If I die of embarrassment, I'm taking a kid with me!

(Written back in April, but finally edited today. Sorry for the wait.)

So I'm back.

The show is over. It was great.

Life moves on. My life has moved on.

Don't think that the last few months weren't rife with unfortunate events for me (Oh they so were, but I won't go into those) but this show for a .../gasp ...children's cast (I know, right?) had no real score. That means no vocal parts, no accompaniment, no bass, no drums... no playoffs, no Entr'actes...no really everything that makes a musical..well...MUSICAL) It also means that all I've done until the wee hours of the morning noon and night is write music, beat I mean teach children, practice the piano, attend rehearsals, and direct a band. This is on top of 2 kid birthdays, recitals, competitions, and life in general. When you're fighting bronchitis and pneumonia on top of all this, other things start to fall through the cracks.

Like blogging.

And housework.

And showering.

And housework.

I'm generally a pretty neat person. I hate for things to be in disarray. I'm actually a somewhat recovered obsessive-compulsive about it. I work really hard to keep things as nice as I can regardless of the 3 rug rats whose goal in life is to undo everything I've done as I do it. Needless to say, after this show I've struggled more than usual to catch back up.

Sigh... Here we go. It's late afternoon, the kids are home from school and I've already had about enough of everything. Still tired. Still sick. Still completely unmotivated to even run a comb through my hair, much less put on a bra. The show is barely over, and the home recovery has been.. .well... let's just say it hasn't. I mean, I haven't done a THING to this place.

On this particular day I found myself sprawled in a chair in the office we have set up in the sitting room in my master-suite bedroom, staring at a facebook game and half-heartedly watching out the window at the myriad neighborhood children that have chosen my driveway (for reasons completely unknown to me) as THE place-to-be. As I lounge around in a most becoming and ladylike fashion (not) and totally stuffing my face on mountains of unhealthy junk food, I hear yet again the front door being thrown open, little feet stomping across the hardwood, tearing through the house, stomping up the stairs, through the TV room, down the hall, across my bedroom, and into the office, mouths going 90 miles a minute at an ear-piercing decibel. I turned in great irritation, crumbs on my face, Cheetos-stained fingers pointing and blasting my children with a stern "no running in the house you know better why are you in my room anyway were you raised in a barn how many times have I told you" kinda lecture going full force.

That's when I noticed the extra kid. The one that didn't belong to me. The nice one (of course) from the house in the corner. She was staring at me like I had a second head. A second head that hasn't been shampooed lately. I took stock of myself and kinda understood the odd look she was sporting, though I was more embarrassed that she'd heard my parental outburst. That was until she noticed the room. Then I was utterly mortified as my eyes were suddenly opened and I finally saw how bad I had let things get. Now, my house gets messy from time to time. Everyone's does. No one is perfect, but this?

There was laundry everywhere. Adam had tipped over my trashcan, destroyed a tissue box and torn up each one into bits. There were wrappers and crumbs from my total slug-fest all over me and all over my desk. There was mail. A couple of glasses, cans, a spoon. Oh the mess. I can't even tell you... /sniff... I'm just too fragile. And here I was... eye-twitching, Cheeto munching, someone-hose-her-down total bag-lady hollering like a banshee sprawled right in the middle of it.

I literally ran them out the door red-cheeked and wishing for the floor to swallow me whole (I should say red-faced. For once, I actually had some clothes on. I guess that's a plus.) I took stock of how many things I had to step over in the hallway as we went. Toys and books and shoes, oh my! Another laundry basket had been overturned in front of the stairs, not to mention the makeshift gate to keep the baby in. (It's an overturned dresser. We were desperate.) I won't tell you what Adam had thrown down the stairs. I just can't bear for anyone else to know. I thought I would absolutely die of shame when I saw the things that were out in the open that this poor child witnessed and then had to step around.

Then I remembered the child of mine that had led her in, past the mess, over the hurtles, deep into the bowels of this house that was my shame.

May she rest in peace.