Spilled Milk

I almost cried over spilled milk yesterday afternoon. I most definitely swore over it - although it was only very loudly in my head since little ears were nearby.

It has been a gloomy winter around these here parts, at least in terms of the quantity of light. The heaps and mounds and piles of snow have been great for the kids and good exercise for the adults. That said, I'm ready for some sunshine. Bring it on! The dreariness has left me rather unmotivated and less inclined to be little miss Tidy McTidypants.

Yesterday was one of those days. Boychild was up at seven and, after a short stint of reading the paper, I spent much of the rest of the day doing dishes and laundry and cleaning. It was haaaaaard to get motivated to do that, too, since I really felt as if I wanted to just curl up somewhere quiet where no one would be hollering for me and making demands - I mean polite (ahem) requests.

Eventually I mustered enough gumption to haul out ye olde vacuum and attack the den where the dried up macaroni, Cheerios and other former-food items had gone to die under the kids' little table and chairs. The timing was good because Boychild and Girlchild were both occupied with an activity in another room, allowing me to shovel up their toys in peace in order to vacuum. (Am I making my house sound like a place you'd want to visit? I thought so.)

I was starting to win the Battle of the Den, but I shoulda cleared their table first. At one point the vacuum hose swung cunningly in that direction, knocking an unfinished cup of milk all over the half-vacuumed floor, leading to a flurry of mad cursing - I mean sponging. Thank heaven for hardwood.

Naturally it was at that very moment Girlchild decided to wander into the room, marching through some of the milk droplets and all of the wet floor. Sigh.

I'm looking back at this moment to try to find the glimmering message of joy to share but, really, all I can say is at least there was no crying over spilled milk. The crying is a real drag.

Where is the sun?