Resurrection

Why did Jesus fold the linen burial cloth after His resurrection? The Gospel of John (20:7) tells us that the napkin, which was placed over the face of Jesus, was not just thrown aside like the grave clothes. The Bible takes an entire verse to tell us that the napkin was neatly folded, and was placed separate from the grave clothes.
Early Sunday morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and found that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance. She ran and found Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved. She said, 'They have taken the Lord's body out of the tomb, and I don't know where they have put him!' Peter and the other disciple ran to the tomb to see. The other disciple outran Peter and got there first. He stooped and looked in and saw the linen cloth lying there, but he didn't go in.
Then Simon Peter arrived and went inside. He also noticed the linen wrappings lying there, while the cloth that had covered Jesus' head was folded up and lying to the side.
Was that important? Absolutely!
Is it really significant? Yes!
In order to understand the significance of the folded napkin, you have to understand a little bit about Hebrew tradition of that day. The folded napkin had to do with the Master and Servant, and every Jewish boy knew this tradition.
When the servant set the dinner table for the master, he made sure that it was exactly the way the master wanted it.
The table was furnished perfectly, and then the servant would wait, just out of sight, until the master had finished eating, and the servant would not dare touch that table, until the master was finished. Now, if the master were done eating, he would rise from the table, wipe his fingers, his mouth, and clean his beard, and would wad up that napkin and toss it onto the table.
The servant would then know to clear the table. For in those days, the wadded napkin meant, 'I'm done'.
But if the master got up from the table, and folded his napkin, and laid it beside his plate, the servant would not dare touch the table,
because........... The folded napkin meant,
'I'm coming back!'

Living Water

It seems to me that whenever I think I've got a handle on things, I'm reminded of my own brokenness. My need for forgiveness. My need to learn how to seek reconciliation from others.

I've had some incredible Institute and Seminary teachers in my lifetime. There was one named Brother Richardson who, in every single class, without fail, would say "if I could get a tattoo, it would be 2 Nephi 11:4:"

Behold, my soul delighteth in proving unto my people

the truth of the coming of Christ; for, for this end hath the law of Moses

been given; and all things which have been given of God from the

beginning of the world, unto man, are the typifying of him.

I'm pretty sure that Brother Richardson hasn't ever and isn't ever going to get the tattoo. But the core message is that it is absolutely essential that we remember - all the time - and that a tattoo would potentially help him remember - that everything around us, all of creation, the ebb and flow of our lives, testifies of Christ, typifies Him and His expansive power, and reminds us of who we are to become. The world around me, the sunrise and the sunset, the dependence I have on the air I breathe and the water that comes out of my tap - serves to remind me of who I am to become.

I'm a constantly thirsty, dying, 99% parched Algerian trying to make my way across the Sahara until I remember that God is offering water and the cup is within my reach. The words of Christ and living prophets are the cool glass of water that save my suffering soul. 

God answers my thirst again and again. There are multiple springs of living water. One such spring is the pulpit in the Conference Center in Salt Lake City. A fountain of water that becomes a stream flowing through the rooftop garden even emerges directly above that pulpit because the words spoken there are so literally a fountain of living water.

I am broken. So broken. But my only hope is to keep drinking of the living water and to stop hiding inside the brokenness.

The Lord warned Israel, "For my people have committed two evils; they have forsaken me the fountain of living waters, and hewed them out cisterns, broken cisterns, that can hold no water"(Jeremiah 2:13).

If I forget Jesus Christ, then all I'm doing is carrying around broken pottery that the water has already leaked out of, pretending that I'm not thirsty.

Instead, I want to find true relief in His invitation:

"If any man thirst, let him come unto me, and drink." (John 7:37)

This week, I'm going to think of Brother Richardson, and I'm going to turn in my broken pottery for the Fountain that heals all wounds.

Fallout

It's been a dark few weeks. I've been sick - with a flu, then a cold, then another flu, and another cold. My throat has been sore for a few weeks. My chronic headaches remain and they're unrelated, but add that to illness, an incredibly sore throat, kids that are sick, miserable weather, and a broken tailbone, and it's just too much.

In trying to sift through the stress to find a cause to the headaches, I've had to revisit the dark places of the last two years, the dark that's been squeezing my heart. 

