Just another excuse to stomp around the house

Don’t ask me what my problem is, but tonight I feel like a stick of dynamite just waiting for someone to walk by with a cigarette so I can blow their freaking head off.

Why do I do this?

I have great kids. They’re no better or worse than the next kids, and as far as nicely average goes I’d say they do all right. But for some totally illogical reason that probably has part to do with my hormone level and part to do with all the sugar I ate today (seriously, it affects my mood in the worst way) I feel like I’m about to rip somebody’s toes off.

Not that they’re perfect. I made cookie dough tonight so I could send treats back with all the empty pans littering my dining room from the post-accident dinners. I had to run overto the neighbor’s for a moment and when I came back over 2 cups of cookie dough–nearly half of what I’d made–was missing.

This is what happens when you trust an 8 and 6 year old to stay home alone for seven minutes while you run next door to drop something off.

The missing cookie dough (which I hate making and hate baking because I can’t stay out of it) meant that I had barely enough left to eek out the necessary amount of cookies.

So of course I burnt one of the pans because guess what? GERMAN OVENS DON’T HAVE TIMERS.

I think my real problem is that the house is a mess. I love Sundays but I must say that keeping the Sabbath Day Holy (in my case that means taking a rest from my day to day cleaning and cooking) is way harder than spending the day picking up and putting away like usual. My house is trashed and tomorrow is going to be really stupid.

This is a glimpse at tonight’s mood. I am sure that by the time the kids are tucked away in bed and Jason has done the dishes I’ll feel a whole lot better.

Man I wish there was a magic pill for grumpy. I hate grumpy.

Please honey, feel free to sweep it under the rug.

I woke up yesterday morning and went down to the kitchen. The kids were already busy devouring a healthy breakfast of leftover brownies from the night before. By the time the children were safely off to school and I was left alone with my morning chores, it looked like a herd of buffalo had tracked potting soil all over the kitchen.

And thus begun the day’s first of many attempts to keep my floors clean.

Here’s the thing about these awesome German houses: they don’t usually come with carpet. There is a reason wall-to-wall carpet has been such a big hit with Americans over the past four decades, and that’s because it’s flat out genius. You wonder why people covered up all those “beautiful” hardwood floors back in the sixties? Yeah, they’re called dust bunnies (not to mention bruised baby knees). No matter how hard I try, these floors refuse to stay clean for more than nineteen seconds at a time.

Until all my lovely rugs get here (right along with all our other mythical household goods) I’m stuck in nine hundred thousand square meters of tile. I am hating me some tile.

I usually sweep the kitchen/dining room/living area about five times a day, give or take a spill. Yes, I have a sweeper vac but it seems that at this stage of the game, we’re still dealing in scraps of half eaten plastic and paper trimmings, in addition to half of every snack making it’s way to the pool of spilled water on the floor. Soggy sweeping, what fun.

So the other night after we put the kids to bed, I shut off the downstairs lights and looked over in the kitchen. There was the remaining dinner evidence, smeared and dropped and tossed about the floor, and there was my nice, kind husband sweeping up the mess. I thought to myself, what a darling, angelic man out to serve his wife at the end of another thankless day.

“Honey,” I said, “Just leave it. I’ll sweep it up in the morning.”

And then my sweetheart gave me one of those slightly judgmental and overly patronizing looks that only spouses who spend their days at the office can properly pull off and said, “You know, you really should sweep this floor every day.”

It wasn’t about helping me out (which he routinely does, bless his heart), it was about “teaching by example.” Sweet little pupil, thinking the master doesn’t have any idea how to clean the floor.

And just before I verbally decapitated him I realized it: there is no way for someone who spends their days in a neat and tidy office to comprehend just how much debris children can come up with in a 16 hour period. No way but one, and I don’t have the energy or the patience to keep and collect all the well swept evidence just to prove to him that I’m not the lazy slob around here, they are.

Some things just aren’t worth the proof. I decided that in the future I will gladly sit back and watch any time he decides to give me a lesson on housekeeping. After all, it’s the respectful thing to do.