This morning I swept the floors and tidied the main living area. I washed down all six kitchen chairs, which were covered in dried milk and other kid goo. (note to self: black kitchen chairs = bad idea). I undertook the task of collecting all the grownup books strewn around the house and organizing the bookshelf, by genre in case you were wondering.
Jobs = done.
This afternoon sticky hand prints have returned to the kitchen chairs. The tumbleweeds and spare bits of food are doing that all too familiar dance across the floors. And there, piled precariously on the potty in the bathroom, is every single book if feminist theory I own. (Quite an impressive tower really, built by Boy-o during a game of 'postal worker' whilst I was in the shower cleaning up his previous game's mess: a dump truck full of sand that had been unceremoniously deposited on his kid sister's head. Said sand now lives in my bathroom, along with the feminist theory).
Jobs = undone.
Onto dinner, then...
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