I was so sick when I was pregnant. I was able to escape having a picc line thanks to taking Zofran every day, a chemo drug, but before I had that I was throwing up 30 times a day and I lost ten pounds in one week the week the vomiting started. Even now I'm embarrassed to say what my house looked and smelled like when I was pregnant with Charlotte because I was so insanely sick. I've spent two years crying my eyes out - first for a pregnancy that tried to kill me, then for a stillborn baby, then another horrendous pregnancy - and the realization that I have ONE FRIEND. I had no husband then, just some angry dude that lived here in the evening and on weekends. He should have come home at lunch to care for Rachel and Andrew - if not me, then them. He didn't. I had no husband. No parents. No siblings. No church. No neighbors. 

I had Zofran. I had Netflix. And I had pretending. I pretended. I made myself look better than I was. My oldest was no help and it was best when he wasn't even at home. He spent the entire summer that I was pregnant on the computer.

I was only able to shower once every six weeks when I finally willed my broken body into the water. My kids were only bathed once a month. Andrew never had clothing on, he was naked except for a dirty diaper all day with snot streaming down his face and he had full run of the house. By God's grace he's come out of it seemingly unscathed and content to play on his own. 

The lowest point of all happened at the end of April 2015, a huge fight between Trevor and me culminated with me curled up in the fetal position on my bathroom floor sobbing, pleading with Trevor to help me, begging for him to see that I was too sick to do anything more than what I was already doing. He left with Grant, telling me that he wished he had never asked me to marry him. Through my tears I took Rachel and Andrew and stayed in a hotel that night, where if I didn't have the presence of mind to not leave them motherless I would have taken mine and my unborn baby's lives. That baby, my little Charley, passed away about a week later, although I wouldn't know until more than a month after that. 

It started exactly two years ago. The fallout continues. Things are a million times better with Trevor. My house is cluttered but it's a normal sort of messy now, the kind you expect with four young children. But there's the emotional picking up the pieces bits - PTSD talk is common on the HG forums. The total abandonment I felt was real. There's always a million things I think I maybe could have done differently but at the time I didn't feel like there was anyone I could ask for help. Even the words couldn't form in my mind.

The biggest fallout now seems to be catching up on missed dental work for the kids and me. I've caught up on getting them clothes that fit (I think) but they've all got cavities. 

I've reached the point where I can look back and acknowledge the dark, scream out the injustices that I never asked for. Maybe even face them long and hard enough that the headaches will stop.

But if you see me crying at the dentist, or I say my barely four year old has a hundred cavities, now you'll know why.

On Cleaning

Girls, let's get real.

This is not going to happen. (If it works for you, you're awesome and had better parents than me, because everything really comes back to parenting):

I love her colors, it looked great on my fridge, and her calendar is really thoughtful and includes a lot of areas.

It's just not going to happen. Consider this post an anti-cleaning post. Dusting every single week is just madness to me. I will dust when my display shelves are looking dusty.

I am embracing a new philosophy - one that I have been waiting for someone else to put into words for me.

"It is time to discard the marketing message that has been programmed into us since the days of the 1950s stay-at-home housewife. Back then, advertising for cleaning products became so prevalent that the cheap dramas that stitched together the advertisements were called “Soap Operas”. To complete the circle, the grocery stores started stocking magazines about the soap operas and related celebrities, to sell to the people who were there buying the soap.

It is also time to open up a watchful eye against the “germophobe” compulsion that creeps into highly sterilized societies like our own. You do not need to wipe the handle of your grocery cart with a “sanitizing wipe”, and you do need to pick up your food if you accidentally drop it on the floor, and continue to eat it. Instead of being afraid of germs, I like to imagine myself gleefully plowing through a sea of them every day, getting a daily workout for my immune system."

Our family's "new" (really, what we've always done) cleaning schedule is basically this:

1. Get the dishes done every day - table cleared, dishwasher emptied, loaded, and run.

2. Wipe the counters every day... maybe. 

3. Sweep the floor when there's food all over it.

4. Clean the bathrooms when they look dirty (AND company is coming over).

5. Tidy, declutter, organize as needed. (More on my organization methods coming soon).

6. Vacuum when the carpets have stuff on them. (I'm actually trying to up this to multiple times per week because they are always dirty).

7. Clean everything else as needed, including laundry - this usually gives me a good week or more off laundry if I do a whole bunch of loads all at once.

