March 19, 2009

Rough day today, my first full day back with Blake. I'm trying to tail off the medication I've been taking for more than a year, and the kid just will not stop talking about how much he'd rather be at his dad's place. Without another adult around, his little voice just bounces off my insecurities and the echoes are monstrous. I tried to explain to him that he was hurting my feelings, but he doesn't seem able to stop. I haven't been this ambivalent about mothering since the days he use to smile and gouge big nail tracks down my face, apropos of nothing.

When I wasn't completely losing my stuff and crying bitter tears, I was throwing myself into rehabilitating my upstairs bathroom. I don't usually do a full clean when I wash the bathrooms; I clean the high traffic area and call it good. Yesterday, as I was getting ready to host my troupe, I realized that the bathroom had slid beyond disreputable to wholly degraded. The shower curtain sheltered mildew and hung unevenly from a half-dozen surviving rings. The ring around the bathtub had established squatter's rights and occasionally ordered in a pizza. There was some weird reddish stuff on the tub. The windowsill was caked with soap and what I hoped was dirt from the other side of the screen. Sometime in the last few weeks, I managed to knock toilet paper dispenser right off the wall, and it hung around on the back of the toilet. There was some sticky orange stuff gunked onto the green bathmat. The sink stopper did its job too well and refused to drain. Everything was dank.

And, except for the sink stopper, I've fixed everything. The whole shower area is clean, including the shower curtain, which has been spruced up with new rings. The windowsill has been cleared of shampoo and soap, which is in a newfangled shower caddy. Toilet paper proceeds orderly from its old perch on the wall, and there's even a new storage thingee under it to hold new rolls. Everything is clean. I just need to pry up the sink plug before the accumulating toothpaste scum spoils my feeling of accomplishment.

Labels: , ,

Powered by Blogger

The contents of this site, unless otherwise noted, are copyright Rocketbride 1997-2009.
Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*