I Am Not A Martha!!

My bible is wet. All 2200 pages are soaked right through. I am not a Martha. Martha would have gone outside at night to make sure everything was put away. Martha would not leave strollers in the rain, garbage on the driveway, and hoses stretched out all over the place. Martha’s kids would not leave their bikes right outside the shed instead of putting them inside the door. Martha would not take the bowl out to make muffins and get distracted. In Martha’s house, if she decided to not make muffins after taking the bowl out, she would put the bowl away. In my house, the bowl sits on the counter until the next day when I remember to make the muffins. Martha would know where her shoes were. But I’m not Martha. My desk is messy. In my house, if you come in the door and you think it’s too messy to take off your shoes, you can leave them on.

I had great plans for when I was off on maternity leave, when the kids went back to school. I thought that for once my house was going to be clean… I mean, what else could I possibly find to do while my kids were at school and I was home with the baby? But I’m not Martha. Things out of place do not bother me. If I am exhausted, I have no problem leaving the dirty clothes all over the living room floor. I don’t mind dirty dishes in the sink. My house is not a health hazard… but I am just… not… Martha. Great intentions, and resolutions will never bring me to the point where I can conceive of that much organization existing in my house.

I have a really good friend, who is a little… obsessed when it comes to organization… at least that’s what I thought. She has kids too… and she carries around a huge bag with her that has every conceivable thing in it that she or the kids could possibly need. I mean, this woman has a suitcase for a purse. If you are in need of anything… Advil, vitamins, needle and thread, nail clippers, extra clothes or shoes in any size… she probably has it in her purse. I mean, if you are going on vacation, you just need to pack her in the suitcase and you’d have everything you need. Me on the other hand… I forget my hairbrush… and I have been known to stop at the nearest Walmart for underwear too. I learned a secret about her though… she is not a Martha either. She just looks like one. In her house, there are things on the floor. In her house, the animals still poop on the kids. In her house, sometimes when you go to the washroom and wash your hands there aren’t any towels. But that’s ok… because I’m not a Martha. And I don’t care if she is either.

My house was cold yesterday. I mean really cold. Summer is definitely over. I tried to turn on the heat, but apparently I was expecting too much out of my house again. There is a thermostat on the wall, but I think it is there for show. I haven’t found the furnace yet. There is a basement in this house. I’ve been in it once. You can only get there through an outside door. All I remember about the basement is that there were shelves that I could store my canning on (the canning is currently all over the kitchen counters) and there was a crawl space that went under the whole house. The problem with the basement is that the door got locked. Before I moved in, someone decided to lock the door. And there is no key. I think the furnace might be down there, but I don’t remember. My dad came over here the other day to fix a plumbing problem, and he tried to kick the door down. But the door is still firmly in place, so I don’t think his attempted show of super human strength did any good. The door is still locked.

So I decided today that I would make a toque for my son to wear at night… because it is cold in my house. I found the box of knitting stuff and emptied it on the living room floor. There is yarn and knitting needles everywhere. I was trying to find the needles I needed to make the hat, but I only found 3 out of the 4 piece set which, if you have ever knitted socks or baby toques, you know does absolutely no good. So in my state of frustration, I thought about my friend… you know the one who looks like a Martha when she isn’t at home… and I thought about her knitting bag (because yes, in her wonderfully large suitcase of a purse, she actually has knitting needles too). Her knitting needles are all in a fabric case that she made out of left over fabric, so she knows where they all are. So, I decide to make a case for my knitting needles too. Leaving the pile of yarn on the floor in the living room, I go on a hunt for fabric to make the case out of. After turning several more boxes upside down, I find some in the garage. I cut it all out on the kitchen table, and set up my serger. This is going to be easy. I am going to fix this problem once and for all and I will never have to search for my knitting needles again. I sew three seams on the serger and decide that I need to iron the fabric, so I go over and plug the iron in. The next seam that I attempt leaves the fabric tangled around the bottom needle and bends one of the top needles. I then realize that I have never changed a needle on this machine before, so I am trying to find a simple way to do it. There isn’t one. I actually need a teeny tiny little screwdriver to do it. I can’t find mine. I looked, I emptied out several more boxes in the garage looking for it. I finally used a knife. I pulled the needle out and looked at it under the light. Size 14. I have some of those. I just don’t know where. I rifle through a couple more boxes looking for them. Can’t find them. I put them on the shopping list. I put knitting needles on the shopping list too.

At this point, my house is in utter chaos. There are boxes emptied in every corner. I was focused. What can I say? I was busy trying to get stuff done. The doorbell rings. At this point I remember that I am supposed to be going to look at a house this morning. I open the door for the real estate agent, go get my son into his car seat, and we go look at the house. I forgot the iron was on. I’m so glad they make irons for those of us that are not Martha. My iron turns itself off. The real estate agent asks me how my morning was. I tell him. He tells me I’m in transition. Apparently I have an excuse. It doesn’t matter. I’m always in transition. I always find some other project that is more important than cleaning my house. BECAUSE I AM JUST NOT MARTHA!!!

And here I thought I’d be bored staying at home with the kids…