Read the whole post by my favorite financial advisor, Mr. Money Mustache, for some fantastic explanations.

The Real Deal on Wearing Pants to Church

Last Sunday was the "Second Annual" Wear Pants to Church Day in my church. Although, this time, they claim, is no longer a campaign to ordain women to the priesthood. They are campaigning for "inclusion". This year, their website states:

This event is not about being critical of the LDS Church or changing Church policy. We want to emphasize that there is more than one way to be a good Mormon woman and encourage changes in Mormon culture to support that idea.

Certainly that idea is valid. I'm glad they have shifted from a defensive, critical stance of Church policy. My heart aches and I feel personally insulted when women claim that they ought to be ordained to the priesthood. To me, it implies that what I already am - a woman - and what I am already doing - living my life in the best way I know how - is not enough. I believe that each of us, man or woman, transsexual, heterosexual, homosexual, or otherwise, black or white, tall or short, educated or uneducated, married or single - are enough. My body is enough. Your body is enough.

There is a lady in my ward who wears pants every week - not because she is trying to make a statement, but because she doesn't like her legs. She doesn't need more women to wear pants. She needs to love her body just the way it is. That is the message she needs to hear.

To say that I need something added to me - or that this sister needs something added to her - a priesthood ordination and the invitation to serve in priesthood callings - distracts from the power I already possess within me as a daughter of God.

To follow this logic down the road, we should all start wearing casual clothing to church - JUST IN CASE someone shows up wearing casual clothing. This is ludicrous!

As I have studied this topic, I have come to see - assisted most especially by this recent statement from the Church on blacks and the priesthood - that there may be no doctrinal reason that women cannot be ordained to the priesthood. As the Church reflects and integrates into the culture in which it is established, to an extent, this is simply the way the Church is being operated right now. (Not that I want to add priesthood responsibilities unto what I'm already doing! Am I crazy?!) My worth and potential does not depend on that ordination. (We're already awesome, girls).

Absolutely I agree that there is more than one way to "be a good Mormon woman." What I fail to see is how this is related to wearing pants, or why this even needs to be stated. To me, our Church leaders are already emphasizing this fact. Over and over, I hear praise, love, and encouragement to continue on with what we are already doing coming from the leading bodies of the Church.

Wherever you are, whatever you are wearing, whatever language you are hearing, you [women] are part of a powerful force of joy, peace, and goodness. We are here to rejoice together. . . . Rejoice in the diversity of our sisterhood! It is the diversity of colors in a spectrum that makes a rainbow. It is the diversity in our circumstances that gives us compassionate hearts. (Chieko Okazaki, First Counselor in the Relief Society General Presidency, 1993)

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm living in a Utopia that most of the Church doesn't enjoy. In my ward, in my city, I see inclusion. But maybe that's because I "fit in". I live the traditional role of wife, (mostly) stay-at-home mom, driving the preschool carpool and watching my kids at soccer and ballet. Go ahead and write me off as someone who has no idea what it means to be excluded. But consider this: I am the only Mormon in my family. I literally grew up as a redheaded stepchild with freckles, glasses, braces, and the knobbiest elbows and knees you'll ever see. I was bullied at school and at home. I didn't join the Church until I was 16, and even then didn't have any close friends in high school. If anyone knows about exclusion, I might.

My point is this: instead of wearing purple to show off how great you are at including others, instead of wearing pants to purposely stand out as the minority in your meetings, and instead of bragging that you're a feminist and saying that I'm not, let's get out there and be the people that Jesus Christ wants us to be.

Let's all take a break from arguing on the internet about what it means to be a Mormon woman and start embracing the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Don't ask what you can do for someone else - just do it. Give of yourself. Be a truer friend. It doesn't matter what we wear. What matters is that Jesus Christ understands the desires of our hearts, understands our unique challenges and struggles, and that when we see someone who doesn't look the same as us, who is wearing something different, someone we don't understand, that we lay our differences aside and embrace them as children of God. Let's quit focusing on what we are wearing - and start loving those around us! This is what Jesus did. Yes, he crossed cultural lines, but that was secondary to his cause. His number one cause was to love those around Him and heal up their hearts. We, as women, have the power to do this.

I stand firmly with Sister Valerie Hudson Cassler when I say that the Mormon Church - just the way it is, in all its imperfect people and traditional gender roles and cultural abnormalities - is the greatest force for women on the earth today.

