Some Kind of Wonderland

In my kitchen sits a pot.

There’s nothing fantastic about this pot, unless you count its size and presence in my house, period. It’s clean, thanks to a visitor washing it after she and her husband graciously made us cheesy, garlic mashed potatoes. Sunday.

It takes up space on the tiny counter in front of the bread box, where there are also wedding RSVP cards I’ve not filled out, pens that don’t work, bread crumbs I’ve not swept away with my hand, coupons past their expiration dates and junk mail that’s not found its way into our recycling bin.

Every day this week, Dave and I have walked by that clean pot dozens of times. The problem is, that pot might never get put away. We’ll be moving out of this house (whenever), and the only logical step will be to stuff it with the pile of junk mail and move it to the truck.

Because, here’s the thing: When we’re in the kitchen, we’re running past that pot to make a bottle at the sink while she’s red-faced and screaming against our shoulders. We’re heating up leftovers from last weekend because she finally nodded off. We’re sprinting to the phone to catch it before its next ring, and meanwhile cursing the intrusion — “I SWEAR if that phone wakes her up I will rip it from the wall and BURN IT.”

I asked Dave to put it away when he had a second. But I know when I come home from work tomorrow, it’ll still be there.

No new parents — even those of us who USED to be neat freaks and busy bodies — have that second.

If you’ve not been in this baby-centric position, you’re saying “It’s a damn pot. Turn around, put it away. In the time you’ve spent blogging about it, you could’ve boiled more water, mashed some potatoes, washed it and put it away.”

Right. But blogging’s quiet. Pots clanging is not. And she’s napping. FINALLY. So, there’s that. I defend my newfound laziness.