“I’ve been back for five minutes and I already hate it.”
Yesterday, after staying at my mom’s for a week due to Daddy’s plumbing issues / my illness, Tom and I finally came home.
Five minutes was all it took. I brought my stuff upstairs and threw it on the bed next to the pile of folded laundry. I hung up my coat and excitedly proclaimed “I’m going to the bathroom and flushing the toilet!”
There, I encountered a dirty toilet, a dusty window sill with a dead ladybug on it (another story), and a sink full of beard trimmings. I sighed, having gotten too used to my mom’s clean house over the last several days.
I went back to our bedroom and declared my despair to Tom, who hugged me, because he’s nice like that.
I don’t know why I thought this place would magically be cleaner when I came back. I guess it was naive of me to think that it could even stay just as dirty as I left it a week ago.
All I know is that I have a chest and several sinuses full of mucus and I am tired of being in charge of cleaning around here. Can’t I just live with Mommy forever?
No? Well, I can at least procrastinate cleaning until the weekend.