In all our seeking for equality, let us not overlook the fact that we already have it.

Andrew's Birth Story

I haven't posted since November.

Because nothing's been happening, and because I've been just barely surviving being pregnant. My lovely chore chart that I posted in my last blurb was not the sort of thing that I could successfully start while pregnant - I have yet to complete a full week of following it. My excuses are as follows: I was extremely sick with the flu, which on top of being pregnant meant me lying in bed all day, then Christmas happened. By the time I recovered from that, I hit my third trimester and all that was good in life went out the window. I was beyond tired - which is one of the reasons I was so very eager to get this pregnancy over with and meet my new little baby!

I also haven't blogged because, frankly, there's a lot of days I'm trying to just forget. I've been depressed off and on, and the kids and I have done nothing but lie on the couch watching movies for many, many days in a row. I've been grumpy, irritable, crying, etc. (Much better now that the pregnancy is over!).

(However, I need to get back on the wagon with house cleaning. Trevor has been going above and beyond my entire pregnancy, and now that I'm feeling mostly back to normal, he deserves a bit of a break!)

On to the birth story.

On Thursday morning, March 14th, I went to my 39 week doctor's appointment. She told me I was about 2-3 cm and that she "wouldn't be surprised" to see me in the hospital that weekend. I tried not to get my hopes up.

That afternoon I had false labor contractions from 1:30pm until around midnight when I fell asleep. I've never had false labor before. I thought I'd be going into the hospital in the morning, early, like the other two. Nope. I woke up in the morning feeling no contractions and sent Trevor off to work as normal.

That evening, March 15th, we all trotted off to the Home and Garden Show - we all love the shows around here, we knew the kids would love the machines they could climb on like last year, and despite my pelvic pain - I wanted to walk that baby OUT!

Well, I guess it worked, because the next morning at 3am, my water broke all on its own as I was lying in bed. This was a huge surprise for me because my doctor has done it for both of my other babies - and after two babies, it's tempting to think that the third will be the same, as if I have some kind of formula figured out. I banked on this illusion way too much. This baby has a completely different story than the one I expected.

Trevor stripped the bed while I changed. I was feeling some small contractions, but nothing regular or serious. I was distracted by the fact that we had promised Grant we'd take him to a free event we were invited to at the Movie Mill - we'd told him the night before that if he stayed in his bed at bedtime, he would get to go, and there is no way I was going to break that promise.

I called the hospital and they said to come in (as always). I decided to wait just a little bit. I tried to get back to sleep, but eventually got up. I packed a bag of clothes for the kids, played on my phone, and ate a bagel. Then left for the hospital at 5:30am, leaving Trevor and the kids to sleep. I foolishly thought the hospital might send me home anyway since I wasn't having contractions, but I truthfully had no idea what to expect since my membranes had never ruptured on their own before (hospital wants you to stay once that is the case). Next time I'll stay at home a LOT longer if I'm not having contractions.

Once I got to the hospital, I was on the monitor for the 20 minutes, and the nurse said my contractions were 4 minutes apart (very mild ones that I barely felt!). They moved me to a delivery room. I took that as a great sign and told my photographer, Liz Cranmer, from whom I won a fabulous birth story session (here's her site), to come down from Calgary.

Then I waited.

And waited.

Liz came. We chatted. I felt mild contractions here and there.

My doctor came at 8am and said the longest we could wait before starting Pitocin would be at 5pm. (Yikes!) She promised to come back at noon.

We waited.

Trevor took the kids to the movie at 10am, then over to a friend's house.

My doctor came back at 11:30am and I agreed to start the Pitocin. I told them that I would definitely want the epidural if I needed to have the Pitocin, and we agreed to get the contractions started before (probably) slowing them down with an epidural. I remember at 12:10pm I ate lunch and said I'd wait another 10 or 20 minutes before getting the epidural.

The Pitocin started working right away. It felt like a regular labor, with contractions gradually increasing. They upped the Pitocin every 30 minutes, and things got moving very quickly.

I had back labor again. For the third time.

Trevor finally arrived. He was only there for a few minutes, because he had forgotten my mirror at home, which I absolutely wanted. Non-negotiable. He helped me through about two contractions and then I sent him home to get the mirror.

