I'm supposed to be making lots of enchiladas right now, but I'm avoiding it by blogging. Except that I was having a hard time figuring out what to write about that didn't involve hand-wringing and retinitis pigmentosa. So I almost avoided the blogging by making enchiladas.
Fortunately I happened to begin G-chatting with my sister and she suggested I share with you my method of cleaning the house.
Let's say it's been a long freaking day. Your almost-four-year old would not.stop acting like a complete caveperson while trapped in aural rehabilitation therapy for your baby. Your baby ruined yet another cable for her v. expensive cochlear implant and your six year old lost her glasses. Again. Plus no clean clothes. Or a cook to prepare your dinner. Or maybe that's just me.
You get all the little tykes snug in their beds and at last, there is peace. You can even look in on them dotingly, and smile. Lovely children.
When you get downstairs, though, your house looks...insane. Like an episode of Hoarders has exploded all over your life. No worries, because today I am going to help you. It's going to sound a bit unorthodox but I promise you results.
Simply (I love when tutorials say "simply"...pretty sure it is code for "most ridiculous, complicated set of instructions forthcoming") take the toys, dress up clothes, wagons, dolls, sharks, empty play-doh containers, blocks, sleeping bags, metal cars, old shoes, and anything else you don't want to be reminded you own, and do this while standing at the top of your basement stairs:
To every item. Some nights, I like to do it one. by. one. Certain toys, as they land on the slowly-growing pile, sound very similarly to breaking glass. It's cathartic. Freeing. Existential. Glorious. Cleansing.
Then, close the door. Walk away. If you don't have a basement, my second method works just as well: throw it all in the trash.
Nobody freak out. I don't dislike raccoons. I think the guy throwing the raccoon was protecting his dog or something. Pretty sure that makes it ok.