on this, your 24th birthday, forgive me, bluebird; it wasn't you, it was me, all me

I've always been quick to remind my sweet Shelby that her birth was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.  Long and painful and just plain hard.

True, she was round as a watermelon, so the old saying...

And she was late.

And I was tired before I even got started...

But I think, after all these years, I've finally figured out the real reason it was such an excruciating time for me.  I've lingered long and hard over the agony of it all.  

It wasn't you, Shelby.  

It was Roman.  And John.  And Marlana.  

And oh, Bo.  Wild gorgeous Bo.

Let me try to explain.

Around my fifth month of pregnancy in 1991 I discovered Roman was not really dead but had been held captive on Stephano's island since the tragic day in 1984 that Stephano shot Roman and he fell off the cliff-  only to die in his brother Bo's arms, with the ever beautiful Hope weeping in the sand. 

And it was in a fit of rage and revenge that Bo ran to kill Stephano, leaving Roman's body to be swept away by the tide. Oh, Bo's guilt over the cruel twist of fate that was the tide! 

And the pure devastation of it all as Marlana received the phone call of Roman's death.  Life faded to black as she sat on her sofa curled into a ball grieving, phone still in her hand.

It was too much.  

It was just too much my dear Bluebird.

And then, seven years later and me five months pregnant to discover all this time Roman was alive! Held captive by the diabolical ;) Stephano as the "pawn" John was living Roman's life.  John loving Marlana back in Salem while Roman suffered in a cold cell.

I think the shock of it all just wouldn't let up.  I couldn't move past it.  I was so tired and post traumatic stress had set in and by January I was mentally and physically wiped out.

I was just a walking shell of a person when I delivered you.  

And now, 24 years later, Bo's untimely death of a brain tumor brought on by years of his own torture in Stephano's prison forcing him to be apart from his Fancy Face has been an awakening for me.  The blinders have fallen off my eyes and I can see clearly!   

I apologize, my sweet Bluebird, for all these years believing it was YOU.  I shall never tell the horror harrowing experience of your birth and what it did to me ever again to a single soul!

It was ME.  It was my inability to cope with the sheer sadness of it all.

Forgive me, bluebird.

Love,
Mamie

And now my girls, you understand my generations obsession with soaps. You're welcome.

when you should have hid the cologne the first time

It's been a really long while since I told y'all some of the cute things Max says and does.  And, well, part of that is because as boys grow, which I'm still learning all about, they don't grow in cuteness as much as they grow in grossness.

Burps, armpit farts, the back of knee farts - does that area of the body have a name? kneepit farts?

And I don't wanta scar him for life or anything.

Maybe this will only scar him temporarily ...

Mama, I'm gonna write a diary.

Boys don't have diaries, baby.  Maybe you should make it a journal?

But I wanta write Dear Diary.

But I don't think boys have diaries.

Okay.

A short time later.

Mama, do you want to know what I wrote?

I'd actually love to know what you wrote, but I don't think you are supposed to share your journal.

It's okay.

Okay, I'd love to hear.

Dear Diary (in which he just looks up and grins)

I have an awesome life (in which he just looks up and grins)

I wrote another one.

Dear Diary

I want to start wearing perfume.

Baby, boys don't wear perfume.  They wear cologne.

Oh, okay.  I want to start wearing cologne.

What kind of cologne do you want to wear?

The kind that attracts girls (in which he just looks up and grins)

Daddy's got some cologne.  See if you like it. (in which I made a mistake and had to sleep with my head under the covers that night)

And then today, weeks later -

when you bash your husbands just a little

Jennifer:  Painting a small room...better to go lighter or darker?

me:  Lighter!!!!

her:  Can I put gray in a bathroom when my hall is brown?

me:  No u can't.  Period.  The end.

You can use a gray.  It's just gotta be more silver.  Not gray.  Or grey.  Or gris.  Or grau.  I'm sure there's more but I don't know them. 

her:  Why aren't you here helping me do this?

me:  You haven't asked I guess.

her:  I guess that makes it my fault.

me:  Isn't it always?

Oh wait.  That's Gregg.  Sorry!

We can go to Lowes.

her:  Yep... cause I don't listen to my elders! hahahaha

me:  Oh no you didn't...

her:  Sorry...I shouldn't have.

me:  Now you can go to Lowes alone.

her:  I already did...well, with Ronnie, but that's the same thing. He suggested we paint the room white - or beige.  Yuk!

