I am a procrastinator. There is no sense in denying it. It is who I am through and through.

When I was younger and my mother gave me chores I would always wait until my mom was screaming at me to “stop watching TV and do the dishes!” Of course that is probably pretty normal for kids. There is always something more interesting to do than washing dishes or folding laundry. Heck, I’m an adult with children of my own and I still wait till the last minute to do dishes.

I must confess I am even guilty of spending the day watching TV with my boys, surfing the web, reading and playing around and then I glance up at the clock and see that Running Man man will be home in a half hour. So I hurry into the kitchen and do a load of dishes so that the dish drainer is full and quickly sweep the floor or vacuum so it looks like I was productive.

I am actually guilty of that often.

When I was in school and we had a week to do a project I was always frantically doing it the night before, staying up late and worrying that I wouldn’t get it done. But I always did and usually got a decent grade. Same with tests. I usually studied the night before and sometimes that day in study hall right before the class. I’d usually get a good grade but because I would just cram I didn’t retain much of what I learned and I don’t really remember much of anything now.

Procrastination has always been a viscous cycle and always causes me grief and worry when I wait till the last minute. I always panic and freak out but then I finish it and realize “wow that wasn’t so bad. I wish I would have done it earlier!” But I never do. I could say I never learn but I do, I just don’t put it into practice. I know that if I do things in a timely manor I’d save myself a lot of stress but I just never seem to be able to.

It is my curse.


“Happily” Never Ending

Photo by StockphotoPro Images

Photo by StockphotoPro Images

          Who really loves cleaning? I realize there are some people who like to clean. It gives them a goal, and makes them feel accomplished. There are some people who don’t like to clean but have to have cleanliness so they clean out of obsession and fear. Then there are people like me. I hate it. Not because it’s boring or gross or that I don’t mind mess. It’s that, no matter how much I do, at the end of the day it doesn’t look like I cleaned at all.

If I had to pick one thing I hated doing the most I would have to say DISHES.

What’s that you say? What about a dishwasher? Um, you’re looking at her. (Well not really looking  but you get the point.)

            One of my biggest pet peeves is when I hear or read people’s complaints about washing dishes. About how it never ends and how they just don’t see the point. At first I’m all “preach it sister!” but then I find out they have a dishwasher. EXCUSE ME?  I’m sorry you have to load all those dishes into a machine that washes them for you while you can be off playing with your kids, or doing other house work, or writing the world’s greatest novel. It must suck having to go back an hour later and take out the clean dishes and dry them and put them away. I can’t believe that after dinner at night you can gather up all the dishes, put them in, and have it running while you sleep. Must be tough.

Let me walk you through a day of dishes at my house. (Yes. I said  day.)

            I wake up and get the kids fed. I then add breakfast dishes to last nights dinner dishes. Yes I didn’t do them. Because after the day I had I was ready to snuggle with Running Man (husband) on the couch and zone out watching TV while the kids were in bed.

            I then clean out the sink and fill it with water, soap, and crusty sticky plates. I let them soak for a few minutes. The boys want me too read to them and won’t be quiet until I do. So I sit and read while they soak. Then I pry the boys off me to get back to the kitchen. When I arrive at the sink I see that all my water drained out because I have an old sink and new plugs don’t fit right and if I don’t get it in just the right position it leaks. So I fill the sink again. I manage to get about 4 things washed before my 4 year old comes in and asks for juice. I get him juice and of course I have to get little brother juice too. Once satisfied and happy, the boys leave and I manage to empty the sink.

            But alas, that was only one load. So I drain about half the sink and fill it back up with hot water. In goes the second load. Just as I pick up the first cup I hear a scream and run out to find little brother sitting on big brother’s head. I pry him off and scold him while trying to comfort the other. Once the situation is handled I go back to  washing again. Probably an hour has passed by now and I’m not even done with the second load.

            A little while later the boys need a snack. They take a few minutes to decide what they want and I pour the crackers into the bowls and sit them at the table. Oh yeah they need more juice too. Back now to the sink, I finish the second load. Then I pause for a little break. The dish drainer is too full to put more in. I play with the boys for a bit. Then I go back in and dry the dishes, put them away, and work on the last bit on the counter. I hear another scream and look to see big brother taking little brother’s blanket. I go and break up the fight. As I’m walking back to the kitchen my little one informs me that he did a “ew poo poo”.  So, I change the diaper. I then read another book because they can’t possibly go on with out one more story.

