Well, here is some next level shit.
Or, some real shit, at least.
I am sitting here in my daughters new room cleaning, organizing and trying to help her have a real chance at growing up not, like, well- me.
To give myself some rarely dished out credit, I will say in advance, that I have gotten a lot better. However, my mental health and finances are nothing like they used to be. To get to the point, I have a lot of trouble throwing things away .. which is actually just a nice way of saying I hoard shit. Craft things, toys, anything a child has scribbled on, things I connect to memories, etc and so forth. I used to be really bad. Oddly enough, a traumatic brain injury, someone stealing everything I owned, being happy and no longer being in constant survival moment has helped me tremendously.
Ok, so back to what was originally the point of this post, I am in here trying to get Indica organized and set up for success in keeping her room functional as well as pleasant to be in. (Ya know, places to put things, picking up things before pulling the next out and other shit I have been teaching myself through adulthood that other people make look easy)
As I sort, toss and fight the urge to save every little plastic piece of shit that has no purpose but to overwhelm and to step on... I find this.
So, instead of staying on task I would like to give a quick shout out to the monsters that have created this little, plastic folded up shirt. I hate you. I recognize that this is irrational and unfair, but I hate you.
Now you see here-
Her clothes are separated by type. (Shirts, skirts, pants, etc) we don't properly fold laundry in this household. She rips it all out to try different things on 9 times a day, anyway.
In the trash this plastic piece of shit goes before she gets any funny ideas about her clothes being properly folded. Ain't got no time for that.
If I go missing, I am in the pit (Indica's room). I am probably under the boxes of homeschooling tools and books that have probably fallen on me, or I am hiding in the laundry. Don't send help, I will come out when I am ready. Or when the baby cries.