“Someday,” I mutter to myself as I look at my most recent picture on Facebook. While my daughter is the point of the picture and she is predictably adorable, I didn’t realize until a moment too late that the picture I posted showcased the embarrassing jumble of drawings stuck all over our refrigerator.
“Someday,” I vow to myself. “Someday!”
Someday there will be no more rumpled, scribbled on pieces of paper fluttering off all sides of my fridge. It will be tidy, with only a neat calendar to remind me of appointments pinned unobtrusively to the side.
Someday I won’t feel cheerios crunching under my feet five minutes after sweeping the floor. It will go days and weeks and months with no fat bellies scooting mightily across it, drooling all over it with the effort, little feet pattering across it, food being flung joyously in the air above it. It will be so clean.
Someday there will be no soapy hand prints on the bathroom mirror. No apple cores hidden in the toy chest. There won’t be towers made of books teetering perilously. I won’t be screeching with pain as a jagged mega block impales my foot.
My house will smell of pine and lilac. My walls will be just as I imagined when I chose the perfect shade in the hardware store, no scrapes or stains to ruin the effect. My curtains will hang in the windows, without holes cut by big scissors in mischievous hands.
My piles of folded laundry will sit patiently on the coffee table as I finish my episode of Downton Abbey before they are returned to their drawers. No misguided little helpers refolding them for me, undoing all of my work.
I will have this house looking like a magazine spread. I am sure of it.
Why am I crying?