There’s a stranger in my house.

In the living room MiniMe’s toys are disorganized, even though they are picked up. Mail is piling up on the shelf, and there’s a growing stack of miscellenous stuff on the side table by the door.

Clean dishes sleep in the dishwasher, while a few used ones sit in the sink. The fridge is starting to look like a single persons. The stove wonders why it’s been neglected.

There are stuffed animals on the floor in MiniMe’s room. The bed is unmade, and there are clothes to be organized, put away and ironed. Books lay scattered by the bed and shoes are in the middle of the floor.

Clean laundry is sitting out in my bedroom waiting to see the ironing board before being put away, or just needing to be folded. A dust bunny wispers from the corner and my shoes cry out because they are not organized like normal.

There is a stranger in my house…. a stranger who is realizing it’s not worth the painful exhaustion to keep everything the way I want it, for the time being. I hate it.

You know it’s bad when your Mother has recently stated; “I knew you didn’t feel well… there were some dishes in the sink.” Or when G stated; “I can tell when you are feeling sick, your house is lived in.”

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