Sometimes I can be a little persnickety. Okay, USUALLY. Type A is a little more the normal. Having lists for my lists. Vacuuming up the droppings of two little ones on a daily basis and organizing items in my fridge by size and type... and it all helps me function. My thoughts are clearer, I sleep better, I dream bigger with life in a clean and orderly fashion.
Except for lately. Especially these past couple of weeks. I feel like my messy haired alter ego, Quigley, has reared his ugly head and is dropping a bomb of excessive dirty laundry and greasy fingerprints every morning. Most times, I can keep him confined, but he seems to have picked up speed. Either that, or I'm slowing and can't seem to catch up with his wily ways. And there's always something more important, more pressing standing guard between him and I. An invisible forcefield keeping him in my sights, but out of my grasp.
He's not unlike these girls, five minutes into their playdate, with tiaras and feather boas, tutus and wings spread across the otherwise undisturbed carpet of my girl's room.
Although, in their defense, when they played with Barbie and Polly Pocket, it was all put away before the next activity of pretend-to-have-tea-but-instead-spill-water-and-laugh-hysterically. And this mess? With a little help, each and every fluffy little thing was sleeping back in her dress up bins before night fell.
And what am I doing about it all right now? WRITING about it, of course. Instead of gloving up and strong-arming Quigley with Clorox, I'm blogging. Because I'm a blogger and that's what we do.
And after... I have my own big date day planned with my little princess, pink tutu and all. Maybe later I'll attack good ole' Quig with my Dyson.