Disclaimer - Even though a bathroom is small you can often paint it dark.
The tile and open tub area make it work.
It's not floor to ceiling dark in a small space.
It becomes cozy.
  And husbands spend so much time in there - it makes it nice for them.   

when i stuck that pin right in that hiney

I hope you overlooked my messiness I call a house when you came by yesterday!

The only thing I noticed was the waste of two wonderful looking enchiladas.

I forgot to put them up!!!  Ugh!!!  I truly am sorry for leaving my mess everywhere in the house growing up!  I never understood your frustration until now!

Well I guess that helps -  a smidgen.

And I told her I cursed them.

My darlins, it's time you knew - I cursed you all.  Somewhere in the back of my tired brain I remember wishing and hoping that one day y'all would have kids just like yourselves.  Messy.  Sloppy. Sometimes just down right disgusting.

Told her I had little dolls they never knew about.

Some call them voodoo, I call 'em revenge.  
Secret stashes to get me through the mad days.

heh-heh-heh

And the time the smell wouldn't go away and I got down on hands and knees to search out the sour milk was the time I stuck a pin right in the knees of that doll.

And when I threw away the plastic containers instead of washing them cause the hairy green stuff had found a way to also grow on the outside of the container - that was the time I stuck a pin right in the hiney of that doll.

And the time I stuck little pins all up and down the sides of the dolls. One for every cup I threw away with mold floating in it and every dish I soaked for days just to get the dried mac and cheese off.

And when I had to go out and buy all new forks and spoons cause ours all disappeared. Disappeared with the bowls and saucers and plates that got lost in the abyss of under beds and behind furniture and under clothes.  The day I bought all new silverware - I stuck pins right in the eyes and ears of those little dolls.

So yeah, your apology makes me feel just a hair better.  But knowing what goes around comes around, priceless.  

And those dolls, those dolls probably saved your lives..

Muahahahaha!

when I'm gonna be a grandma

So, there was the option of a dewy eyed sentimental post about becoming a grandmother.  With pictures such as this

that would make my heart flutter with the idea of my baby having a baby.

But I decided to go with this instead.  It was a coin flip.  Tails won. 

Dear newly pregnant Delia,

I'm still getting accustomed to the idea of being a grandmother.  There are babies, children, teenagers, young adults, parents ...

grandparents.

I have mixed feelings about this.

In one corner I cannot wait to hold your baby just so I can give it back when it starts screaming or projects stinky formula across the room (you were too young to remember). But in the other corner, with the much larger more buffed opponent, I'm not very enthusiastic about becoming officially old. Because, as everyone knows, if you are a grandparent you are, officially, an old person.

So here is a list of a few things - some words of wisdom you should commit to memory and some demands, um, requests.

Bear with me.

Demands Requests:

I am in the process of creating a list of pleasantries for your child to call me.  Nana is taken, so is Grandma (thanks be), which wouldn't be in the running anyway (refer back to the dirty word old) because it just sounds so ... OLD.  Granna, which is absolutely adorable, is taken because apparently Tammy has put more thought into this than I have. 

I like the following options.  Please let me know which one you and Ruben like, although at my age I've earned the right to not select it.

1.  Mamie (long a sound)
2.  Mamsie (long a sound)
3.  Zsa Zsa (might be the closest to glamorous I'll ever be)
3.  Auntie  (which I guess is out of the question)
4.  Deary
5.  Slim (which is currently my favorite)
6.  Grand

And finally, simply put, never tell me I cannot say or give something to your child.  It's a losing battle. Just ask Nana and Grandma. And soon to be Granna and Slim. 

Now the advice, which has been earned the hard way, and is golden.

Turn up all the TV's, radios, and CD players in the house to full volume.  Train your baby to sleep through anything.  At first it may seem heavenly to have total quiet, but eventually nothing is worse than having to tip-toe during nap time, in fear that your angel will wake up the dreaded TOO EARLY.

Don't worry if you don't breast feed.  Have no guilt my darlin'.  To be honest, being the only one who can feed the baby is not all it's cracked up to be.  But think carefully about this. You can always pump breast milk so Ruben can feed and bond with baby. You get to do this alone in a quiet room.  Let's face it, no one wants to be in a room with a breast pumping hormonal mommy.  And it could become your only down time.  Think even more carefully,  I did not breast feed. Refer back to my breasts in above cartoon. 

