Work's been insane, so I just worked on through.
I had high hopes of getting the housework back on track today, but I can't walk two steps without a coughing fit.
I make a lousy sick person.
I've been irritated with the kids all week too.
Their lack of support around the house is shocking to me. I don't ask them to do, what I would consider a whole lot, but they don't even do that little dab, without a big push.
I always helped my mother with housework, and fixed dinner on weekdays. You can ask, her, she'll tell you so.
I saw my mother working long hours and I felt like a big jerk if I didn't help. My bother never appeared to share that guilt.
A big part of the problem is my own damn fault. I babied my son to pieces, and never asked him to do very much until recently.
I wait on both of them and Mark hand and foot, as my mother's observed. I even coddle the animals.
I guess I thought they would learn how to do stuff through observation, but so far, no dice.
Mark's good to help, but he works long, hard hours and I don't like to leave much to him, because I know he's tired. He also deals with all of Freyja's sport shit, that I hate, so I figure I can handle the house.
Growing up, we weren't allowed to leave the house on Saturday, until everything was done.
That meant ev er y thing- beds changed and made, all dirty laundry washed, dried, ironed, every floor mopped, every surfaced washed, every tchotchie dusted, lawn mowed, garbage emptied.
My mother would be up, blasting Gilbert and Sullivan, wielding a broom, vanquishing dust-bunnies, cigarette, dangling Cool Hand Luke style from the corner of her mouth.
My brother with lollygag and drag his feet, while I worked double time, because I had places I wanted to go. His Saturdays consisted of trashing the place, with several other boys, and mine were all about getting my ass on a bus as soon as I was released from service.
So when I come home at 5:00pm and see that neither of my children have emptied out their lunch boxes, so I can quickly refill them, or taken out the trash, or cleaned up their after school snack, I raise a little ruckus.
This week, I have mostly left the ruckus to their father, and crawled into bed, and it shows.
This place looks like a hog-pen-that is what my grandmother might say. (It took me years to realize that non-farm people don't really get the gravity of farm references.) My father would say the wreck of the Hesperus, but pig dwelling, or shipwreck, this place looked bad.
Mark instructed me to lie in bed, which was just plain foolish of him.
He knew better.
I should have known better, than think you would rest.
My reluctant troops were mobilized and sort of half-assed it enough to where I can sort of relax. I'll call my gal Lauren to come help me next week, when I surely will be feeling stronger.