So I stopped for a moment to admire the sparkly-cleanness of my microwave. It's so shiny. I know, I know, it's brand new. But the fact that for the whole 2 months I've owned it I've wiped it out and sprayed it down. Every. Single. Time. Seriously, every time I've used it, I've wiped it down. And the two times that the farmer has used it and failed to wipe it out, I was sure to let him know.
All day I've been picking up, and wiping down things in my fancy new kitchen, the dishes are away, the sink is empty, and I'm about to mop my exotic hardwood floors when I hear my dear son from the other room. Rather than just come and get my attention by saying "hey mom, there's a problem with Princess" he prefers to yell things like "ELLE EMERGENCY, ELLE EMERGENCY!" or "ALERT! ALERT!". At this moment he chose the latter and my little warped sense of reality is destroyed and I run into the other room to find the baby dumping out an entire box of Corn Pops all over herself and the floor....wait, how'd that box of cereal get in my bedroom? Oh...when I let Jack eat right from the box this morning because I was too lazy to get up and pour them in a bowl...that's right. Fantastic...but hey it could be worse, right? At least Corn Pops are not microscopic like Fruity Pebbles and they don't require the vacuum cleaner. So I go to grab the baby and put her in the crib while I clean up and I feel something soft and squishy under my BARE feet.
Oh, perfect. Dog poop. ON MY CARPET!? ....and now on my bare feet.
Awesome. Wishing I could go back to my warped sense of reality where I admired my hard work and clean microwave. But alas, there are Corn Pops and dog feces to clean up. And now that I have far more important things to do than blog, like get the baby who is now eating a sandwich from the garbage can...or the 2 new projects I've inherited for CrossPoint Church or the laundromat that needs to be cleaned sometime today...groceries and last minute details for Princess' birthday tomorrow. Oh jeez. And I chose to blog.
Sometimes my reality is warped and so are my priorities. Pray for me, would you?
The Farmer's Wife