Our morning was progressing along in typical fashion - Darling was prancing about the family room dressed in nothing but a diaper. I was puttering around in the first layer of yesterday's outfit (a white tank with armpit stains and makeup on the front) and a face mask dabbed strategically on my latest spots. The house, as usual, looked a bit like the command center for a baby led mutiny - bottles overturned on the counter, step stools laying lifelessly on their sides or propped up against the pantry door. There were rings of dried formula on the counter, a toaster sprouting crumbs and empty cereal boxes next to last night's dirty bowls of late night ice cream. Toys had been rousted from their sleepy spots in the toy box or under the tv and scattered mercilessly around the room. I had wandered into the baby's room to check my email when a horrible sound pulled me away from my pleasant daydreams about squishy babies and long drives through the Colorado mountains.
The doorbell.
Oh. Crap. I looked around the room in horror. I gathered up my courage with both hands and went to the door to face the judgement of the visitor. I was so hoping it would be AT&T with another plea for me to sign up for their latest internet package, or a meter reader, or the good people from the Veterns for Clean Water group. No such luck. It was my next door neighbor, coming to see the baby.
Darling was delighted and showed off her sweet moves for the neighbor until I hissed at her to go find pants and a shirt to put on. I dashed over to the basket full of clean (praise be) laundry and pulled the first shirt I could find over my head. I glanced into my room to see if things were better organized than I remembered, which they weren't. The bathroom mirror had hand prints all over it, and Fat Baby's poopy outfit in the sink where I'd left it after rinsing off the worst bits.
I hung my head in shame and offered repeated apologies for the state of the house. I'd often thought about having her come over to see how I'd decorated it, because I knew she had seen it when the previous owners were living here in their Brady Bunch splendor. I almost asked if she wanted a tour, because I wanted to show off the murals I've painted in a few rooms. I thought twice, remembering that Fat Baby's room had dirty diapers on the changing table, laundry baskets in the crib, and my dirty outfit from a few days before wadded up in the corner.
Thankfully, my neighbor was gracious and said many times that this is what a house looks like when there are young children in residence. That helped a little. I also knew that I would look back on this and laugh...
But one can't help but feel a little chagrined at getting caught at their least attractive in the middle of the day. And my house, where I spend 27 hours each day, wasn't quite the shining jewel that I like it to be when people wander in.
Oh bother. At least she didn't want to go to the basement, where every item of clothing I own is scattered on the floor in an attempt to find anything that fits. And at least Darling didn't wander out of Fat Baby's room waving my bra, saying "Don't forget your bra, Momma..." because she'd already done that earlier in the morning.
Small miracles.
1 comment:
You crack me up!!! You do know that if you're dressed to the nines, the house is spotless, the kids are sparkling clean (& dressed), no one will ever come to the door. I'm convinced these things happen to you, so that you'll write about them and make me laugh.
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