Irritated and Immobile

Looking like Walter's Mall (but less organized or interesting), and apparently powered by the high-pitched whir and whine of a thousand provoke-ed pre-schoolers, Joyce's Happy Home Family Daycare provided a flimsey facade for the irritated and immobile haus frau within. Her eyes wandered from Ken and Barbie partially clad and awkwardly twisted beneath the $25.00 davenport (plus shipping) to the naked-shorn pup munching contraband baby num nums beneath the crusty highchair. Partially painted and filthy furniture reeked of nutella sandwhiches and a thousand runny noses. Green painting tape held together the remote control too often thrown by an innocent looking lad of just 14 wee months. (What a future in that arm!) A potted plant waited wiltingly in the kitchen sink, competing for space with bowls of Dora the Explora soup, petrified oatmeal, and too many coffee cups for just one operater of the grounds. The bedrooms spilled into one another, laundry upon laundry multiplying itself like so many rabbits. Lego beings, beanie babies, and playmobil pirates all seemed to have excelled in the procreation portion of their adolescent educations.

And so she sat in their midst. Dusty herself. Old pinkie tried to keep her company, perched apologetically on the kitchen counter, competing with training panties, cheap teething biscuits, a misplaced threaded needle, girl-gets-hit-by-car paperwork to be dealt with, and a Mastercard bill so cluttered with numbers, it was most certainly wrongly addressed.

And as though perfectly in tune with their surroundings, the wee ones began early on to bicker, provoke, irritate, and prod one another mercilessly.

"What must I do to be sane?!" she lamented to absolutely nobody.

Then it came to her. There must be some sort of horrible mistake at the Bernina Hospital. They had misplaced her number, and were waiting for her to make an inquiry. With the return of Old Faithful, everything would be set to rights. Balance would return. The day's hours would multiply themselves, her creative juices would bring joy and exhuberence back to her life, and all that nasty cleaning up, organizing, wiping, washing, vacuuming, folding, sorting and other sundry horrers would take care of themselves in her wild enthusiasm for space to spread her fabulous fabrics, scissors, and ideas.

Bolstered by her revelation, she approached her old nemesis- the telephone.

Hello? Yes? the bernina?

NOOOOO!!!
Not three weeks!!
NOT REALLY!!

And with her only hopes dashed,
Everything old became old (and dusty) again.