Projectile spit-up cleans up easily with a magic eraser.

People who publish books about child rearing have probably broken their own rules often.  Don't buy these books.  Ask Granna or Slim.

Toys are nice.  But nothing beats a good 'ole pot and spoon.  Clean out at least one lower cabinet. Your baby will spend hours in there during which time you can pretend you are back in your newlywed days.

But don't ever sit down, because as soon as you do ....  Never mind this one, I think I'll let you learn it the hard way.

Pacifiers are like crack to a baby.  And you can find a dealer on every street corner, but you must buy up stock in the one your baby loves.  He/she will want one in the mouth and one in each hand. And if the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, one stashed in the diaper.   Take it from your daddy and me,  finding a new one at three in the morning because just one has disappeared or baby has sucked a hole in a favorite is nearly impossible.  Okay, it is completely impossible. The thumb is always an option, and according to the Jones' next door your child will need braces.  So, go with the thumb.  Trust me, go with the thumb.

Sleep is overrated.  Sleep is overrated.  Sleep is overrated.  Say it often.  You may begin to believe it. Or maybe not.  But it doesn't hurt to try.

XOXO's are never optional.

And finally, and most importantly, cherish your tush the way it is now. Admire it often in the mirror. It will probably be a lot lower for the rest of your life.

And welcome, my beautiful Delia, to the world of stretch pants.

Love,
Grand

And just for the fun of it -

when you're reminded that you can't remember

I was reminded today of why I blog - or why I used to blog.

My friend's son offered to buy her some new shoes.  She was as we all are sometimes - admiring a pair of shoes that were pretty but didn't pay the bills so they would have to wait - and her sweet son wanted to buy them for her.

She didn't let him.  She is one of the best mamas I know.  I can't think of anything she has ever done that I would do differently where children are concerned.  She has raised and is raising exceptional children.  I admire her - much.

But I would have let my son buy those shoes for me.  Yep, I would have.  I can think of plenty good things that would come from that sacrifice from him.

And joy.  Hopefully it would bring him joy.

Okay, so maybe I would be thinking more of myself and she was thinking more of her son but we won't go there cause that's not the point. 

The point is that I was reminded why I blog.  The conversation made me remember something that happened last week, except I couldn't remember it.  Maxster did something super sweet and six-year-oldish and I can't remember what it was.  I remember thinking I need to write that down before I forget it but sometimes I have more faith in myself than I should and I did forget it.

If I don't begin to write again I'll never remember things like the morning of Delia's wedding I popped a pill to prevent a virus I felt coming that I had just cleaned up from 48 hours earlier in a panic that I might take it and that the pill made me so loopy and sleepy that my pictures are so bad from the wedding that I had to use the touch-up tool in Photoshop to make myself look partially presentable for this my first child's wedding day pics. 

That was a secret - the Photoshop part - so it's not exactly the kind of stuff I'm talking about - but you get the picture.

I think I'll take my son to the store and admire a pair of shoes and see what kind of job I'm doing - as long as I keep him away from the Nerf gun (or any kind of gun) aisle I might have a chance.

When Being Right Is Better Than Facing The Alternative

I used 'ta never be late and late people frustrated me. 

I've talked trash 'bout enough late folks that ghosts are haunting me.

 

What goes around comes around.

I can't get anywhere on time.

I used 'ta could bring home the bacon fry it up in a pan read them tickoty tock and never let him forget he's a man - and still have time for a rousing round of I Am Woman Hear Me Roar.

 

To tell you the story of what happened to me this morning is very humbling - and pathetic.

Don't forget pathetic.

I was running late. I had not washed out forty four pairs of socks and ironed two dozen shirts while dipping lard from a can and shopping before you could count to nine.

I was by myself with no one to slow me down and I was still running late. 

 

And I couldn't find my purse.

 

I had Bible and VBS papers and pile of dishtowels brought home to wash in my hands and I was ready to walk out door - but where was my purse?

 

Entire house had exploded in living room and I was throwing things on that side of sofa to other side to look under them to throw them back to look under other side and then same to sofa number two and chair one and then chair two and I still couldn't find my purse.

 

I even looked in ice chest that doesn't belong in living room just because it was there and my purse wasn't.

 

So I say to self -

 

Self, maybe you left it in van. 

 

No, self says back.  I didn't.  I know I didn't. 

