One morning this week I woke up as one half of my head imploded and was sucked into a black hole behind my right eye.
At least that’s what it felt like.
I haven’t had a migraine in years, but this one woke me around 3am. It kept me awake as I tried to alleviate the pain—massaging my scalp, plopping a bag of frozen vegetables over my face—between retching into the garbage can. Yeah, not pretty.
Peeper, luckily, slept in as late as she ever has, and the headache had mellowed quite a bit by that time. Even still, I was nowhere near the top of my game all day.
By the time Eric got home from class around 5pm, the house was a disaster. He laughed as he stepped over the shoes scattered across the hallway, the DVDs spread out over the living room and the cookbooks, bags and utensils in the kitchen.
The chaos made me realize how much I tidy up after Peeper throughout the day.
Imagine a wrecking ball dismantling a 10-story building. During a hurricane. In a town recently hit by an earthquake. Such is the destructive power of my daughter.
She loves taking things out of other things, then throwing them across the room. (I’ve learned to keep my distance when I do my ab exercises while she’s at the DVD bin.) Occasionally I get lucky and she’s in a mood to put things back in, but then her love of entropy returns and—duck!—she’s back to emptying the cupboard, shelf, bin, bucket or bag.
No one has ever accused me of being neat, and I have a pretty high tolerance for mess. But as it turns out, the advice someone once gave me of just letting everything be messy until cleaning it all up at the end of the day is likely to injure us. There are simply too many tripping hazards.
Family lore tells of my cousin who followed his mom around with a rag, pretending to clean everything. Maybe one day Peeper will get there, but I somehow doubt it. She doesn’t need a dust rag—she needs a cousin to clean up behind her.