It's kind of a boring story

National Child's Day is tomorrow.

 Oh, how I hate housecleaning. I used to be better at this when I was younger. Although, I grew up with a mother who only wanted to clean the house before we went away, in case the robbers dropped in and wouldn't think the worst of us. This also meant putting everything in a room we used the least (I know, I really lack organization skills)

Part of the problem is people give me things. It's like, I'm afraid they will show up and ask for it back. I have all these quilt fabrics that I am sure my friend spent a fortune on but didn't like any of them. So yeah, that is in the bottom of my closet. And the clothes my mother thought I should be wearing that I never wore. Naturally, I find that clothes I put away and find again are like a Christmas I don't have to pay for, other than holding on to them. But you never know, there's that coat I've been looking for. Add in the mild winters we are having I feel I will not be ready for the harsh ones when they come again.

Another problem...there will come a day when all those gifts you gave a relative of you and the kids will come back to you. And what can you do with all those precious framed pictures?  Yes, the boom-a-rang of Swedish Death Cleaning.

My biggest problem however is me. I am a great procrastinator. I shared a story recently with a co-worker about what happened the year they sent me to Special Ed. She told me no wonder I have so much trauma in my life. Of course, I went to a very rural school in Texas at the time and they weren't ready for such a case, either.

It all started when I ran away from the guy who was testing me. Of course, no one mentioned that day I would be sitting in an interview with all these questions. Finally, when I did get to go to the bathroom I made my exit and hid in a rather crowded room out in a building that was for the school storage. 

Anyway, as luck would have it I was expelled from Music and had a special teacher who really did nothing. So I wrote a lot even back then and I stashed all the packets of work I could be doing in my locker. (Sorry, I'm taking forever to get to the crux of the story). While on holiday vacation, my grandmother who taught math and science got me back on track. And she wanted me tested again and out of the Special Ed program because she knew I wasting away there. 

Naturally, I had to clean out my locker in that cold gray room. As soon as I started pulling paper out to throw away, mice shot out everywhere. I still hate the thought of that scene. Perhaps, that's why I don't want to deal with those piles.