Last weekend, I washed all the laundry and made sure that everyone had enough clothes to cover their beds and dressers and half their floors in one carefully tossed fling of a basket.
Then I cleaned the entire house and even got rid of the cobwebs we named Ernie and Bert which had become such familiar fixtures in our foyer, we hung ornaments from them at Christmas.
Then I paid all of our bills, balanced our checkbook, hyperventilated and immediately made reservations for a two bedroom suite at the local homeless shelter.
Then I went grocery shopping, ensured that the pantry, fridge and freezer were stocked, and showed Nate where the oven and stove were and how to turn them on. He was impressed.
Then I left detailed instructions regarding how to change the toilet paper roll, how to rinse a dish, how to hang up a coat and how to use a laundry basket for more than just an end table. No one was impressed.
Then I took a shower and carefully shaved everything in need of deforestation and put on clean clothes including my best bra and undies, which meant that they still had holes and frayed elastic but at least they were once the same color. I was impressed.
Then I updated our life insurance policies and our wills and made sure Nate was up on exactly when to pull the plug, i.e.:
brain stem wrapped around my neck and hanging down my back, resulting in irreversible cessation of brain activity = YES.
Broken pinky toe = NO.
Then I gave Helena a huge squeeze, covered her face with kisses and through my tears, told her how much I loved her, reminded her that 8 x 6 was 48 and that boys were covered with diseases until she turned 30 or finished postgraduate school, whichever came first.
And then I grabbed the keys, threw fifteen year old Zoe in the car, drove to the empty school parking lot and taught her how to drive.
I’ll post the gory details another time.
Suffice it to say that:
- My preparations were all for naught
- The cardboard toilet paper roll is scratchy and not very absorbent