The in-laws are here. So are Jeff’s sister and brother-in-law. The stress has started. I’m drowning in it. The only thing that isn’t tense is above the neck. No headaches, though. That’s the only thing I have to be thankful for.
They aren’t around kids much, so they don’t know. They don’t know and they aren’t trying to make an effort. How many times do I have to ask them to close the toilet lid, to not leave loose change where Braden can reach it? How many times do I have to ask them to pick up plastic bags off the floor in their bedrooms (my bedrooms)? Why do their bedrooms (my bedrooms) look like an abandoned tenement cum home of the homeless? How many times do I have to say, Please, no shoes on the carpet. Please, guys, no shoes on the carpet. Do you mind taking your shoes off inside the house? (CAN YOU TAKE YOUR DAMN SHOES OFF? WHY DO I HAVE TO ASK SO MANY TIMES?!?!?!?)
I’m already a little bit prone to claustrophobia. Okay, I’m a lot claustrophobic. I can’t stand the window seat on the plane. I can’t even sit in a restaurant booth and be up against the wall. I would never dream of going caving. What I do dream of is being stuck in a progressively smaller waterslide that never ends. And it’s just light enough for me to tell that the walls are closing in… closing in… stealing my breath. So in this house of 2100+ square feet, why is it that I feel like I’m stuck in the back of an elevator with 12 other people while somebody rips farts that smell like fried chicken?
I’ve come to the realization that I don’t like to have people stay in my home. One night. That’s about it. The old adage about fish and houseguests after three days is true. Except in my case, I picked up my fish from the “cheap meats” section of the grocery store and they were already rotten the day I brought them home.
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