the room. No wonder you couldn’t see the kitchen through the pass-thru- the pass-thru is now a wall consisting of dirty cereal bowls, pots, pans, and the rest of what must surely be all the dishes and utensils the home holds.
What’s that smell? Oh, GROSS- one of the kids must have found a moldy sippy cup and set it on the counter. Better late than never; and at least it shows that they were cleaning out their room, right? RIGHT?
To keep from gagging, you hurry on your way to check on the rest of the apartment. First stop? The guest bathroom- a.k.a. the Boys’ Bathroom.
Upon entering, you pause at the toilet- can males NEVER learn how to aim properly?!?! You feel a need -an uncontrollable URGE- to get clean, but that’s not going to happen in THIS sink. Somewhere along the line, the middle child felt the need to squeeze out an entire tube of toothpaste into the sink. The bathroom is smelling minty fresh, though, so you thank God for the little things and back on out.
That’s when you feel the need to run. To run fast and hard and long to escape what -in some distorted definitions- might be described as a room, but OH NO! Not THIS place! Much like a 20 car pile up or a nuclear explosion, you want to look away, but can’t. As you gaze from the door -because that’s as far as you can make it- you think you see the faintest of outlines of a set of bunk beds and possibly a small table and -HA!- and organizational device that must have been left for comedic purposes because its OBVIOUSLY not in use…
Did something MOVE in there?!?!?!?!?!
You slowly creep away -to avoid being attacked by whatever is currently occupying the space- and turn to head toward the master bedroom. You want to wash your brain to get rid of the scenes you’ve just encountered, but you can’t. You realize with a resigned feeling that once you’re out of here, you will need to undergo therapy for PTSD.
The master is the only room where you aren’t scared. The bathroom is clean! The bed is made! No toys to be found! Serene music coming from the iPOD set up, and…
-what’s that rocking back and forth in the corner over there?
THAT would be me, people. And, let’s be honest now- if you were living in the place I just described, wouldn’t you be going a little crazy, too?