staceybooks

I got home Tuesday night after 9 straight days of travel. Nine days of airport security, hotel pillows that felt like balled-up towels, back-to-back meetings, and enough caffeine to legally qualify as a blood type. I walked in dreaming of peace, candles, maybe a bubble bath if the universe was feeling kind.

The universe was not feeling kind.

Since stepping foot back in the house, it’s been nonstop work. Meetings, phone calls, emails, more meetings. I haven’t even had time to fake productivity. I’ve been in the same pair of leggings since Wednesday. Meanwhile, my two suitcases are still sitting in the middle of the living room like unbothered queens. Untouched. Unopened. Just there, silently judging me. Honestly, I think one of them sighed when I walked past.

Saturday finally rolled around and I thought, this is it. Today I clean, today I conquer. Today I reclaim my home.

Plot twist: the house is winning.

I barely made it into the kitchen before the dirt hit me. Not metaphorically. Literally. There is so much dust and dry dirt in this house, I’m tempted to check if Zoey’s been throwing secret backyard festivals while I was gone. I don’t know how one medium-sized dog managed to track in half the Earth’s crust, but here we are. The floors are coated. The rugs are covered. I stepped into the living room and left footprints like I was exploring a new planet.

And the best part? Nothing’s even wet. Just dry, gritty, crunchy dirt in every room. It’s like the Sahara moved in and brought snacks.

Meanwhile, the dishes are having a family reunion in the sink, and I’m pretty sure the dust bunnies are forming their own government. I would love to blame someone else, but my husband has been busting his tail running his lawn care business. He comes home sore, sunburned, and about two blades of grass away from collapse. So nope, no help there, and I don’t blame him. We’re both drowning. Just in different types of filth.

And my ADHD brain? Let’s just say it’s thriving in the chaos. I walked into the bathroom to grab cleaner, ended up reorganizing the junk drawer, then remembered I never started the laundry, which reminded me I haven’t unpacked, which somehow led to me eating crackers on the couch while watching cleaning hacks I’ll never actually try. I blinked and an hour was gone. Time blindness is real, and I am its favorite victim.

So no, I didn’t deep clean the house. I didn’t even unpack. But I did pick up one dirty sock, stare at it for five minutes, and then walk away to make a sandwich. That counts for something, right?

If your house has turned into a dirt-covered crime scene and your suitcases are just part of the furniture now, don’t worry. You’re not alone. We’re out here surviving one dust bunny at a time.

Who else needs a cleaning fairy, a nap, and maybe just a small miracle?