I’m in to week two of the Great Wretched Clothes Change Over of 2019. This year, for reasons so insane I can’t even quite understand what they are, I decided to open up the bins in the dining room, thinking it would take me two days max, because the laundry room is right there, and I would be able to plough through everything, moving clothes from bin to washer to dryer to bedroom and back round. Well, that was deranged.
Instead I first cleaned the girls’ room and looked for all their clothes.
Second, I looked at the boys’ room and decided I didn’t even care any more.
Third, I started to do the laundry and kept doing that for three days.
Fourth, in the middle of last week I switched from the GWCCO19 to Halloween 2019.
Fifth, as the weekend overtook me, I continued not to bother with the GWCCO19 and started perseverating about the end of the quarter which involves following older children around asking them, repeatedly, if they really did turn all their assignments in…no, really, did you? Oh, no, look, here, you did not turn it in. No, look, you didn’t. No, seriously, turn it in now. No, right now…
Sixth, I finally returned to the GWCCO19.
Seventh, I realized that my problem is that I have to ask every single child about every single piece of clothing because if I guess wrong about taste or size or fit or cut, I will rue the day for the entire rest of the now very long and dark year because yet again, the government rearranged the clocks in order to destroy my remaining crumbs of mental health.
Eighth, I made it laboriously, over one whole day, through the sorting process with two whole kids, which leaves four to go.
I guess I’ll stop numbering. Midday yesterday I texted Matt to say that I was going to completely stop writing words of any kind forever. I’m SERIOUS, I said. I can’t live like this. The GWCCO19 is a full time job that will last forever. I literally cannot both write words onto a screen AND move clothes from bin to bin. I retreated to the attic and continued a prolonged texting argument from the depths of Sheol about how I. Just. Cannot. Even. Anymore.
I was so serious I almost started a poll. Should I
A. Write Things
B. Move Clothes Around From Bin To Bin
It’s election season, so vote now.
I mean, I’m in that awful place where my children are independent enough that I am often duped into thinking I can do things like have an intellectual life, but not old enough to make quick decisions about what they want to wear for a few months, or pick their stupid clothes up off the floor.
If you need me, I’ll be behind a pile of horrible T-shirt’s, raging against reality.
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