Kenzie and I have had free run of the house now for about a week, while Mom digs out from under an avalanche of homework. Never mind the dishwasher overflowing with dirty coffee mugs, or the dining room floor buried under a mountain of unfolded laundry. And I'd advise you to avoid the bathroom unless you have a strong stomach. You've heard of drain clogs? Mom's got the equivalent of a small badger crammed down the sink.
It's not her fault, she'll tell you. How's she supposed to keep up with housework while attempting to decipher thirty pages of 9-point single spaced roughly translated French transgenre prose poetry? Who can expect her to worry about poop patrol when faced with diagramming two chapters of linguistic symbolism? There's only so much one human can do, she protests, as she sobs a little and shuffles to the bathroom, still in her ratty PJs.
Kenzie and I have bravely soldiered on. We appreciate that Mom's too distracted to care about a slight slippage in our litter habits. That pile of Orchard Grass in the living room? Looks just fine from where we're sitting. And it will take Mom at least another week to notice the missing foot on her favorite doll. We figure we're safe at least until the end of the semester. Go Mom go!
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