it is the broken door to the dryer when you decide it would be labor-saving to send your daughter down to get the socks from the dryer herself.
it is the bag of frozen peas which collapses on itself and sends its contents on the kitchen floor not once, but twice.
it is the pair of used skates, purchased for 2.99 at the thrift shop 3 years ago, that had finally come into good use, only to be purloined by someone at public skating hour, while you were trying to find 25 ways to stay busy during february 'vacation.'
it is every book your daughter owns, deposited on a sum total of every square inch of your living space, every day.
it is what makes you say, 'sure,' when five minutes into the electrician's visit your kids ask you if they can do 'an experiment,' and when you brain checks in to what you actually agreed to, you find them behind the closed bathroom door with a mysterious concoction of desitin and fish tank chemicals.
it is the lost ski glove in Target, for god's sake, the cleanest store in the world, that is not in any aisle you traversed, nor in in the lost and found, even though you know you just lost it.
it is the only word you can use to describe the aftermath of two kids, one room, a closed door. and a bottle of baby powder.
it is the computer that f***s with you when you try to synthesize the thoughts that have been rattling about in your brain for the last week.
