A House(work) at War

The kitchen floor detests my mop;
It’s been on strike all year.
The great room carpet, as you see,
Has developed vacuum fears.

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Meanwhile, the toilets, yellowed raw
Fear brush and boy alike;
While nearby sink and faucet friends
See sponge and yell out, “Yikes!”

The piles and piles (and piles) upstairs
Of clothes shy from my hand.
Our blankets, sheets, and pillowed beds
Won’t lay as I demand.

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And so, you see, oh dearest spouse
I’ve tried hard as hard can be.
One simply cannot fight a house
Nor law of entropy.

 

Photo Credit:
The Creative Exchange
Tracey Hocking

The Magic Clothes Washing Machine

People have long joked that their washing machines lose socks. No matter how fastidious they are about tracking those little buggers, a black hole opens up somewhere along the laundry path and orphans many a sad pair. I can relate, of course, yet I can also compete.

My washing machine not only eats socks; it also eats underwear and sports uniforms AND uses the digested materials to create plastic fish, Nerf darts, a plastic witch finger, and (I kid you not) packets of condiments.

Laundry Crap
Just some of the items the clothes washer has created.

I’m not sure why or how I came to own such a gifted machine as this, though I did notice its magical properties exhibited after we had children.

…It’s probably coincidental.

Unlike a dog delivering the paper or a cat delivering mouse organs, I haven’t much use for the presents I find in the laundry. I also tend to worry about the objects’ effects on the clean clothes. The fish and Nerf darts and witch finger are usually well-behaved, but the mayonnaise and ketchup are not exactly fabric softeners.

And, I’m concerned about using something created from a process I can’t see. What if the washer’s methods involve lint and elastic waistbands?

As helpful and generous as the washing machine is, I would rather have the powers in reverse. Instead of my son’s karate pants becoming a beanbag frog, I could deposit mustard and hot sauce in return for a red and gold soccer uniform.

I’m sure I would at least get a pair of socks.

—————

This past week’s posts:
Sunday
, March 10: “Selfish Selflessness,” a post outlining the tough midpoint we mothers find ourselves in.

Monday, March 11: Wrote a poem titled, “The @#*&% Diet.”

Tuesday, March 12: Shared a quote by Erma Bombeck.

Wednesday, March 13: Plated a second dinner tip for y’all.

Thursday, March 14: “Dietary Air,” a snippet concerning dieting.

Friday, March 15: Lamented and advised against teenagers in “Why Oh Why Must We Have The Teenage Years?

Saturday, March 16: Shared Ramblin’ Mama’s tweet about making friends for your kids.

Sunday, March 17: Happy St. Patrick’s Day! That’s today!

 

Photo Credit:
unsplash-logoNik MacMillan

Why Oh Why Must We Have The Teenage Years?

Today’s advice is really short, sweet, and to the point: do not have teenagers.

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You’re still here? Ah; maybe you, like me, haven’t really got a choice. You birthed or adopted a cute little bundle of joy, lived through the terrible twos, survived the first and second set of teeth, and even passed most of the elementary years.

The problem is that, now, the child you once knew has …changed.

You tiptoe (yes, you must tiptoe) down the hall to your child’s room. You know you are getting close because of familiarity, but also because of the smell. Okay -you knew you were getting closer because you followed a Hansel and Gretel trail of dropped socks, pants, and accessories to the door.

And because of the smell.

If you are a bold enough adventurer to peek inside (without notice), a mishmash mess will meet your eyes. It’s a jungle in there: clothes, school things, sports equipment, blankets, and some of your items you’ve been looking for are draped everywhere in anti-fen shui-style. A fish eyes you from the dresser top detritus and mouths the word, “Help!”

As scary as the physical side effects of a teenager are, however; there is nothing to quite prepare you for actual encounters with one.

One, tentative question about homework may lead to a Mt. Vesuvius eruption. A term of endearment might cause a glare and door slam. Requests to pave a path through the teen’s room will result in a yelling insinuation of how little you care for their feelings and how much you just want them to diiiieeeeee!

And, I have a boy teenager. I thought I wouldn’t have drama.

So, as I recommended: avoid the teenagers. Get yourself a nice, helpful preschooler who’s just napped and who loves to get five-cent candies as a reward for mopping the floor. Give the teens to their grandparents; you know, the ones who were so keen for you to have kids for them in the first place.

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Photo Credit:
Image by Gary Cassel from Pixabay
Photo by Justin Chrn on Unsplash

A Poem About Socks

Hanes and co.
They have my sole
Or I have theirs
(It’s hard to know)
The point is that we’ve little dough
Because, although,
I tell them, “No!”
My boys will blow
Socks through the toes
Because they grow
And I can’t sew

Darn it.

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A Day in the Life

Some days my nails keep breaking,
As I lose hair strand by strand;
And the vitamins I’m taking
Can’t be opened just by hand.

Sometimes I sweep and mop the tile,
Get dinner on the table,
Then ruefully watch ev’ry child
Drop as much as he is able.

Somehow the same pants surface
Ev’ry time I sort the clothes.
They’ve yet to be in service,
But round and round they goes.

Somewhere beyond the drywall
There’s life; there’s something more:
There are shining floors and people.
I run away! -to the grocery store.

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Originally posted at chelseaannowens.com.

 

Photo Credit:
Fikri Rasyid