Well, it happened. I ran out of things to say.
I honestly am not sure how entire weeks are passing by so quickly, yet they are. I’m drinking TheraFlu as I write this, so that’s how I’m doing. Since TheraFlu was one of my pregnancy cravings I’m happy I can finally have some when I’m sick. Gratitude in the small things and all.
Speaking of which, Matt found me scrubbing the bottom of our refrigerator with a toothbrush yesterday and then later scrubbing the chairs that have been stained for years.
“The last time I saw you doing that you were pregnant, so you just in a cleaning mood or what?”
“My PARENTS are coming this WEEK!” I said as if that explained everything. Because it’s not like I’m ten and could get grounded for not cleaning my room, right?
“I don’t get it. Place looks great.” He said leaving a trail of coffee as he headed out of the room.
People will say that my parents are coming to see me and my family, not the house. But those people don’t know my parents. Yes, yes of course they’re coming to see us. But a little bit to see how we’re doing. Which is to say, have I learned to fold my clothes yet? Do I wash the doors? Have I figured out how to squirt Windex on a rag and wash a window? Do I care about any of that yet?
Not so much. But for them, I’ll make an effort … what the hell.This used to freak me out but now I’m just happy they’re here to care.
I do have to admit, there might be something to this deep-cleaning thing. At some point my mind goes numb and there, on that back burner I never get to, are ideas marinating. Major plot points I’ve struggled with for six years are starting to come together, which is even cooler than the freshly cleaned chairs that got paint spilled all over them this morning. Now, I’m calling them Warhol-inspired décor and moving on.
Have I mentioned the new (yes, again) title? Uprooted. It’s the first one that doesn’t feel off somehow. Which is to say it’s perfect.