prologue: Skeletons in the Closet.

Cleaning closets

Domestically speaking, I am challenged, developmentally delayed.  No really, ask N and L.  I hear often an assuaging statement from even them: "It's ok mom, you have other strengths."  Needless to say, before I start drawing metaphors about skeletons in closets allow me to set the scene:

The front and middle portion of our ranch style home has become a conquerable challenge. The kitchen- ummm, well lets just say it depends on the day and the amount of food consumed by the wonderboys (hint: plethora). 

A la Ali-HG-TV style, walk with me a moment…the floor plan is like a little ‘t’, the arms of the ‘t’ lead to bedrooms and a bathroom per side.  On one arm of the ‘t’ is the master bathroom and bedroom.  On the other arm are 2 little bedrooms belonging to the wonderboys, a circa 1970’s bathroom between bedrooms. 

The long stem of the ‘t’ includes a living room and back play room.  Wonderboys art is added ongoing to the walls with that blue tacky stuff that isn’t supposed to leave a mark when removed or replaced.The vacuum has a decent relationship with this area of the house, not afraid to interact with the Hans-ified concrete floors.

Needless to say, if you walked into casa-plum you would hopefully feel welcomed by a decently uncluttered overly couchified space.  Now imagine a couple of doors on the 2 sides of the ‘t’ that are shut at all times, save sleeping hours... and for good reason.  Few have dared to enter the lair on the master bedroom side (we’ll leave the 2 small wonderboy’s rooms out of this for now). 

Behind these closed doors lies a site that would make Martha Stewart recoil and shudder.  A site that would make a celebrity mom-blogger faint (she who uploads daily pictures of a domestic wonderland she’s created and maintained. I’m skeptical there’s not some trickery involved here… cleaner? interior designer? Fairy godmother? Househusband? Photoshop? please tell me the secret?!? Oh poo.)

Anyhoo, onward.  There must be a reason for this banishment of said room from plain view, from being reveled in, pleasant for dwelling purposes.  There must be a reason the door…stays…closed. 

As I dare enter this particular day with a motivation other than ONLY sleeping in bed, the reasons fill the forefront of my mind, having been pushed aside day after day- the scope of the task too large to tackle psychologically, too perilous on too many levels! (melodramatic? a pinch. apologies. but this is serious psychological beeznees!)   Without further ado…

Reason 1.

 I have yet to figure out this multi-person-laundry dilemma, oh who am I kidding, I had yet to figure out solo-person-laundry before thing 1 and thing 2 arrived.  THUS clean clothes 9 times out of 10 end up in frequently purchased bins in none other than master bedroom. We are talking copious loads… unfolded, unmanaged, clean yes, but separated according to person of various age or size no.  

Reason 2.

I’m lazy and dislike picking up after myself and/or others if public viewing will not be had.  (irk, honest assessments un-fun indeed). added note: involving others in picking up process proves a groundhog day experience. imagine wendy... lost boys... kind of theme. No offense Peter and Lost Boys! Wendy hasn't been the best delegator. 

Reason 3.

I’ve been waiting for my fairy godmother to lightly descend with her perfectly fairy tale-ish attire and magic wand, her supernatural better-than-bath-and-body-works-pumpkin-spice-scent whooshing and wafting through all needed areas, dusting long forgotten, rarely seen places, and lovingly saying to me, “Oh Ali dear, you’ve done such a heroic job with the good portion of your home, proving yourself deserving of my services.  Step aside, go get some coffee, RELAX, and let me magically transform this room into something even Nate Berkus could not conceive.  Never fear… fairy godmother here!”

If you asked if I believed such a thing, I would like to tell you- why of course not, I’m a rational adult who beholds household tasks as necessary and unavoidably fulfilling.

Fact is I’m often irrational, with my head in the clouds (over) half the time.  Somewhere deep down I’ve been impatiently waiting on the revered Ms. Fairy Godmother for the most difficult household tasks.  Not because of the size of the task as you might suspect at this point, but because of the emotional size of the task.  More on that later... when the metaphor plays out a bit more. 

Blame it on Cinderella.  I was far too impressionable when I first met her.  Cinderella introduced me to a notion wherein one’s magical Songstress sweeps in when most needed. Perhaps this sad display of a bedroom has scared her away before she could sing a note, “Bippity, bobbity, boo!” 

To be continued…