Homeless

I'm on the floor, peering under my king sized bed, with a flashlight in one hand and a vacuum hose in the other when I realize my home as been taken from me.  I'm homeless.  Not in the 'I have no shelter' kind of way, but in the 'oh my God, I've been overrun' kind of way.  While hoping that the beam of my mini flashlight discovers my lost engagement ring, I instead discover 6 old apple jacks, a bouncy ball, a canine chew toy, a bolt, a topless marker, a folded up card table and 4 chairs, a baseball bat (aka homeland security), an extension pole of some sort, and what seems like a quarter inch of undisturbed dust.  This was a reoccurring theme under each piece of furniture I looked under, and I looked under every piece that isn't nailed down (excluding heavy appliances which will be pulled from their positions shortly). 

I used to find comfort in my science classroom because it was mine.  All mine.  I controlled it.  I knew where every last staple was and everything had a place.  My desk and lab counter were usually spotless, and it made me happy.  But now that my job is at home, and my home has been overrun by a borderline hoarder of a husband (this is probably an exaggeration) and a nosy 2 year old, I have no space.  No place is sacred anymore.  The living room, make that every room, is always littered with toys.  My laptop keys are busted.  My smartphone screen is usually smeared with sticky something-or-other.  My showers are usually interrupted by one or more people barging in without knocking.  My jeep floor is littered with goldfish and old fruit snacks.  My lovely Paula Deen copper bottom pots and pans are used as drums.  My Vitamin Water always has someone else's backwash in it.  The TV runs Nick Jr all.day.long.  I rarely eat a meal from beginning to end in one sitting...or standing I should say.  Because my lunch break equals scarfing down a PB&J sandwich while standing at the counter for the 3 minutes it takes for Charlies 11oclock bottle to heat up.  And as it turns out, not even my jewelry box is mine anymore.  Little fingers found my favorite watch...broken.  Those same little fingers found my engagement ring (that was patiently waiting for MY pregnant fingers to return to normal size)....lost.  Hence the searching.  I realize that it's my own fault for allowing him to get into my jewelry box, but every boundary seemed to become blurred once I had a second newborn.  Suddenly I was telling myself to give the kid some slack. But today as I was tearing through my house to find my Precious, I was a little overwhelmed by all of the C.R.A.P. that I had to pick up and sort through BEFORE looking for the actual ring at hand....or out of hand as it may be. Overwhelmed by the fact that I straighten and pick up things all day long, but that's just the surface.  Upon closer inspection, things are a mess!  In fact, there were so many spaces that needed to be sorted through or cleaned that I had to start a list on my smartphone to keep the crazy at bay.  The ring isn't here.  I know, you hate this drawer.  Despise this drawer, even.  But you don't have time to clean it out.  Just put this stupid drawer on the list, crazy woman, and move on.

The more I looked, the more frustrated I became.  Frustrated with my son.  Frustrated with my husband.  Frustrated with myself for letting it all get to this point.

My saving grace was having the sense to drag the vacuum behind me as I overturned cushions and couches.  At least I have comfort in knowing that the carpet under the love seat is clean.