I have a confession to make. I realized this weekend that I am not the amazing super mom. But I know her. In fact, I'm related to her. Okay, I'm her daughter.
My mom is both super and amazing. She flew in (she came in a car) to my world and in two days (mostly one) she not only found the floor in my laundry room, she cleared it. She dragged me kicking and screaming (for once I didn't complain) down the path of laundry-caught-up-ed-ness, and at this moment, I can honestly say that I am, in fact, in that mythical state of "caught up", which I had heretofore thought only existed in fairy tales (and houses where there were less than 7 or 8 people).
She cleaned my bathroom. She cleaned my kitchen floor. She cleaned the laundry hallway! My house is sparkling and clean, and I am a nervous wreck.
The songs going through my head while we cleaned: "I don't ever want to hear that song again" by Olivia Newton John, and "I guess that's why they call it the blues" by Elton John. I think I hung up a thousand shirts.
She did most of it in her pajamas, wearing a funny hat some of the time. She pulled g2 in on the action [I have decided to dub my children by order and gender in my blog from here on out, so g2 simply means second daughter]. Actually, we pulled everyone in many times, but g2 became her sidekick, complete with her own funny hat.
I tried to give her my cape, but she wouldn't take it. (there is no charge for awesome-ness or attractiveness, apparently) Now, if I can maintain it for, say, a month without thrashing my children or taking drugs, then maybe I'll have earned my title back again. But right now, I'm just a bill, I am only a bill and I'm living here on capital hill . . .
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