Meet my friend.
If you could see my house right now, you'd undoubtedly feel better about your own. That is assuming, of course, that you can see your floor through a layer of dirt, manure, and straw that keeps finding it's way in on clothing and little boys' boots. It's also assuming that you, at some point in history, have actually done some laundry or washed a dish.
Apparently, I haven't.
It's as if the end of the winter season came and whisked organization away for a romantic weekend, leaving behind only spring and you-know-who. Chaos. She's charming, but boy is she disorganized.
Meet my friend.
She has a way of getting the better of me, continually pushing me to buy more chicks and potted plants, before slapping me over the head with exhaustion and blisters on my shovel-yielding hands.
During winter, I wasn't given the choice. The choice was always dishes, laundry, housekeeping, and general tidiness (my physical appearance included). Now, it's as if someone's taking me to a fancy restaurant, and given me the option of a hamburger (still delish) or a grilled, grassfed steak (more delish). Naturally, I'm going to choose the steak. And naturally, I'm going to choose digging around in the manure pile, planting Johnny Jumpups, trimming back lavender plants, and building herb gardens over mopping floors. Was it ever a contest?
The answer was no. Obviously.
My legs ache from shoveling. Gravel. Manure. Old bedding. New dirt. But my mind, and dreams, insist that this 'ol bag of bones presses on. Forget about eating... forget about obligations... forget about your body's needs... this is spring, baby. And, particularly on the farm, it takes no prisoners.
Can I confess something?
The last three nights I've scooped up a large pile of clean (at least at one point, they were) clothes from my bed and piled them on the floor before crawling in. Only to arise, scoop them up in my arms again, and flop them once again onto the (fine, I'll confess, unmade) bed. I simply can't give in to the seven minutes it would take me to actually fold and put them away. Alas, there are small ducklings to feed, goose eggs to gather, and seedlings to water.
You see? I'm must too busy to be bothered by the likes of organization.
And thus, chaos has come to stay - at least for the season. She's with me in all walks of life, or so she would have me believe, for the time. Emails remain unanswered. Cleaning stones remained unturned. Chicken feed litters the living room floor (little helping farmhands are also subject to chaos' ways) and as I type this, a wee little mouse just hopped out onto the hardwood floor from under the table to (undoubtedly) remind me that the crumbs on my dining room floor are actually cause for celebration (at least from some of us).
Stu is tutoring today and in a few short hours will walk into mine and chaos' surprise party. Oh hey honey. Welcome home. Meet my Friend. Do you remember my friend, Chaos?
She made sure the kids were extra dirty today. Yes, they're in their pajamas. No, they haven't had a bath... or lunch... and she can't remember the last time they brushed their teeth. They've strewn their clothes all around their bedrooms but instead of cleaning them up, she kicked them outside to play in the mud and make a mess of our yard.
Also, Chaos wanted me to remind you that she didn't make any dinner plans which means we'll most likely be eating eggs again. She says she's sorry about that, but she was insistent that we move manure piles and water the geraniums in the sunshine today. You know how she can be.
Lastly, she made a huge mess in the bedroom, dining room, living room, basement, bathroom, and kitchen. Please accept her apology and this big glass of red wine that will only serve to further spiral us into the season that is, obviously, hers.
P.S. Homeschooling? What's that mean?
P.P.S. Send help. And Amen.
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