What my blisters told me

It's 5 AM. I am begining to hate my interal clock.

I have 3 blisters. One on my left hand, just below my ring finger and two on my right hand below my pinky and third fingers repectively. They hurt. These are deep blisters, the kind that form calouses. They are hot to the touch and tender.
   Now, I've had blisters like these before. Of late, doing yard work but earlier, in my youth, from working with big animals like cows and horses. Those are blisters of memory and didn't really have anything to say to me except maybe, "Good work, girl."
  As I lay in bed last night, exausted from the work of the day, and complained to myself about these blisters that made it hard for me to hold my iPhone, I could have sworn that they started talking to me. No, I am not halucinating nor have I finally gone 'round the bend nor have I been moonstruck (although that does sound a little fun doesn't it). I realized that I am not the only person in the world who has ever had blisters like these. Everyone, at some point does and most got theirs not from a frienzy of cleaning but from honest hard work. Continual work: often back breaking, sometimes spirit breaking, and more often than not thankless.
   Suddenly I saw my blisters through the eyes of an adult. They were blisters there because of things that had to be done, and no one else to do them. These blisters were born of responsability and a desire to make things better for those that I am responsible for. What right did I have to complain about my blisters anyway?After all, I'm not the only person in the world to have them, right? I know lots of people who have blisters, and bear the calouses that came from continual friction from work even though the blisters were painful.
  Now my blisters were getting personal. After all, if I did nothing tomorow these blisters might go away and never callous over. That would be nice, to maybe soak my hands or rub lotion into them, pamper them a bit and smooth away the pains and memory of such hard work.
    But wait, my blisters said, you have responsabilities that cannot be ignored. I saw my blisters through the eyes of an adult. A thing to be borne because tomorow will come, and it will have it's own set of blisters to tell their tale. I thought of my parents. My father, who worked with his hands all his life, formed many blisters, and complained about none of them. Even in his retirement, he carries the calouses from those years of hard work, resposniblilty, and desire to provide something better for those he loves. My mother, who worked outside of the home, then came home to work again. Cleaning, cooking, mending, all without complaint, and all without asking for help from my father. Not because she thought he would not do it, but because it was her job, her responsability, and I fancy, she had some pride in that.
   So listen, said my blisters, we are not anoyances or things to be borne. We are a badge of honor and a sign of responsability. May we become calouses, and be there to remind you, when you whine, that all things worth making better will require the creation of blisters. That blister is there to remind you that you are doing a job worth something to someone, even if it is to yourself. That calouse is there to remind you that you cared, it mattered, and you continued when you could have stopped and let us heal. Good job.

Cleanliness is next to........

It's 6 AM. I've been up for over an hour now. My internal clock rang at 4:30, the bastage.
   Before I start my cleaning rant, and there WILL be a rant. Let me make something clear. My husband does clean. He washes dishes and clothes. He picks up after kids and dogs alike. Sometimes the mess moves faster than him, but he does clean. Lately he's been sick: First with fibromyalsia, nothing to laugh at let me tell you, and lately with the flu.
    So the cleaning back slid for a while and I let it, knowing that I was going on vaca for 2 weeks. I also had an agenda. I am going to get the house spick and span, like it has never been before. It's a New Year's compulsion. I know a fair bit about compulsion since I am a diagnosed OCPD  sufferer (so much of my childhood is so clear now). For whatever reason I feel the need to start 2011 with a really clean house.
   Here I sit. At the kitchen table with coffee in hand looking  out over the remaining cleaning jobs to be done and wondering ( a little paniky like) if I will be able to get it all pulled together in time. I still have so much to do. Carpets to steam clean, cobwebs to conquer, a bedroom closets that looks like it belongs to the Krats Bros., not to mention the bathroom closet and laundry room. I get tired and not just a little concerned just thinking about it.
   What will I do if I don't get it all clean by Dec. 31st? I doubt seriously if anyone else in the whole world will care. Certainly the clean police won't show up and drag me off to some filthy dungeon where I will be forced to scrub peanut butter out of white carpet forever. Did I mention my overactive imagination? Another time then.
    The thing is that I will know the house is not just the way I want it. I will see dirt everywhere and on everything. People will come over and I will practically feel the dirt. They will sit on the edges of their seats to keep from coming in contact with it, or not come over at all. I will go over to other peoples homes and wonder, how on earth are they so clean and I am so dirty? I get wound up tight as a watch, muscles tense, just thinking about it. So what do I do and where do I go from this point?
   I think I will take a prozac, maybe two. Clean the cabinets in the bathroom and do the laundry. I might even get to steaming the living room carpet. Most importantly, I have to remember that no where in the Bible does it say that cleanliness is next to Godliness. As a matter of fact, I am begining to believe that cleanliness is next to impossible.

You have to so you won't get sick too....

Ok. So all day today nothing particularly funny happened. I washed clothes, make cakes, cleaned the bedroom, etc. Everyone else in the house is sick. Hubby is taking breathing treatments with his nebulizer (an air compressor that is really loud and somehow makes it possible for him to inhale liquid and not drown), the daughter is still not sleeping in her room, and the 14 year old is whining like a mule about his ear.

I am getting worried. Between cleaning the house in preperation of the end-of-year deep clean, baking cakes, cookies, and breads for gifts and dealing with 3 sick people: my nerves are frazeled and I'm pooped. But Hubby and daughter have been sick for 5 days and now the son sounds like he's getting an ear infection. These scare me because he spent so long as a small child with them that he had to have speach therapy. So I try to call the Dr. I get the answering service. I try 3 more times that morning with the same results. The Hubby tries once, and gets through.

It turns out they all have the flu and my son has an infection in both ears. One has already ruptured. So they come home. Coughing, sneezin, sniffling, puking and what not like they have for days now. I was informed that I would have to cook dinner. This was not a shocker to me but I was hoping that nobody was hungry and I would get out of it. No luck. So I whine a little.

My son: "Mom, you gotta cook."

Me: "Why?"

Son: "Cause dad shouldn't do it."

Me: I'm curious, "Why not?"

Son: "Cause if he cooks he could spread the flu germs and then you would get it too."

I laugh histerically. He has no idea why I find that comment so funny.