I make it back to the kitchen and start washing again. (The water is cold now so I have to fill the sink again.) I’m not quite done yet when both boys come in. They are hungry. I look at the clock.

Lunch time.

            I make their lunch and feed them and clean up their mess. Now all those dishes are on my freshly cleared counter top. (and some dishes still in the sink). I put the boys down for  nap and quiet time, my oldest doesn’t nap any more, and collapse on the couch with my lunch. Oh look another dish, another fork, another glass. It is now well after 2pm. I go back into the kitchen to finish the dishes before Running Man gets home. I clean the lunch dishes as well as start soaking the pots from last night. Forgot about those. I may have  a pot from a few days ago as well.

            Then Running Man gets home and what does he do first? Goes straight to the kitchen and places his lunch containers on the counter.

            By this time I give up and declare myself done until I need to scrub the pots so I can start cooking dinner to dirty more dishes.

So there you have it. A whole day of dishes. Now, not all days are like this. But this is a pretty common occurrence at my house. I hate the feeling of working and not actually accomplishing anything.

What household chore do you hate doing most?

Daily Prompt from the Daily Post.

Weekly Writing Challenge: Leave Your Shoes at the Door

“Pick a stranger, family member, or friend. Imagine a day in their life. Give us insight. Give us detail. Don’t just tell us about the other perspective, make us forget that you don’t live it every day. How does the homeless man on the street corner see you? What’s on your mother’s mind minutes before you visit? Does your boss like her office chair, or does the squeaking sound drive her crazy, too? Aim for two or three paragraphs.”


My Last Session


I shiver as the liquid goes through my veins. It’s just a flush but it reminds me that I have three more hours to go. The nurse smiles at me slightly as she attaches the first bag to my IV. It’s the same smile every time, no matter which nurse it is. That “I’m sorry but I hope this little smile will help you feel better even though your life sucks right now” smile. I give her a polite one back.


“Just two bags today,” she says sweetly and then walks to the young girl sitting next to me. The girl, who couldn’t be older than twenty-five, giggles at a text she just received. I notice that she is handling the treatments much better than me. Her skin still has a little color and she looks very fit. You might not even know she was sick if not for the blue and pink scarf she wore and the slightly dark circles under her eyes.


I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, listening to the sounds in the room. The quiet pumping of nine IV machines, the soft patter of the rubber soled shoes of the four nurses on staff today. I like all of them today. The mean one seems to have the day off. It’s a nice reprieve to have friendly faces. Why she chose to work in this field if she can’t be gentle and nice is beyond me. I think there is nothing worse than someone treating a cancer patient while donning a cranky attitude. I shift in my seat and reach for my sweater. The man on the other side of me coughs and asks the nurse for a bag. The smell of fresh vomit fills the air. I turn and hold my breath as to be polite. The young girl to my left crinkles her nose but continues to text as if nothing is happening.


I close my eyes again and try to think of something else. My Grandson just turned two this week. The look on his face as he blew out his candles was priceless. I try to recall his giggle of excitement as the fire went out. I want to engrave that into my memories. The beeping of my IV interrupts my thoughts. The nurse comes over right away to put on my last bag of medicine for the day. Once it’s on and dripping I decide to call my daughter, hoping that I am not interrupting something. When she answers I let her know that I will be done at three so she can give me a ride home.


“I love you,” I say. I put the phone back in my purse. I hate that I feel like such a burden to my family. I hate that they have to stop what they are doing to take care of me, take me to my appointments, and even drive me to the grocery store. At only fifty-two years old I never thought I would have to depend on others so early on in life. Today is my last treatment. I am so looking forward to the day that I can drive myself somewhere and watch my grandchildren again. I glance over at my IV. The bag is almost empty. I reach over for my purse and gather up my things. When the nurse arrives at my side I am all ready to leave. She gives me that smile again and unhooks me. She hands me my prescriptions for the week and I get my self up and head to the waiting room.


I  just reach the door when I see my daughter’s car pull up. I walk out and open the car door. She turns down the loud music and moves her purse off the passenger seat.


“How are you feeling?” There’s that question again. I realize that people ask that because they really want to know but when you hear it several times a day for over three months you get kind of sick of getting asked.

“I’m ok. Just tired,” I say trying not to sound too shaky. As we drive off she tells me of the funny and ridiculous things her children have done today. I laugh as I try to picture them in my head.


“Thank you,” I say as she walks me inside the house.


“You’re welcome. I love you mom.”



(This is my first response to a writing prompt from The Daily Post. Weekly Writing Challenge: Leave Your Shoes at the Door.)