Allow me to sum up the weird mood I've been in by this phone conversation:
Me: "Daddy-o! Whatcha workin' on?"
(this is how all our conversations start lately)
Daddy-o: "Nothing. Just puttering. What are you workin' on?"
Me: "Nothing. Puttering."
Daddy-o: "I HATE that."
Me: Me, too."
And that's my life in a nutshell. The end.
Seriously, I've been. . . just. . . puttering. I'm in a mood. Maybe I'm feeling surly. I don't know. But I need . . . just need. . .to organize.
Did you just fall out of your chair? I know what you're thinking about me!
You think I'm sloppy. You think I probably have 10 projects started at once, paint on my fingers 'n clothes, a project out on the kitchen table so no one can eat there, toys underfoot, beds unmade, and the house goes by the wayside while I crapt and build and mold stuff. And so on and so forth.
And you would be correct. So put that in your pipe and smoke it!
But if the above description of me is wrong, well then, I don't be right.
Except, at the same time, I want, nay, I need some organization. It makes me feel a sense of control in a world full of chaos. (name that movie.)
Let's talk about my needs for a bit.
I am now the official pro of changing out door knobs. Specifically, keyed entry doorknobs. Doorknob from H, above? It was that kind, where you like, would lock it, and the one side would still turn, so you didn't know it was locked, until you went out.
I already told you the story of being locked out in my nasty jammies and I needed to destroy a toilet, and I'm not going to tell it again, okay?
(runs off, slams door.)
Replaced that dang doorknob. And now? NOW WE WILL NEVER BE LOCKED OUT AGAIN!
Lies. Thing #4 locked us out this weekend. Dang it, Kenna.
Would you judge me if I placed a very high latch on my new craft closet? 'Cause I did.
Course you wouldn't. Because you know what kids are capable of. And you don't want to see one of my butt munches accidentally sew together their fingers. Or their hand to their chest. Or their head to their hand.
This is my house and you need to accept that anything is possible.
Would you judge me if I put a keyed entry knob on our food storage room?
Probably not, as any mom who's watched a slew of children coming out with a bag of Doritos, a can of pop, a box of crackers, and a package of Oreos just knows how annoying that is.
So, on a scale of one to anal, where am I at so far?
Don't answer yet. Please save your answers until we are finished, here.
Would you judge me, if I took every.single.last.freaking.toy, from under beds, under foot, out of the bathtubs, behind the couches, and then drug them down to the dungeon,
threw them in to this closet, switched out that fancy door knob for a keyed entry one, and LOCKED THE D$&# door? Would you?
What if, when my kids asked where their toys were, I said in my most evil voice: "Gone, kids. GONE! Taken! BURNED!" ("and your little dog, too!" laughs evil laugh, rubs hands together.)
Oh. You would probably draw your line there. Well, crap. Never mind, then.