I Fixed It!

I did it! I took care of the shed.

The photos yesterday really got me thinking. It's not right to leave stuff like that, so I put on my grungy jeans, rolled up my (proverbial) sleeves, grabbed some supplies, and headed out back to conquer it.

It only took me an hour or so. Much less time than I thought it would. And the difference?

Wait for it.....

.....

Pretty good, right? The siding is vinyl so the scrubbing was actually more cosmetic than-

Wait, you thought I meant the inside? Haha! Haha. No.

I didn't even open the door.

But I got some pictures of Jeremiah on his slide to share!

Mommy! Mommy!

Bwweeeee!

Yay!

God bless and see you soon,

Joelle

The Mess

This is it. The one place I could never get a handle on no matter how hard I tried.

My shed.

Look at it. All innocent and cute, despite the weeds (which I am also not sorry for. They're the only things that grow for me anyway) growing all around it and the mildew (Which I am sorry for, but not to you. To the shed. It's not fair to my property to let it be damaged like that.).

But inside-

I originally wanted this to be a space where I could work out and craft. I had the work out part down for a while. Recorded book, treadmill. Old tv, workout video. Woo! I'm doing so well at keeping this place up!

Then my grandmother gave me her fabric. So I could start quilting. I like sewing and pattern piecing is also fun, so I took it all.

ALL her fabric.

Those bins? Fabric. There are multiple bags under the counter as well.

I started to sort and then I got pregnant and didn't want to do anything. I didn't have anyone to push me to do anything, so I didn't do anything. Well, I still walked, but that was it. So it sat. (I really hope she doesn't read this. She will kill me if she finds out what happened to it.)

Then we needed to start moving stuff around for the baby. The shed became necessary for storage. Soon it was difficult to navigate. I would go in every once in a while and push some stuff around, but halfheartedly and not to very much success.

So the stuff grew as Jeremiah did, both in and out of my tummy. It is mostly usable, seasonal, or sentimental stuff, but there is some trash the garbage men refuse to take away. (They refuse to take the refuse. Ha!)  And now I am left with what you see before you. The Mess. The Mess I can't get rid of because I don't know where to start. The Mess I want to never see again, and yet I also want to plow into with my bare hands and make all better. The mess I can't whirlwind away like I do so often with other messes. The Mess I have grandiose plans for, but obtain so little substance. The Mess that will take more than a day or two to fix, but I know once I do I will be able to do what I want in it with a smile.

The Mess I made.

The Mess I need help with.

The mess I refuse to be sorry for.

God Bless and see you soon.

Joelle

PS. I'm not sorry unless Grandma finds out. Then I'm like the thief who isn't sorry he stole but is very, very sorry he is going to jail.

Still Not Sorry

I posted my last blog very late last night so I could not show you The Mess I am not sorry for. I realize that some of The Mess may not seem like it to some people, but to me, it is The Mess. I guarantee, you will think I have The Mess by the next post. (This is too long to contain it all)

Just because I am not sorry for The Mess does not mean I would not change it. In fact, a lot of these things will be picked up or taken care of over the course of the day. The Mess won't go away, but I will fight it. I am simply not going to let The Mess bother me enough to make me change it if you were to drop by unexpectedly. I do not like the mess, I tolerate it. So I took a couple pictures of each room as it stands and will tell you what particular pieces of The Mess I will not apologize for, even if I would change it if I could. This is my house as it is right now when I got up.

Master bedroom.

I am not sorry for the unmade bed. For the pajamas all over the floor that I forgot to pick up yesterday. For the overflowing clothes hamper or the open closet doors. Or for the items on the dresser that don't belong. Although I'm sure Charlie is sorry his bed is so squished and floppy.

Bathroom

I thought of the more sensitive among us and did not take pictures of the bathroom. It's not too bad.
But I am not sorry for the mildew in the bottom of the shower.
I am sorry I keep forgetting to get bleach to fix said mildew.
I am not sorry I still use bleach. No natural remedy has worked on it.

Jeremiah's Room.

I am not sorry for the mismatched furniture. Nor the, once again, unmade bed. The most useful items of clothing are not in the mismatched furniture. I am not sorry for the clothes on the floor, or the  books on the floor or anything else on the floor. I'm not sorry I haven't straightened the cover on the big chair for a couple days. Or that the diapers don't have a decorative home.

Dining Room

I am not sorry for the things on the table, the card game paraphernalia that has no home, the box of cards that also has no home. The shoes unceremoniously dumped by the door. The table missing its glass top, although I am sorry I broke it.  You see the baby gate and drying rack that do have a home? They aren't in it.

Kitchen

I am not sorry for the open curtain revealing the washer/dryer. And I won't apologize for any of the items on the counter, even the ones that magically appeared and seem to have no purpose. The fact the counters need cleaned is a mild annoyance and I would/will clean them before any food prep is done, but I'm not sorry for the spills.
I am not sorry I didn't wash the dog dishes today.
Or yesterday.