Thank goodness for Liz. She became my doula as well as my photographer. She was and is absolutely amazing.

I wanted the epidural. But the anaesthesiologist was called into a joint surgery.

I tried the birthing ball instead. They were able to put portable monitors on my belly to facilitate it. The ball felt nice to sit on, and I was able to grip one of the big bed handles at the end of the bed and maintain my breathing through the contractions. I stayed on it for a while. Contractions intensified a great deal.

At one point while on the ball, I reached my end. I whimpered to the nurse, "Can you give me a little bit of morphine?" Something I never thought I'd say. I was desperate. She said she'd have to check me before administering it, so I got off the ball and back on the bed. As I was doing this, someone told her the anaesthesiologist was on his way.

Trevor finally got back again at this point (finally!). I had him start more or less hugging me during contractions while I squeezed his hand and put my other arm around his shoulder. By this time, contractions were very intense. The anaesthesiologist came in and said "I've read your birth plan, are you sure you want the epidural?" I said yes. Someone checked me and said I was 5 cm. (Whether it was my nurse, Dorothy, or another, Kassidy, I'm not sure - Dorothy went on her break about this time and Kassidy was covering).

The anaesthesiologist started his little spiel and got me positioned sitting up near the head of the bed. They've got to ask the questions like "Have you had any reaction to anaesthetic before" and I answered between contractions. He marked my back with his pen. I heard him say "I'm going to wash my hands, and then I'll wash your back three times" and at that moment, I knew it was all over. I could feel the head bearing down. Coming.

I said to Kassidy, "Can you please check me?" and she said "You feel like you have to push?" I responded "Yes" and as I was saying it, my body told me to push. I lay back, my head crammed up into the corner of the headboard since I was already sitting so close to the head of the bed. I pushed. Nurses rushed in. The anaesthesiologist, whom I wanted to drown, stab, and set on fire for taking so long that he didn't even get my back washed, just stood there and watched the whole thing.

I was able to gasp out "Mirror!" to Trevor, but as soon as he held it up for me, another nurse shoved him out of the way and told him to get it out of there. Three quick pushes later and the head was out - I felt everything - the entire descent through the birthing canal. My mind said to me 'This is too much pain, too much' - and my body said 'you have to go through this pain in order for it to end." So I did it.

One more half push for the body and he was out. My doctor, Dr. Watke, only made it in time because she happened to be checking on someone next door. He was born at 2:53pm.

He took a couple of breaths on his own and Dr. Watke thought he looked okay, so she put him on my stomach (she was amazing - remembered every request I had written in my birth plan!). But as soon as she did so, he stopped responding and they had to take him over to the warmer and give him oxygen. Once he pinked up again, they showed him to me quickly all wrapped up, then whisked him off to the NICU for observation.

Trevor and Liz went with him.

I was having problems of my own - the placenta wasn't delivering and I was losing a lot of blood. It had come quickly with my other two, but this time I felt no urge to push and couldn't even tell if I was pushing at all when I tried. Dr. Watke was able to pull it out after what seemed like a long time. Then the bleeding started - I hemorrhaged and kept passing clot after clot. So they left the Pitocin IV in my arm as well as a suppository. Dr. Watke gave me 3 or 4 stitches and I had to lay flat in the bed for three hours until they felt it was safe for me to get up.

Trevor popped in and out a couple of times from the NICU, but wanted to stay with the baby and hold him until I was able to. He took some photos on my phone to show me, and both Trevor and I were heartbroken that I couldn't spent those first few hours with him. He was hungry and rooting around like crazy, so I allowed them to give him a soother - something else I had specifically banned on my birth plan.

I was able to eat dinner in the delivery room, have a quick rinse in the shower, and then finally go to the NICU at 6pm, where baby was eager to snuggle skin to skin and nurse. Then, he was able to go with me to the mat/child ward as his vitals stayed stable during nursing.

I felt like the lady on What to Expect When You're Expecting (the movie), who laments "But I have a birth plan! And it's typed!" However, I am very grateful that I didn't need to have a c-section, and, while I would have preferred to have an epidural, I do think that unmedicated birth is best.

At the end of the day, I am of course thrilled to have my baby here, and we are both healthy! I had a rough recovery since I lost so much blood - lots of dizziness which isn't completely gone (orthostatic hypotension) - but this weekend Trevor fed me a couple of steaks and Sunday I started feeling much better. My back has also been very sore, and I had Dr. Stewart prescribe me some T3s.