 

Then a little of my mama comes out - well it didn't grow legs and walk away.

 

Thanks, Mama.

 

So, while kicking my own self in hinny - like I've said before, that used to be easier - I go to look in van.  I look everywhere.  In the front and middle and back and under dresser and chair that does not belong in van but are.  I even look in drawers of the dresser . . .

 

Yeah,

 

This. Is. My. Life.

 

and I still couldn't find my purse.

 

Frustration is mounting higher than spoon that jumped over moon I used 'ta could read to them while feeding babies greasing the car and powdering my nose all at the same time.

 

So I take a deep breath.  Doctors that help find your mind when you lose it say that works -  so I breathe deep and lay down Bible and papers and dishtowels and step out of van.

 

Something doesn't feel right.  I feel a weight.

 

I look down.

 

And there it is. Hanging on crook of left elbow.

 

My purse.

 

Hanging there the entire time.

 

Ha - I told you I didn't leave it in the van.

 

Being right feels so fine.

 

Spanx??

I wait until they are finished shopping for their dresses before I bite the bullet - because they make me- and shop for mine.

Yes, yes, yes, I was going to lose twenty pounds before the wedding and no, no, no I didn't.

I am not wanting to do this.  I don't remember ever needing such a fancy dress since the day I said I do.  Not that I don't want the dress or to look lovely on my baby girl's day - it's the process of finding the dress when gravity and chocolate have been living here for soooo long.

I just don't understand why they put fluorescent lighting in dressing rooms.  Why would a woman buy anything if it looks like her thighs were hit by a meteor shower?
                                                                                                        - quick, name that movie.

And I wish we were only talking about thighs here.

 

Yep, we women who know better and know our worth is not in our looks and teach our children to believe in themselves no matter what the mirror says are the same women who can't take our clothes off in the dressing room.  'Cause we all have our most hated body part, right?

 

Where did the captain hide his armies?

In his sleevies.

 

And the conversation with my girls goes something like this -

 

No, not that one.

 

No, not that one.

 

I can't wear that.

 

Really??

 

Seriously??

 

Look at these arms.  Seriously?

 

You know I'm not gonna wear that, don't you?

 

But they still manage to drag me into the dressing room with more choices than my armies can carry.

 

So, here I am.  In the dressing room with my daughter-bride. 

 

Mama, you don't have the right bra or the right underwear on.  It'll look better when you put some spanx on.

 

Spanx?  Who said anything about spanx? 

 

Then she walks over and grabs the top of my bra straps and pulls up - way, way up. 

 

See, you need some lift and then some spanx to suck it all in. 

 

Time to high-tail it out of there. 

Nope, didn't buy the mother of the bride gown that night.

 

 

When You're Not In-Sync . . . but you love him anyway

Max was playing with the blood pressure machine and checked mine.  Thought I'd take advantage of this and try a little sexting with my lover husband. 

But . . .

Wasn't sure exactly what sexting was - so I looked it up.  Don't do that, y'all.

As you will see it didn't go as planned.  Maybe I didn't start out right?

My blood pressure is 84/53.  Now a play on words that he should understand - Am I alive?

That's low. Did you take it with the wrist at heart level?  That's what it says to do on the side of the monior.

He's not getting it.  But I'll answer his question and try again.

Now 80/52. Pulse 65.  I had it at heart level.  Next one 90/59.  Pulse 60.

Did you swap arms?

Yep.  Counted my pulse myself and it's right. 

 So, here we go again -  Maybe I need mouth to mouth.

I'll be glad to save your life.

Score.  He got it.  Here. We. Go.

You already have baby.  You already have.

I sent you a link on email. Don't think anything is wrong.

Huh?  We're backtracking . . .  Stay with me, baby.  Stay with me.

It says I could be pregnant?

Lol.

Lol? - the kids say that.  Yes.  Make him feel young.

You're so hip.

I think that was long before cell phones.

Maybe I lost him somewhere in translation? 

Oh, well.  There's always tomorrow.

Maxxxx . . .

I trained Gregg really well.  Ok, maybe his mom did.

That's not the point.  The point is that he never leaves the toilet seat up.  Never has.

But there is anesthesia in my hair (Cathi?), so maybe I'm not sure.

But now there is Max and it is late . . .

and dark . . .

and he is just starting to get up and go potty alone at night . . .

Maxxxxx! Wait till in the morning you little monster.  Where is a towel?

introducing . . .

