Soon after dragging them inside, it was time to tackle Quincy's room. I had been getting onto her all week about the Mt. Everest of messes that had taken center-stage on her bedroom floor, but she kept fiddling around, making excuses about why she couldn't/shouldn't clean it. She's very convincing, or at least she thinks she is, making attempts to negotiate her way out of cleaning it, somehow trying to persuade me that the house (and the world itself) will be a better place with the pile of Legos, plastic food, and puzzle pieces blocking passage through her room. I remained unconvinced, and decided to get tough, threatening to put her favorite toys in the trash if she didn't start making the pile smaller, immediately. After issuing this order, I went into my room, to finish putting some laundry away (my other mortal enemy, besides yard work), and after about fifteen minutes, I returned to check on her progress.
She was in her bed-- HER BED, lying down under the covers, all tucked in, nice and comfy, smiling at me as I stood in her doorway, fuming. She appeared confused by my anger, since according to her, she "was tired and needed to rest." Mmmmm-hmm. Yeah, sweetie. Mommy's tired and would like to rest, too, but I'm not, which means you're not either. One of my favorite phrases around this house is, "Mama didn't breed 'lazy'." I detest laziness, so when Quincy was lounging in her bed while she was supposed to be cleaning up her mess, you can imagine that didn't sit too well with me, and I was off to grab the roll of 39-gallon, lawn-n-leaf, heavy-duty, could possibly hold a dead body, trash bags.
Imagine shrieks so shrill that they are nearly above human hearing range, and those are what I heard when I started collecting Quincy's favorite toys for the garbage bag. Her giant, talking Buzz Lightyear (gasp!), her Buzz and Woody dolls (double-gasp!), her Toy Story books, her baby and various members of her core stuffed animal posse-- all being re-dubbed The Garbage Bag Gang. I'll admit, I felt a little awful doing this, but like I said, this Mama didn't breed "lazy", and I wasn't going to put up with her resistance any longer. I meant business, and she figured that out very quickly when she watched her most prized possessions disappear inside a big, black plastic void.
Feeling satisfied that this little tactic had motivated Quincy enough to begin chipping away at the mass of stuff on her floor, I took the opportunity to vacuum the upstairs, and felt a great deal of satisfaction when I was able to finally take a step without stepping on stray Cheerios, and the ceiling fans no longer appeared as if they were growing fur. Then I took a moment to help Quincy in her struggles, because she had started to do more pouting than cleaning, and then went downstairs to get started on the boys' lunch. This reminded me that I hadn't even stopped to eat breakfast, and considering it was after 12:00, I decided I should probably stop to eat something. So, I offered Quincy a reprieve from cleaning, and we all gathered around the table for lunch, where, as usual, they all wanted something off of my plate, and I was left to basically starve. I knew at that point that all I might succeed in consuming over the course of the day was a Little Debbie snack, if I was lucky.
Yay, nap time! Not for me, for them-- duh. I would never be that lucky. I was nice enough to let the boys nap in the living room, and even bestowed a little kindness onto Quincy by allowing her to rescue one member of the Garbage Bag Gang for nap time. To no surprise, she picked "Big Buzz". By this time, dark clouds had started to roll in outside, and the memory of hearing my neighbor's mower and weed-eater purring earlier in the day had begun to plague me with more of the guilt I originally felt when I woke up this morning. The last thing I wanted was for the Amazon jungle of weeds to grow higher and thicker, and for my already squishy yard to become even soggier and harder to mow, so I reluctantly (very reluctantly) ditched my pj's for some mowing attire, and trudged out to the shed, secretly praying that my suspicions about the mower's inability to start were true. Upon arriving at the shed, I realized that I had forgotten the key, and the little imaginary light-bulb clicked on, reminding me that I didn't have the foggiest idea where I had put the key at the end of last season. On top of that, I had actually packed things in the house since then, which meant that the key could, in fact, be lost forever. Oh, darn! Well, at least I won't have to mow, but the impending doom of the storm, and evil snarls that came from the jungle below my feet made me abandon that excuse pretty darn quickly.
Ah, yes! Check your desk drawer! Sure enough, there it was (whew!). I swear, I must put everything in my desk drawer. Now, back out through the mine-field of dog poo, to open the shed. I'm always a little nervous when I open the shed after several months of non-use, fearing I'll find a dead squirrel, hoards of gigantic spiders, or something worse (I'm not sure what would be worse, but you get the picture). Sure enough, there was one seriously ginormous spider, but I managed not to have a complete heart-attack, and quickly yanked the mower out into the daylight. Please let there be gas in the can. Please let there be gas in the can. Okay, whew! Just enough to mow the front and back. Now please start. Please start. Please start. Several pulls on the cord later, the mower came to life like Frankenstein, and I let it idle while I poked my head inside to make sure the boys hadn't destroyed the living room. All was well, so off I went to do what I'd been putting off for weeks now. Gross.
The front yard went fast, because it wasn't as weed-infested as the back, but I was still wishing I had a working weed-eater, so I could clean things up around the mailbox, but at that point I was just grateful that the mower was running. At the point I reached the backyard, I sort of went all cross-eyed, because it was hard to know where and how to start. This is a good time to mention that the self-propel feature on the mower quit at the beginning of last season, and never got repaired. Yeah, good times, especially when the weeds were so thick that they actually hid pieces of firewood-- no joke. No time to dilly-dally, though, since the wind was picking up, the clouds were getting darker, and the temperature was dropping.
I should take a moment to let all of you know that I don't typically allow my yard to look bad, like, ever, but as I stated earlier, it's hard to stay inspired to keep it pristine when it doesn't even feel like it's yours anymore. Technically, I don't even live in my house anymore-- I am the maid and the groundskeeper, so to speak. Still, I was a little embarassed when I saw just how bad it had gotten, and was still desperately wishing I had a weed-eater, so I could actually see the fruits of my labor more clearly, but no.
