The Perils of Recovery
The thing about feeling better is, all the stuff you let slide while you were is sick is right there, waiting for you. The dirty dishes filing the sink. The overflowing pile of laundry. The crayons, clutter, and crap strewn about the livingroom. The mystery spill on the kitchen floor. The kitty litter.
None of this really mattered while I lay groaning on the couch. But, one of the uglier realities of solo parenting is that it didn’t bother anyone else in the house, either. So long as there was a steady flow of juice, cheese strings, and Treehouse, The Ladies really weren’t overly concerned about cracker crumbs and substances of suspicious origin. Which is fair enough; I wasn’t too concerned about that stuff when I was 8. But now I’m The Mom, and it’s my job to care.
Not a lot, mind you. My house is never going to pass a white glove test, and there will always be clutter. But in the three days I spent directing the action from the couch, my cheerful chaos degenerated into a cheerio decorated disaster. Just looking around at this mess makes me want to go back to bed.
Sadly, that’s not really an option. Not just because of the mess. It’s the children. They know, you see. That I’m feeling better. And any slack they may have cut me about playing with the Little People or helping to dress Barbie is gone; those apronstrings have been pulled taut again. So not only am I stuck dealing with the piles of laundry and stacks of dirty dishes, I’m juggling the demands of two very bored children while I do it.
And let’s not even talk about the merry mess making that takes place in the wake of my cleaning spree. I might cry if we do.