It's been a week since the boys and I have travelled to Anchorage. They're pretty excited to be here - they've played with their cousins almost everyday and Balin has formed a special attachment to Molly.
"I love you!" he exclaims, wrapping his arms around her. She smiles begrudgingly and gives him a hug, too. (Arthur has shown no such affection for Ella, however.)
Robinson asked me if I was enjoying myself - really, truly, honestly enjoying myself.
I am. I've seen a lot of my sisters. We've worked out together. We've gotten together for dinners. That's been great. My one gripe, naturally, is about my parent's house.
In some ways it has gotten better. There's no longer a path of books leading up the stairs and you can actually sit down at the kitchen table and eat. There is still space for the kids to play downstairs, thought it has become noticeably smaller.
For those of you who don't know, I come from a long line of hoarders. My parents absolutely are hoarders, with the inability to give anything away. In fact, nothing ever leave the house, it merely gets shifted around and around.
There isn't enough room for entertaining people. There isn't enough room for me and the boys and their cousin Josh to sleep comfortably.
My sisters and I have resorted to many covert tactics over the years just to get stuff out of the house...but, somehow there's always more stuff. My mom insists it is my dad's problem because of his stamps and books. We know it is also my mom's problem because there are empty bedrooms filled with her stuff. It makes me angry. And sad. Mostly because I can't do anything about it right now.
Enough about that. I am having a good time, despite the mess in the house.
How about you, dear reader? Do your parents drive you crazy? Are they also hoarders? Hang in there.
Blessed be.
