I am looking at the mountain of snow outside my window here, and thinking that there are about a million other things I could/should be doing right now, but I’d rather write. This blogging thing can get dangerous. I could write/rant/vent/ponder all day long, but then I’d never get anything done (hey, which must mean that I get something done, sometimes) or spend any time with my kids. And the kids need me. Even though the boy child tells me he doesn’t want me here, and the babies writhe and scream when I change their diapers, they all still need me. And Meg, she is 7 going on 25 and acts like she doesn’t need me, but she really does, even if I can’t convince her of that. And the dishes need to be put away, and the laundry folded (LOVE Swistle’s post), and good lord when did I run a vacuum over the living room floor last? And here I am, sitting in my totally chaotic computer room that doubles as a catch-all depository for all the other junk that no one wants to put away, doing nothing. Ahhh, guilt. That is what I am feeling right now~guilt for blogging instead of being a productive, happy homemaker. I am thinking that if I blog enough, maybe I will feel better. But no, it’s not working. I can SEE the kitchen, and all the dishes that didn’t make it into the dishwasher last night, and I can SEE the messy floors. And no, I cannot close a door to hide it, because when we designed this house, I insisted on having a nice archway going from this room to the kitchen. So, it’s truly all my fault. And all I really want is another cup of coffee. And a housekeeper.