Why I delude myself into believing organization is around the corner:

I've got a couple of things going for me. #1. I'm going to Ikea tomorrow and #2. I'm pregnant and hopefully nesting. If these two cosmic events can conspire to organize my life, I will be very happy for a short while until normalcy returns and I am again stuck with 1/2 sets of legos, miscellaneous parts to polly pockets, mason jars with grasshoppers inside them, a sticky refrigerator with popsicle juice making the freezer door stick and an insurmountable pile of school/mail/newspapers etc... PAPERS. I don't need these papers. I don't use credit cards. I don't want new windows or a roof or a kitchen remodel. I don't need anything from Pottery Barn. All of the store sales are online. Honestly, the school could just send home the kids papers that need work. I don't mind tissue paper in care packages from anyone. That is a totally acceptable source of paper.
A few months ago, I did a total detail of my car. It was the first in a very long time because Jody has officially surrendered to the chaos of all of our kids and sworn off ever dealing with the gooey, nasty, sometimes even puzzling contents of the van again. He no longer wanders the house with a mini paint roller on the weekends, nor does he insist on measuring before I hang a picture. The garage is a lost cause, as are many other things he has released with the intentional focus of staying sane. He has zeroed in on preserving the truck the children rarely ride in and the motorcycle that is his. Anyway, so somehow I told myself that if I totally cleaned the car it would probably stay pretty nice because the girls are so big now, they probably won't trash it. There is a slowly dawning realization in me that, perhaps the only way I stay sane is by deluding myself in such a way, although I can honestly say my sanity is under scrutiny lately. Today as I was preparing the van for the trip to Ikea, I realized that there were empty yogurt tubes in the floor, crushed up goldfish, whole animal crackers and splashes of chocolate milk here and there on the sides and doors. That's just a brief overview, I am sparing you the gritty details. My complete reluctance to "intentionally parent" is now reaping what has been sown. No longer can I claim my little piglets are just too little... no, this is my own creation. How does such a thing happen, you may ask. Well, I will tell you. It starts with me staring blankly when I come out of a craigslist "furniture hunting or selling" stupor which can last from 5 to even 45 minutes. I might slowly come into focus to realize of course, terrible things have been swirling around me a a dizzying speed. All of the couch cushions are removed, the Wii is going full blast, there's a cluster of cups of half drunk chocolate milk with a half a dozen straws and a handful of spoons, and chocolate milk powder loosely sprinkled around with little puddles of milk dripping down the edge of the table, and of course the milk is still sitting out. This may be small potatoes compared to what they have decided to "cook".
What will I do? I will go to Ikea, idealize my life in that store and then come home, have another baby and continue my life where I left off. When I don't know what to cook, I'll stand in the kitchen eating cherries and repeatedly opening the sticky refrigerator door and all of my other cabinets in quick succession with long pauses in front of the cereal boxes. When I have too many papers, I'll make them into a painting drop cloth for Nick. But for a day... there is Ikea.