Little fires.

There are days when my house is like the deep end of a pool and I’ve been treading and I’m tired and I sink, just a little bit more as my arms grow weary.  We have a couch, destroyed by children, dogs, and time, with ripped upholstery and what likely seems like an infinity of crumbs for any mice that occasionally pass beneath it from the crawl space below.  On a good day, a non-treading day, it has five available cushions for us to sit on.  Currently, on this treading day, there is one cushion, a quarter of the one to its right and a half of the one to its left.  As she deems it to be her canine right, our dog has chosen to take up all of that space with nothing on it.  Between her, the mound of clothes and library books on one side, and the pile of randomness I need to sort and put away, the couch is not presently usable.  Our living room is covered with the groceries from two nights ago that I have to finish putting away.  The store had a buy one get one deal on the kids’ favorite cereals and they have loved that every morning looks like cereal Christmas, with boxes of oatmeal, granola, and others dotted across the floor.  There are remnants of my last puppy guest and her enrichment activities, pieces of cardboard boxes she gleefully shredded to find the treats inside.  Our kitchen floor is covered in dirty socks from when I asked that all dirty socks be piled on the floor so I could get a big load of socks done and sorted, because I was tired of washing socks every day.  That has just resulted in me continuing to wash socks every day and dirty socks being dragged all over the kitchen with various days’ comings and goings.  One side of the kitchen sink looks a bit like a science experiment and I couldn’t tell you the last time I threw away anything from our fridge.  I clearly need to because every grocery trip results in a game of fridge Jenga.  The bathroom sink and counter look like a Jackson Pollock, but with toothpaste.  I think one of the boys might have even decided to paint the mirror with his toothbrush and whatever remaining foam and spit had been in his mouth.  I crawl over the bed to my side, because the floor is covered with boxes, clothes, and general stuffs that need to be dealt with.  A couple of weeks to a month after a very stressful time in my life, you can see that something happened, something big, something I barely handled but somehow did, because my house looks like it is filled with cinder cones, gradually oozing out the destruction and disarray.  Little fires, constantly searing, and I tread and I try to smother even one of them, but another just gets bigger and the ladder out of the pool seems like it disappeared and no lifeguard sits high up, pointing out how I should start and where I should end up.   

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