Anti Roomba

I'd had three cups of coffee and I felt as though I'd just taken an Ambien. Every inch of our house suggests a cat lady might live here, only the cats are imaginary and neither M nor I have the mental energy to clean this house. We had it all once. Clean house. Clean car. Coffee dates. We vacuum at least twice a day, but seem to have fallen into a Sisyphean valley of always vacuuming, but never being clean.

I was lying face down on the fatboy and all I could hear was the sound of our personal Anti-Roomba dropping blocks, tossing the cordless phone willy nilly and scattering the recycling in a whirl of thub thub thubbing throughout the house, while M tried to make some semblance of order in the kitchen. Occasionally, the baby would climb on my back and bounce on me then resume her magical journey through space making sure to redistribute and reposition everything in her grasp.

I laid there a bit taking in the sounds of thunder fairies dropping hard, possibly smartphone like devices on the wood floors. Eventually, too soon and despite any powers of mine or prayers to the universe, her quacking, squealing and giggling will be gradually replaced by an inner dialogue of doubt and her toys will be replaced by her own internal pieces to pick up.

I prayed for the strength, just for five or ten minutes to get up and it was just enough to pick up her toys and put everything away.