Living room

I am not sorry for the computer I left on the floor last night instead of putting it away, the unfolded blankets in the box behind the sofa, or the new sippy cup Jeremiah left. I'm actually a bit surprised there are no old sippy cups throughout the room. I am not sorry for the sloppy organization on the toy shelving units or the nasty television cords that everyone hates. Especially since the suspended tv means there is a lot more room for playing.

Bar

I am not sorry for the mess I let my husband make in this room. Yes, I know this seems like a copout, but I'm also not sorry for the bar counter, which is entirely my doing. Those shoes and wires on the floor? Yup. Still not sorry. I actually went through that mess of tools in the corner not too long ago. That is organized!

I am a bit sorry I didn't try to get a good photo of all three animals together. Oh well.

All around

I am not sorry for the condition of the floors that desperately need vacuumed and shampooed (although, now that I look, you can't really tell in the photos how bad they are). Or for the windows that need washed, or anything you noticed that was messy that I didn't.

Phew! That was a lot of stuff to go through. I know some of you are quaking in your slippers wondering however I let it get so bad. I also know some of you are yawning, waiting for me to prove I have something I should apologize for. Either way, more is coming shortly!

God bless and see you soon,

Joelle

I'm Not Sorry

It seems to be becoming part of the North American ritual. We visit someone else's house and it's there. It comes part in parcel with the hugs and the welcomes and the, "Let me take your coat,"s.

"I'm sorry for the mess."

This is repeated, not only by people who actually have messy houses, but by those who have average houses, who have relatively clean houses, and who might have a single dirty dish in the otherwise spotless kitchen.

"I'm sorry for the mess."

It is said so often and with such conviction it has taken up the mantle of proper noun.

"I'm sorry for The Mess."

We say it to preempt any brokerage of the type of mess our house is. So everyone knows we are terrible housekeepers and they know you are judging yourself more than they will judge you.

"I'm sorry for The Mess."

We say it because we feel like our guests shouldn't be subjected to the everyday goings on of our lives. They shouldn't have to wade through things or see our dust in order to spend time with us.

"I'm sorry for The Mess."

We say it because last time we went to their house, they said it. And their house was so much cleaner than ours, even though we just spent the whole day cleaning it. So we must not care as much about them as they do about us.

"I'm sorry for The Mess"

I used to say it, too. I thought I was obligated to. My house, though usually fairly- sorta kinda- tidy-ish, isn't ever in a state of perfection. I always see things I forgot I wanted to do or didn't have time to do or just flat out refused to do today. I know I have a mess.

I have made a decision.

I am not sorry. Not for The Mess, anyway. There are too many other things to be sorry for. The Mess is no longer one of them.

The Mess means I play with my child instead of merely picking up after him or making him pick up every couple of minutes. It's more fun when you mix the cars with the Legos.

The Mess means I made dinner for my family and then spent the next part of my evening with them instead of back in the kitchen. Bedtime comes so quickly. How much dirtier can the dishes get in a couple hours?

The Mess means I have animals and they are cared for and allowed to live in the house. Not outside it where they can't add to the mess, or merely in parts of it.

The Mess means bedtime is full of stories and songs. And maybe some wrestling before Mommy comes in.

The Mess means I let my husband pursue his hobbies without interruption. Sometimes

The Mess means I can't keep up with gathering, washing, drying, folding and putting away the laundry for three people. But we are wearing clean clothes.

The Mess means I am a lazy person who doesn't make the bed because she doesn't make beds.

The Mess means I put off projects and then wait until they're much bigger than they originally were before I start up again. Oops.

The Mess means you are welcome to my house because you are a part of my family. I want to spend time with you and I hope you want to spend time with me as well. I am comfortable with you seeing The Mess and I thought my time was better spent preparing for you. Not preparing my house for you. I'm not necessarily proud of The Mess, but I am proud of my family, and The Mess came with them, so I live with it.

I don't want you to be sorry for The Mess when I visit you either. I don't see The Mess. I don't see the house. I see you. I see what you work for, how you live, and what is important to you. I don't care about The Mess.

Unless it is overwhelming you. When The Mess seems an impossible task. When you feel like drowning and need a life raft. Then I will help you conquer The Mess. Mess eradicating is fun to me. Not because I care about The Mess, but because I care about you. You are more important than The Mess. You are the reason I came. If The Mess upsets you, it upsets me. Let me serve you by helping you tame The Mess. But don't ever be embarrassed by it on my behalf.

Don't be sorry for The Mess.

I'm not.

Not mine.

Not yours.

God bless and see you soon,

Joelle

Big Boy Bed

Late March, Jeremiah discovered what his Daddy and I had known for a while. His crib bars held merely the illusion of containment and could not actually keep him in bed anymore. One night of screaming, up and down, and everything but sleep and I knew we had to get him into a real bed as soon as possible.

So he and I took apart his crib (well, I took it apart. He 'helped'), put it into storage (I did that to, with my helper at my feet), and- instead of using the toddler bed we originally planned to- pulled out my old mattress and boxspring. For an hour he crawled on it, saying," Nighnight," and pretend to snore. So I knew he liked it, but I was still worried how he would do during the night. Would he sleep at all? Would he just get up and play? What about all his books? Would I come into the room the next morning to find torn pages scattered everywhere?

