But my house isn't ready for visitors. And I'm a little stressed.
How stressed?
Let's just say that the other night I had a dream that Child Protective Services came by my house and I had to wade through knee-deep clothes and toys to get to the door.
Isn't that terrible?
My coworker was working on a new lounge cleaning duty list and my head just about spun off of my shoulders. All I could think was "I spend my evenings trying to clean up after everyone there, and it just irks me to no end to have to clean up after my adult coworkers, especially when I don't even use the lounge." But I didn't say anything, because that is called a bad attitude. Plus, I was cranky. I had to leave this:
That's where I chose to eat lunch (in peace) lately
Yeah, I went from that to not even being able to park my butt at my desk before I had to take a billing call, so I was crabby.
It happens.
Anyway.
Here's a picture of my Dodo dressing like she's 93 instead of 3:
Those are knee high nylons rolled down to her ankles. I bought them for a project that I never got around to and she found them and thought they were awesome. I cracked up when I picked her up from school like that. Her teacher was pretty amused by it, too. I think her teacher is convinced we're just a family of nutballs. I'm not sure why. It's not like my 3 year old asks me to give her a fake lip piercing.
Oh, wait...
I think I derailed there for a minute. I was supposed to be talking about cleaning my house, which isn't actually knee-deep in clothes and toys, I swear. Yesterday I had to do some wall-washing though. I believe in karma. I believe in karma because, as a child, I was a terrible about coloring on the walls. To the point that my parents gave up and just told me to keep it to my room. So, of course, I have an incurable wall colorer also. And the bad thing is that she LOVES to wash the walls. You'd think that would be a good thing, but it's really not. She leaves the walls drippy and streaky. It looked terrible. And Magic Erasers don't work on everything. Like Sharpie. And pen ink. And nail polish.
You would think I never supervise my children, but I do. The other day when I was reading a Junie B. Jones book, the mom said, "Junie B., do I have to watch you every minute?" And I jumped up and was like "EXACTLY! That's EXACTLY how I feel." I can't even go to the bathroom without Isabelle pretending to be a water fountain. (This was also the book where Junie B. draws a sausage patty on her arm, so it's probably my favorite one so far.)
So, I'm resigning myself to the fact that I'm going to have to just feel some embarrassment over the state of my home when Bill's family gets here. I doubt his sister will care all that much, and I'm trying to tell myself that his father did raise three kids of his own, my husband being one of them and I can't believe I'm totally to blame for this whole "paying for your raising" thing. I've heard some stories. Like him punching a hole in the wall and chasing his sister with a lawn mower and pretending to be dead when he was in the ER. He was no saint. It's no wonder the child is a whirlwind of crazy.
Oh, but I do love my Isabelle. She makes me absolutely nuts at times, but she definitely adds some bright colors to my life.
I shouldn't be stressed. I think I'll get this sign printed and hang it on the front door instead...
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