Now, I told myself when I went outside that I was only going to mow-- no weed pulling, sweeping, rearranging, sprucing, etc. No time for any of that today-- just mow. That was easier said than done when I rounded the north corner of the house, only to be reminded of how much mildew had grown on the siding in the past few months, to the point that I felt like I was looking at the inside of a dirty fish tank. This does not scream, "Buy me!" Just take care of this, but nothing else. So, because that side of my off-white house had now turned a disgusting shade of green, I went inside for a bucket of hot water, some bleach, and a scrub brush.
ALL CLEAN!In case you were wondering, yes, the storm in the sky was still brewing, but there I was, like a completely obsessed moron, diligently scrubbing away on the north side of the house. I'm OCD, and I just couldn't stand it, and I didn't figure it would take too awful long. The problem was that bleach spray and strong winds don't mix... in your eyes. Mmmmmm, fun! I... will... not... be... deterred! I... will... get... this... done... if... it... means... blindness! Hey, at least if I was blind, I wouldn't have to look at it anymore if I didn't get it done.
When the house was returned to its original, algae-free color, I retreated inside, my hands and arms aching from pushing the busted lawn mower, and scouring the side of the house. Time for a shower. I pleaded with the boys to behave themselves for just a short while, so I could relish a hot shower in peace, and they agreed. Quincy was quarantined in her room, so I had no worries as far as she was concerned, although I was dreading what she had done to her room during nap time, despite the fact that the Garbage Bag Gang was still contained in their dark, plastic residence. Ahhhhh, shower! I even managed to shave my legs, which, in and of itself, was a huge accomplishment for the day, and not much unlike shredding the jungle in the backyard.
After emerging from the shower, and realizing that there weren't any shrieks coming from anywhere in the house, I decided to take advantage, and snag a few extra minutes to try on an outfit that I had discovered buried in the back of my closet earlier in the week, to decide whether or not to wear it to church tomorrow. This is going to be a matter of whether or not I want to take the time to alter the straps this evening, or not, and considering you've already had a busy day, I would be betting on "not". (Sigh), so cute-- ah well, there will be other Sundays. Now, get out of La-La Land, and go fix dinner.
Can I just take the opportunity right now to say that hot dogs kind of gross me out? Sure, kids love them, and they take no time at all to cook, but what's in them? Hmmmmmm. It's questionable, at best, but considering I was starving from my Jungle Workout 9000 (aka, the busted mower), I was not as dramatically opposed to hot dogs as I usually am. Gabe, for one, was tickled pink, eyes the size of dinner plates, and thankfully, all the kids ate without much complaint.
Now, after dinner was a different story. I went upstairs to clean Quincy's sink (which she had decorated with bright blue toothpaste and half a bottle of sunscreen earlier in the week), only to discover that she had gone to the sink, and used the faucet to fill up her Lego table with water, so she could "do her dishes". Yes, all of her plastic dishes were submerged in water, which was sloshing around inside her Lego table. Now, most of you might think this is just darling, but considering I have asked her countless times to stay out of the sink, and to stop using the water for dishes or tea parties, I was peaved. Had she not learned her lesson from earlier? Was she willing to risk "Big Buzz"'s safety, for the sake of nap time entertainment? Surely not. I summoned her upstairs (using my big, mean Mommy voice), and she immediately hid her face in her hands in guilt. Total shame. She tried to rattle off some quick and charming excuse about doing dishes, but I think even she knew it wasn't going to fly, so she helped me sop up the mess, and went back downstairs to wreak havoc on the boys' foam block hotel that they were building. I call her, "Godzilla".
After I managed to finish peeling the chunks of toothpaste off of Quincy's vanity, and vacuumed the downstairs, I heard wild, wailing outbursts coming from the boys, and saw Quincy running down the hall with some blocks in her hand. Lovely. Just lovely. If I hear anymore screaming or whining today, I'm going to the boys' ear/nose/throat doctor, and asking him if he can actually remove my eardrums, so that I no longer have to listen to any of this. It is at times like this that I would like to go hide in my closet-- my happy lil' safe place, where I am surrounded my all of my dear, sweet, comforting friends, on hangers, and in shoe-cubbies, and I can pretend that my kids aren't actually mine. Unfortunately, reality never actually allows me to do that, and even if I did, the kids would just find me anyway, so what would be the point?
Sure enough, the latest and greatest Gabe n' Josh Hotel had been demolished by the blonde-haired, terrorizing monster that is my daughter, and this just confirmed that it was, in fact (thank you, Jesus) bedtime. I herded them upstairs for pj's, and then Gabe wanted to sit and read the entire 60 pages of "Hop on Pop" out loud for all of us, which of course, I let him do. Josh just shook his head in impressed disbelief, gushing, "Gosh, he sure is good." I managed to contain my laughter at Josh's comment, and Gabe continued to read page after page to us. By the end of it, I had to agree with Josh, Gosh, he really is good. Even after the day I had with them, I had to say that they all really are good at the end of it all.
Now, with the peace and quiet that has taken over the house, I am putting my last batch of flash batteries on the charger for tomorrow's pictures for children's church, and trying to remember the settings I used the last time I shot pictures in there. I also need to devote at least an hour of my life to the bike (and Season One of Grey's Anatomy), or else I may be tempted to make chocolate-chip cookies instead. Truthfully, I really want to give myself a pedicure, but I can't very well do that before stuffing my feet inside of my cycling shoes, now can I? Considering it's after 9:00 already, I am thinking that my unsightly tootsies will have to wait for another day, because I might as well punish myself a little more while my body is already aching.
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