Some of my earliest memories are of laying on my bedroom floor or flung across my gingham bedspread weeping uncontrollably because I did not want to clean my room.
It was messy.
My housekeeping skills haven’t improved greatly since those moments of childhood frustration and irritation. I manage to deal fairly well with the common rooms on the main floor of my house. Living room, dining room, kitchen… but my bedroom and other nooks and crannies of the house are still a puzzle. It ranges from perfectly organized every once in a while to cluttered chaos that drives my husband insane. It devolves you see. Gets worse and worse. Now is a messy cycle.
With all the work I’ve been doing, with all the writing I’ve been tucking away, with all the summer parenting I’ve been doing, my room has suffered.
If I were a kid needing to clean this room I’m certain I would be flung across my bed right now in tears red faced, breath heaving screaming childlike obscenities (or shoving things in my closet).
But I’m not. I’m a certified grownup. So instead I’m watching Netflix instant view and sorting out my clothing (because my drawers are a mess too). I’m getting all my bedroom ducks in a row. Happily.
Why so happily? Because K goes back to school next week and if I get my room clean now? I can take Tuesday off and do nothing at all but enjoy the silence for 6 hours.
I’m good at justification.