Dr. Jeckell and Mr. Hyde

SOS

I'm an interior designer.  At least I used to be, in what seems like a lifetime ago.

There's one thing I feel is a must.  Ok, Sandra, two - odd numbers, not even.

Every room, with few exceptions, needs a little black.

Apparently my son agrees. 'Cause a while back he gave my family room brick and front door a makeover.

Like mother, like son.

SOS.
... _ _ _ ...

No Title Necessary

It's too quiet in the house so I can't sleep.  I have four children and only one is home.  Even the middle of the night can feel off balance.

So, I did this one time before here, and I'm gonna do it again.

Because one day when only one bed in this home is occupied I want to read this and remember when times were better - or at least more interesting.

When I picked up tonight before bed this is what was on my living room floor.

three toy story martians

one chicken feather

three marbles

hot glue gun strands

one water gun and one bubble gun

wet dog ball

cake crumbs

Izzy's robe

Max's polar bear slippers

one pillow pet

one google eye

a one-eyed bald no arms orange puppet

lots of little cut up paper pieces - an attempt to make an eye

pile of sand?

extension cord

pirate hat

his dirty socks

spiderman

and lastly . . .

one cocoa puff - which I gingerly poked at 'cause it easily could have been poop - dog or human four year old boy

and you thought when I blogged again I'd say something deep and meaningful.  something profound and intelligent.  something actually worth reading.

fooled 'ya.

And He Was Gone

I rose from the bed and stumbled into the kitchen to drown my first bottle of water.

I crinkled up and sniffed - my nose smelled something beginning to be bad.

I know this in my I've smelled things before that begin and end bad kind of way.  Only a mama kind of way.

My nose is an expert.  Age may be claiming some of my sense of hearing and seeing, but my nose is compensating.

It smelled bad, I poked my head in a room and sniffed.  I decided the birdcage needed cleaning and dragged her out of bed to do it now.

It wasn't the birdcage, but I'm afraid you won't believe me if I tell you what it was.

Now turned into an hour later and I sat that cage - with the bird still in it - on the front porch.

Sandra and Emily came and friends and webkinz occupied my girl's time and I continued to sniff and wonder why is it still lingering in the house?

Time right now for the cleaning I announced in my best Don't You Dare Put This Off Another Minute mama's voice.

Do you ever think that there are times that you should not have to spell everything out to then discover that you should have not only spelled it out but yelled it out?

And there he flew.  The beautiful cockatoo that had his need for a wing clipping put off just one day too late.

Into the wild blue yonder.  And he was gone.

Few days later Sandra called to say that there had been a woodpecker in her bedroom that morning.  Brought in by the cat.  The fire department came and rescued it, took pictures, and released it back into its home. 

Maybe my bird and her bird have met up, exchanged horror stories, and mated for life.  One can hope.

And the smell?  Pig's blood.  Discovered only after it got past really bad.

Don't ask, cause . . .

That's all I have to say about that.  Name that movie.

She Wore Only Her Slip

Can I just tell you something?

I have officially turned into my mama.

I remember vividly coming home one day to find my mama with her glasses 'round her neck tied with a thin piece of ribbon, raveling at the end.

No fancy chain, just raveling ribbon.

I remember very vividly laughing at her.  Poking fun and secretly hoping she wouldn't step out of the house like that.  (Like the time she wore her slip, and only her slip - because she forgot to put on her skirt - to the Kroger). 

And now that I need the bifocs I say these words more than any other -

Where are my glasses? 

Have you seen my glasses?

Wait - I have to find my glasses.

Why can't I ever remember where I put my glasses?

These are now my glasses.

Just another - I will never day has arrived.

And when the day comes when I blog that I have worn only my undergarments to go Krogering will someone please call my sweet sisters and say to them - The time has come.

Don't worry - they will completely understand what you mean.

Who Ate the Last Oreo?

It's 3:11 in the morning and I'm standing in the fridge door staring at an apple and the last piece of Boston Creme.

I'm thinking two things.

 - what did I ever do that made my child want to be a baker of sweets instead of a dietician?

 - would Eve had eaten the fruit if there had been chocolate there?

Just imagine where we might all be - eutopia - chocolate eutopia.

I've swallowed the hype and jumped on the diet bandwagon of the new year.  Cause, well girls, I've let myself go.

Right now I'm hungry.  But more than that I want chocolate.  And it's keeping me awake.

