I’ve been busy. I try really hard to not complain about it, but I fail every single day. Most days, I fail four times before lunch. I’m always telling someone, “I’m so busy.” We’re all busy in our own way, so I should keep my busy trap shut. But I can’t. Because saying “I’m really busy” makes me feel better. Or it gives people a reason why they’re looking at a disheveled shell of a woman. The dishwasher broke a month ago and we haven’t replaced it. It adds shit to my long To DO list, but I’m too busy to shop for a new one. I’m too busy to write over here. I’m too busy to take any more than one picture a day, because I’m too busy to even edit that one photo. Why add more? Work is the main reason. But throw in some personal projects and I’ve got myself a shit storm of crap to do.
I feel bad when it gets like this because everything suffers. We’re behind on grocery shopping, doctor’s appointments, clean dishes and laundry. I come home. Work a bit. Cook dinner. Fall onto the couch. Unpack my suitcase. Pack it again. Repeat. The boys have not had my full attention lately and I feel bad about that. I’m stressed, so I pounce faster than usual. As you can imagine I’m not much fun to be around.
The other day, I was ironing. I used a squirt bottle on a difficult wrinkle and decided to squirt Coop. He found it hilarious. Probably because it’s been days since I was remotely funny. I squirt him again and then gave him the bottle. I took some fire and then let him chase his brother around the house. When the water ran out, the kids and the house were damp. That counts as a bath, right?