Brook Stephens

Today. Whew. Today.

It’s literally 100° with a heat index of 108°. I don’t know what is more miserable; this heat or sitting through a reading of the phone book. I mean, everyone is crabby, tired or both.

My house is a wreck. And yes, more than it’s usual “wreck”. My in-laws were amazing to stay here with Timothy, but every time there is some new or something moved. This time? It’s applesauce. A metric shit-ton of applesauce and at least half of that in canned peaches. In an effort to help my child “go easier”, Grandma believes he should be eating applesauce and/or fruit (canned peaches) everyday. I am all about making my child’s nutrition better, but I went to put groceries away tonight and every cupboard is literally spilling out with applesauce and peaches. So in the middle of Charlie and I’s super tired, overly-emotional squabble about me not helping clean up enough and he not asking nice enough, I opened a cupboard and screamed, “what the hell is this?!”

From the stairs Charlie shouted, “what? What is what?”

“Applesauce. Your mother bought applesauce….and peaches”.

As I start taking the out cup after cup, it just adds to the mess on my countertops already overflowing with mail, groceries, laptops, keys and pretty much anything else none of us has put away. I make the comment that it’s hot in here to which I’m told 77° is not hot. So either he’s wrong or I’m officially pre-menopausal.

Charlie asks what in the world I’ve been doing since I’ve been home. The truth is: I have no idea. I remember them heating up and eating leftover ribs for dinner. I had brown rice with kimchi. (You wanna talk gut health?…kimchi)

I sat down in my chair. And that’s all I really remember. I think I fell down the social media rabbit hole for at least an hour.

The sink is full of dishes, the dishwasher full of clean dishes and the recycling bin is overflowing. Every light in the house is on, curtains are all haphazard, there is a field of hot wheels landmines on my dining room floor and Vince the Robot Vacuum has attempted his demise by damn near falling down the stairs.

My husband is overworked, exhausted and covered in sweat from working on cleaning up the garage and other post-festival messes. It’s no wonder we’re re-enacting Clash of the Titans tonight.

After a lengthy back and forth, he comes upstairs and tells me I have two minutes to say the peace I’m been asking his attention for.

We talk about how our buckets are not very full at the moment and that we rely on comparisons to find joy. How one of our friends‘ homes are managed or how they choose to handle situations, shouldn’t be our compass rose. I acknowledge his feelings, commit to helping more and ask that he work on his approach and method.

The entire house, including the cat, are now asleep, and I’m writing this to help me catch my emotional breath and muster up the energy to get up and clean this house.

Don’t believe all the photos and comments on social media. We all have our own circuses. Every circus has moments of failure, growth and crap. Just be wholeheartedly and unapologetically YOU. (But still do the dishes, I promise you’ll feel better when they are done)