Thursday, August 12, 2010

Signing off to take care of a closet

This is my last post. As a 40 year old. Tomorrow begins yet another exciting year, I am sure. Resolutions for my new year? Anger management. Loose that baby weight (the babies are now 13, 10, 9, 4 and 2, I'd say it's about time). Learn to relax.

Which is tough to do hear that people are dreaming about you. No, unfortunately it wasn't the Naked Chef. I was talking to my mother-in-law and she told me, "I had a dream you were pregnant again." To which I responded, "Was I crying?"

Don't get me wrong. I obviously love babies. Or am starting a hoarding habit beginning with children (perhaps I'll move to kittens later in life?) But let's be realistic - I am well on my way to that five-oh mark and I've got bigger fish to fry in the stressed-out-about-my-kids department. I need to extract myself from worrying about temper tantrums and time outs and begin to fret about sexting and how to deflect kids who want to borrow my BMW.

Let's talk hoarding for a moment. I think I know how it starts. It starts with overworked mothers who don't have time to dust or put stuff away. It's starting with my closet. I'll be the first to admit I have no organizational skills; that is why I married an engineer. A few of his techniques have rubbed off on me without me realizing it - I can pack a mean suitcase and Costco cart. But that's pretty much where it ends.

I am so bad at straight corners and proper placement that I actually did have a conversation with my better organized half that the fact that I don't fold his shirts nicely is not because I don't love him, but in fact, because I am lacking those particular genetic qualities.

So this closet thing - I have about a three foot pile of clothes that need to be hung in the closet. (misnamed as a walk-in closet.) I can't get into said closet because I have a jumble of clothes spread willy-nilly that will fit one of the five kids at some point, but not right at this moment, a few piles of clothes that I did fit into once in my life and I swear it will happen again, and shoes spread everywhere because small girls like to try them on and fling them haphazardly into the open (but stuffed) maw of the closet.

I am limited to this three foot pile of clothes at the moment, until I find a time when I can thoroughly gut the closet and replace the clothes. But I get distracted by acting like a heat seeking missile sniffing out dirty socks hidden in crevices in the other rooms of the house, or painstakingly separating barbie accoutrements from legos from Disney Princess dress up from play kitchen food, etc,.. etc,.. and so on and so on.

The three foot pile of clothes is a monster. It is shameful to me that the garage has an old car, fifty million ride on toys, a four foot santa and can be walked through without fear of dismemberment, unlike my closet.

I'm going to find that camping headlamp and a few lawn bags. Please send re-enforcements if I don't post in a week.

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