My husband is a good man. He puts up with A LOT.  But he and I are opposite in so many ways.

He is a DETAIL MAN.  An everything-has-a-place-man. An if-you-put-things-right-back-where-you-found-them-we-wouldn’t-have-this-problem-kind-of-man. I am NOT. I try. But I am more of a free spirit when it comes to organization, especially when it comes to housework. And, of course, my husband is essentially right. (Albeit in a housework-utopian-society-kind-of-way.) But, try as I might, there is always SOMETHING that comes up to thwart my efforts.

Let’s go on a journey through 10 minutes of the mess and chaos of my life shall we?

Take, for an example, a pair of my running shoes that has not yet made it back into the closet. According to my husband’s logic, I should have been able to take them off my feet and toss them into the closet. Err, I mean, lay them gently into the designated running shoe cubby that he has labeled for me. Yeah.

So here is what happened instead. I took them off of my feet.  At that precise moment, my son yelled dramatically from the other room. I sprint over to him and find that he and his brother are pounding each other over a Light Bright design. I settle the argument and notice hundreds of Light Bright pieces all over the floor. Crap. (Their father WILL NOT be amused by that.) So we make a game of it and pick them up. In the middle of that the phone rings. It is my friend reminding me it is my turn to bring snack to soccer. Double crap. I run down the stairs to see if I even have something that would qualify as a snack. Nope. Put it on the list of things to do. I then notice the laundry is finished. I put a new load in and take the other out and begin folding it. Kids come running downstairs and want a drink. I get them a drink. They spill juice everywhere and I attempt to clean it up and make a mental note to mop after they go to bed. I begin emptying the dish washer because I can’t even put the juice cups away due to the overflowing sink with dirty dishes in it. I am halfway through this task when hubby comes home.

So this is what my husband sees: Kitchen a mess. Sticky floor. Laundry strewn everywhere. Light Bright pieces not picked up. (Because they decided to dump them out again while I wasn’t looking.) And then, of course, he tripped over my shoes. Yeah, THOSE shoes. The ones that should have been put away as soon as I took them off my feet.

And then he says…. “Jen. Why don’t you ever put anything away?”