It is inevitable. After the rosy glow of Christmas dims I look around my house and feel as if I am stuck in a nightmare. The boys get sick (this time it was Tommy) and the house turns into a disaster zone. It happens every year.
I consider myself to be a very neat and organized person. Maybe even bordering on OCD. Not the kind of OCD where I scrub the toilets 18 times a day, and wipe the counters every time I walk by them, but the kind of OCD that tells me that everything has it's place. Everything must be in it's spot. There will be no clutter. No messiness. And even now as I write that I glance around my house and I want to cry.
The kitchen counter is cluttered with Christmas cookies from the grandmas, extra batteries for loud annoying toys that Santa stupidly gave the boys, instructions and boxes and a carrying case for the fancy smancy camera the hubby so graciously bought for me, Christmas cards from everyone I know, hundreds of drawings the boys drew and painstakingly cut out of their coloring books, crayons, and mail that I have yet to sort. The stove is stacked with items to be taken to the basement. The stairs are covered with clothes and shoes to be taken upstairs to the bedrooms.
The living room. Oh Lord, the living room. Toys are spread from one side of the room to the other. I can barely see the floor. A large futon mattress rests on the floor with blankets and pillows spread over the top that Tommy and I used to "sleep" on when he was up vomiting all night. There are still bows all over the sunroom floor, along with a large collection of pine needles from the tree. Ornaments that Ben has pulled from the tree for the million-billionth time are strewn around the room. There are books all over the couch that I tried to sooth Tommy with during our cooped up, vomit-filled, three days post Christmas. DVDs are heaped around the television waiting to be watched and watched again.
The basement has turned into our dump heap. All the wrapping paper, massive boxes for the humongous trucks that stupid Santa brought, and empty gift bags to be stored are all lying on the floor in a careless pile.
Every inch of my house is a mess. I feel as though I am suffocating. I can not stand to look at this for one more second. I want to set the Christmas tree on fire, toss every single, loud, massive toy that idiot Santa gave the boys into the garbage, and send the rest of this crap lying around my house sailing out the window. This will end today.
Hormonal much? Yes.
(but other than that our Christmas was lovely.) ;)