Our sweet baby boy has done very well nursing in spite of getting off to a rough start, and has been interested in it from the beginning. He doesn't have any jaundice and doesn't cry very often. My only complain is that this newborn stage, my favorite time, doesn't last nearly long enough. Welcome to our family sweetie!

Andrew William Curtis

March 16, 2013

2:53pm

6 lbs., 7oz.

19.75 inches

P.S. I really, really wanted to name Grant Andrew - a name I have loved since I was 13 or maybe even younger - so, four years and much begging later, Trevor finally gave in and we named our son Andrew.

Chore Chart

Yes, I'm 26 years old, and I need a chore chart. Here it is.

I took a four week chart I found on pinterest and re-made it to work for me. I also printed off new ones for the kids since I SO want to be consistent with their chores. Grant is supposed to make his bed, clean up his toys, practice his music, and get a hug and kiss every day, while Rachel is supposed to make her bed, clean up her toys, and get a hug and kiss. It's really hard for me to be consistent; there's so many things I'm trying to accomplish with them. So here I am trying again!!!

One major thing you might notice is that I didn't include laundry on my chart. I basically do our laundry on an as-needed basis - if I notice we're running low on one thing, I'll throw the load in. The kids have tons of clothes, plus Grant has plenty of accidents still that force me to do his even when he still has plenty of clean clothes, so they don't seem to run out. Everything else, I check every few days - socks (lately I've been waiting and doing one big sock load of mine and Trevor's, mostly his), whites, towels, darks, jeans. The only thing I sometimes get behind on is towels, which includes dish towels for the kitchen and is the place we notice if I get behind. But I consider myself very efficient and on top of things when it comes to laundry, therefore it doesn't need to be on the chore chart - except bedding!

One of these charts I made a few years ago was a day by day exhaustive list of nearly everything that needs to be done in a day - empty the dishwasher, load the dishwasher, make the beds, laundry (split up into loads to be done on certain days) - but that was just ridiculous and didn't work for me. Some people do certain loads of laundry on certain days - one blog I read had a mom doing each person in the family's laundry on one specific day of the week, which really appeals to me, but not quite the right fit for now. Maybe someday. 

My chart also needs a bit more tweaking. I need to include cleaning the front door, cleaning the inside of the van, front and back entrances, scrub the kitchen table, wiping the walls, etc. There's also those less-than-once-a-month jobs - cleaning out the entire fridge, draining the hot water tank, cleaning the oven, backing up computer files onto the portable hard drive... and let's not even mention the outdoor chores that will be back in the spring - and the new rooms to clean once the basement is finished.

When we moved into our new house, Trevor and I challenged ourselves - knowing that what we were asking is impossible - to keep our house clean like the temple. It never is - we know it never will be - but we are going to keep trying, and that way it will maybe look mostly clean, some of the time.

Trevor also suggested that maybe my incentive for keeping up with my chore chart could be a night away from the kids while he watches them, which sounds fantastic to me. That's definitely something that could motivate me. We haven't set any details or discussed it at all further than his mention of it...

I strongly believe that getting my kids involved helps to build their self-esteem. They start to understand what it means to be a contributing member of the family, and it makes them feel good inside. 

I am learning, slowly, to be patient with myself, rather than punish myself emotionally with negative self-talk, to keep trying again the next day. I rarely keep this schedule. Things will get pushed a few days back. With three of us using three bathrooms, they don't really get that dirty, so sometimes it's just a "check kids' bathroom" instead of really cleaning it; I'll just give the toilet bowl a scrub.

I couldn't do any of this without Trevor's help. He is always cleaning. His big thing is the floors - he's a self-admitted floor obsessor. He doesn't want them wrecked and he tries really, really hard to keep them clean. He usually does the front and back entrances all on his own, as well as the hardwood, and if the carpets are getting bad he always grabs the vacuum himself. He's awesome.

My challenge is trying to enjoy the kids - appreciate how little they are - in spite of their messes!

Good luck to everyone out there who is trying to have a cleaner home :) I believe it CAN be done.

Although some days - this graphic is accurate.

I think it's because Trevor helps so much that I can usually pick all three. 

I'm off to fold laundry.