Sometimes the Bird has a rough day, and doesn’t have the three hours he needs to create a blogging masterpiece. (He types like a little girl.)
Enter Mrs. Birdman. Or, for now, Mrs. Birdman-to-be. 🙂
My sweet baby has had a long day of being over extended and under-appreciated (imho). I’m here to take a bit of the blogging off his hands, so you fine people will still have some lovely tripe to read on the morrow.
I have to tell y’all, that life around the Bird’s Nest is usually pretty sweet. There are the extended dance parties, the kitchen-window-makeout sessions, and the moments of pure, sweet, total love and adoration. Of course, to counter all of the rainbows and lollipops, there is also the never-ending pile of crap that ends up on the floor, counters, couch, tables and every other possible surface we own.
YOUR turn to do the dishes, asshat.
Let me start off by saying that I love my man, and there isn’t another like him in all the land. He is sweet, kind, romantic, thoughtful, affectionate, honest, loyal, hard-working AND he’s an amazing step-dad already. However, he does have one flaw: He is a total slob.
I realize that I am far from perfect myself. God knows I won’t be winning any awards for housekeeping or decorating, but I do have a tolerance level for mess that is way, way, WAY lower than the Birdman’s. I do believe that we could have piles of fermenting food in the sink that would be left to their own devices, to percolate to fruition and possibly create the cure for cancer, before my beloved would decide there was a need for some soapy water and a cloth. Even then, I suspect it might be a well-meaning relative or neighbour calling in the Haz-Mat Team to forcibly remove the offending science experiment for the good of public safety.
Over the weekend, I went into one of my famous Mess Meltdowns. This is generally preceded by a busy weekend in which my children take full advantage of the fun and enjoyment we create for them, whilst doing nothing to tamp down the urban spread of dirt that they blow through the house. At the conclusion of said weekend, I looked around the wreckage of our happy home, and began to unravel. I started in on a Mom Crusade that would end with the children voluntarily cleaning their rooms (and their closets) and my beloved scrambling to push some dirt around while smiling nervously at me, hoping this state of hysteria would soon pass.
Stand back kids…Mommy
In the end, the room that got the brunt of the cleaning cyclone was the bedroom. The state of disaster in that area was at Defcon 1. By the time I was finished, the hanging closet had been reassembled, the piles of debris had been removed, and no less than 4 loads of laundry had been evacuated from the disaster area. Some of the items recovered from the destruction zone: A book I forgot I borrowed (sorry Jennifer!), enough change to buy coffee for two weeks (score!), at least 4 pairs of long-lost earrings and some other items that really should remain nameless.
I am proud to say that we are now sleeping in a room that resembles a bedroom, even if it is still a den of iniquity. You can tidy up the Birdman’s bedroom, but you can never get all of the dirty out. *WINK*
Hold me closer, Tony Danza,