I take a swig of milk out of the carton and shut the door, even as I remember how many times I've told Shelby not to do that knowing I do it a dozen times a day.  What I say and what I do . . .

I open the fridge.  Close it again.  I write this post on the back of a receipt -  because I think it might be funny later - and I chug a bottle of water.

Now I know I won't be able to sleep cause I'll pee the rest of the dark morning and who ate the last oreo?

An hour later and it's 4:20 and I'm standing in the fridge door again and

who ate the last oreo?

Signs

Last week Maxster helped his daddy put down the new floor in his bedroom.

A sign of the future, maybe?

I Feel a Little Dread

and Max is just three . . .

I pass him in the kitchen and he's running with his shirt pulled up and tucked beneath his chin.  One hand is twirling a metal pipe tool thingy of his daddy's while the other is pulling down the front of his briefs - just enough to let you-know-who peek out - way out.  He's running to the bathroom and he's singing loudly . . .

Cinlerela, Cinlerelaaaaa! (Cinderella)

I feel a little dread - but I'm trying not to linger on it y'all, I'm trying really hard - at least he's running to the bathroom.

June Cleaver - Eat My Dust

She hurts my feelings. 

Ok, maybe not. 

Ok, not. 

Who has feelings anymore when it comes to a clean messy house?

When I picked up the kids I stood and looked at your room and really hated you were going to come home to that, but I was in such a hurry, she says.

Good thing she's seen it worse.  Ok, maybe not.  But just as bad.

How does this happen?  I mutter later, down on all fours digging something sticky out of the rug.  I keep muttering, something close to profanity but far enough away to pat myself on the back later, as I search, belly down, for the game pieces under the sofa.  Not there.  Probably didn't survive, I spit out, dust bunnies ate 'em.

If I were a DVD this is not a moment I would hit the pause button.

Fast forward, baby, fast forward.

Now that I've whined to the point of losing 99% of my three readers, here's something I'd like to say -

Did you know June Cleaver died?  She lived a long life.  May she rest in peace. 

But - did you ever see her down on her knees talking to dust bunnies or aging ten years jabbing a knife into something crusty on the rug?

Did her friend ever come over and sadly shake head in pity for her?

I've come a long way, baby.

June Cleaver, eat my dust - bunnies that is.

Continue at Your Own Risk

Continue at your own risk.

The photos below will cause eye pain and may lead to permanent damage.

If you look closely there is much dust and the dinner dishes are from last night.  It is now almost ten tonight and they still sit there.

That's Bible School week at our house.

No, I'm not embarrassed.

Ahem.

Should I be?

Wha'cha Think?

Years - and years - ago my sister told me to check out the FlyLady.

My sister had started wearing lace up shoes everyday at the recommendation of the FlyLady. 

FlyLady says, When I put on my lace up shoes I feel like I am ready to face the world.

I tried it, didn't work for me. I'm a barefoot or flip-flop kind of gal.

It works for my sister.  She says if she needs to take the garbage out she can, not a problem.  She doesn't have to stop and search for shoes and then get sidetracked while the garbage ferments in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Guilty - but not enough so to put on lace ups.

Now, years later, FlyLady is suddenly back in my space.

She now has sidekicks.  Joining her on this road to making me miserable a better person is Dinner Diva, MissusSmartyPants, and the House Fairy.

Together they promise to help me cook, help me dress, and help me clean my house.

This is all done in FlyBaby steps.

The first day I have to shine my sink. 

The second day all I have to do is lace up my shoes and shine my sink sometime before bed . . .

The third day I keep shining my sink, lacing my shoes, and read a little motivation . . . 

The fourth day I write little sticky notes to motivate myself, shine my sink, and lace up my shoes . . .

So far this housework stuff is a breeze.

The fifth day it gets tricky - I have to lace up my shoes, shine my sink, and look at my posties.  I don't even have to do them - I just have to look at them.

The sixth day is my first actual job - but I only have to do it for two minutes.  Set a timer - two minutes.

Maybe I missed out on something all those years ago with FlyLady.  I dismissed her too quickly.  Maybe she's on to something. 

FlyLady wants us to nip stuff in the bud so that CHAOS (Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome) doesn't overtake us.

I'm not sure what happens to all the stuff that will happen to and in my home during the six days I spend lacing up my shoes and shining my sink, but . . . 

I'm willing to give it a try.