Leaving the little red house is hard. Or maybe easy, just sad. I looked around tonight after cleaning...the gleaming hardwood floors, vacuum-lined carpet, spacious rooms, sparkling kitchen and blindingly clean bathroom... It's just sad that the house got the most attention now that we're leaving it. It should have been so clean and wonderful while we lived there. And I wanted to start over, move in again with less furniture and less junk so I could love it more. I feel jealous already of whoever moves in next. Part of me thinks but it's my house. I want to keep it.
Also, I am sick of cleaning. Sick in every way. I bent over the tub scrubbing till I thought I'd throw up. I vacuumed and revacuumed and swept so much that it made me ridiculously outraged to feel the slightest dust on my bare feet. I believe in leaving a place cleaner than you find it. To be honest, we could have gone away without dusting anything and we'd be clear for that--it was bad before we moved in. But I'm something of a perfectionist--that and perhaps proud? I couldn't leave it dirty because that dirt had my name on it. I lived there, so in the minds of the Next, it was all mine for the blaming. So I cleaned a lot. A LOT.
And now my "new" house is a wreck from moving into it. Oh, this process. I love my mother more and more. When I was a kid, I really only had the fun things to think about with moving. Yay, I get my stuff back!
Please don't think I'm complaining bitterly; this has all turned out as an enormous blessing to our family, and I'm grateful that I haven't contracted the flu-like head colds that Michael and Ender have. I've been well and capable for all this taxing, gross work.
I kind of want a break.
But I hate to have my house so yucky! And right now it smells like TUNA! EW! I think it's all because I drained the tuna cans over the dirty dishes (mountains of them). I knew this would happen...but the smell has infiltrated the entire house. It kind of hits you like a boxing glove when you open the door! Maybe I should wish my nose was congested like the boys'! Woof. The darned womanly impulse. Or qaitly impulse. Whatever. I feel like...I don't know, maybe imagine some bedraggled puppet all ripped at the seams and stinky and limp. It's ready to be thrown away. But no! There's one more act! It must go on! And maybe the poor little bedraggled puppet wants to, even. It just has no more umph.
Where's my stand-in? Who will be my stuntwoman?
*I nearly forgot to mention--and how could I??--that we had so much help from the family today! Aunt Denise helped sweep and clean/polish the floors, and the men of the family helped move furniture and miscellaneous loads with their hulky cars. Mom watched Ender for us the whole time. We do so appreciate all of their loving, willing help.*