Welcome To The Sh!T Show.
When we found out Zoe had dire-betes, I cut back my already extremely part-time work hours at the bar to pathetically part-time. I guess you could say I am a stay at home bartender/full-time pancreas. One thing is for certain, I am getting my ass kicked on a daily basis.
How in the hell do people do this?
I don’t go anywhere or do anything and my house is a wreck/crap hole/disaster zone.
I go to the pharmacy and the school and the grocery store. Actually, our pharmacy is located inside our grocery store, which is conveniently located next to the liquor store, so I have a lot of time inside my house and I still cannot manage to get it together.
I am just going to admit it: I don’t care anything about cleaning house.
[This has been in the hallway for a week, we just walk around it. Apparently the supplies aren’t magic and do not clean for you while you sleep.]
It bores me. I mean, we have clean/non-folded clothes and the bathrooms are clean(ish). Did people eat today? Get their insulin on time? Bathe? Not die? These are the things in my book that make the day a success.
Things that don’t make or break my day? Doing the dishes.
Or folding laundry.
Or filing dire-betes paperwork.
I mean, I know nobody likes to do these chores, but now? I really don’t. And I am losing my damn mind.
Do I need a chore chart? More meds? A housekeeper? A sister wife?
I do know that a housekeeper is out of the question, there is absolutely NO way I could talk Jeff into that one. A sister wife? Maybe.
I wasn’t raised this way, don’t blame my mother. My mother used to have full hair and make-up before we were even awake in the morning and spent the entire day deep cleaning everything. We came home to hospital corners on our beds and homemade cinnamon rolls in the kitchen.
I couldn’t even tell you the last time I washed sheets and I think our oven is broken.
I need to turn this around. I don’t want my kids growing up and thinking, “I loved my mom, but DAMN, we had a dirty house”. It is too late for Zoe, she’s 10, but Troy hasn’t really developed any long term memory skills, so I need to turn this crap show around before they both can recall their grimy, crumb covered adolescence.
Send advice. Or a sister wife.