That night he slept nine hours straight.

He had never slept more than five hours at once before.

The next, he slept the oft fabled twelve hours.

He has consistantly stayed in his bed and slept without waking up nearly every night since then.

I tell people if I had known about this, I would have switched him as soon as he could walk.

But, since we were all getting better sleep, our morning nugga time had gone away. We didn't need extra quiet time, so we would just get up. I mentioned this to Zach one night after bedtime, saying I was so glad to be able to sleep, but a little sad that I no longer got the peaceful, quiet son and only had the crazy climber left. I had lost something I wasn't expecting to because he was growing up.

The very next morning when Little Man woke up, he squinted at me as the door creaked open, said, "Hi." as he passed me, and ran- straight into my bedroom. He climbed on the bed and patted the pillow asking me to, "Sit!"  So I did.

We snuggled together for a few minutes and then he got up and our day really began. He does this most mornings, now. I guess he missed the moments of peace and being together as much as I did.

So, while our days of normal chaos continue, it's nice to know that my baby still wants to be my baby. At least for a few minutes, for now.

God bless and see you soon,

Joelle

New Name, New Look, Same Me.

I've decided I'm going to try my hand at blogging again. It will most likely be about household nonsense that will bore readers to tears, but that's not why I'm starting over.

I'd been toying with doing a lot of different things recently. Things that will last longer than a fed tummy or a vacuumed floor. Something that is not just part of the routine. Maybe quilting or other textile crafts. While a lot of the ideas have some appeal, they all take up more time or space than I was willing or able to give up. 

Then I posted my last blog. I really enjoyed the hour of putting the words together in a way that was understandable, but not too boring. I realized how much I missed the process of writing. I came to understand, to an extent, why Jackson Pollock painted the way he did, even if I still can't understand exactly why he got famous for it. There is a sort of magic that comes with doing something you enjoy.

I'm not writing for you. I'm writing for me. If you happen to enjoy it, you are welcome to read.

I'm going to keep this blog, but it still needed a bit of renewal. The game that it was named after is long gone and, while I want it to feel inviting, the word 'backdoor' doesn't feel inviting when your back door is surrounded by a permanently locked six foot gate. In fact, everything I thought of seemed disingenuous or overworked. So instead of a place or thing, thought of how I want you to feel when reading. How I want to come across.

My favorite time of day is early morning. Jeremiah wakes up very early. Instead of getting up and facing the day at three or four, I keep it dark and we snuggle for a few hours. I don't necessarily sleep, but I relax. I take time to enjoy the 21 month old because I know that later I'm going to be pulling my hair out over his newest discoveries.

That's how I want this place to be. I want it to be where time stops for a few seconds. Where there can be calm, rest, and focus on just one thing. Where, just for a minute, the words are all that matters. And I'm willing to share that with you.

God bless and see you soon,

Joelle

P.S. The word, "nugga" is based off of a friend's younger brother who had a hard time pronouncing words when he was young. Zach adopted it, so instead of snuggling, we nugga in this house.

If you don't like it...

I have many friends on Facebook. They come from all over the world and from all walks of life. Naturally, they post all types of things. From annoying baby stuff (like me, sorry everyone) to serious blogs or political posts. While I spend most of my day chasing around a near two year old, I try to read most of them (well, maybe not all the blogs, but the personal posts)  and I have yet to delete a friend just because of their views on something. Don't misunderstand; I have deleted people in the past, but never just because they said something I didn't agree with.

So, whenever I see a person I consider a friend finish a post with something along the lines of, "If you don't like it, there's the door," it upsets me. I understand the intent is to head off arguments or nasty notes, but I notice a lot of people, soon after a post like that, post again, very upset over the response they received, despite the disclaimer.

As far as I know, no one's mind has been changed by a Facebook post regarding anything: social, political, economical, nutritional, or otherwise. Your post won't make me see the light. By saying I can defriend you if I don't like something you believe is basically saying my friendship is less important to you than your thoughts on whatever issue you are posting about.

The people on my list are there because I want them there. I like them. I like seeing what they have to say. For a post to be so callous in sloughing off disagreements by saying, "You can delete me. I don't need to associate myself with you." hurts, whether or not I agree with you. You didn't even give me the chance to agree or disagree before you said I could go. I don't want to delete anyone because of what they think, and I would hope that people I consider friends would want to keep me, even if we don't agree on every little thing. My list of friends would be very short if I only kept those. It would consist of precisely one.

So next time you're posting something and want to add the tag of, "Delete me if you want," think about what you're saying to the people you think of as friends. Is that post worth losing friends over? It could very well be. Is that post so important that it's worth telling people to leave before they even attack you? I don't think so. Not ever.


God bless, and see you soon (or in two years... But you can catch me- or, more precisely, Jeremiah's antics- on Facebook.),

Joelle