You see, tomorrow is my dear beloved husband’s birthday. I’ve been struggling with what to get him for some time now, seeing as we’re broke with a baby to support and still waiting on a paycheck to come in.

Well, I know a few things that would make him happy. For one, restarting this blog. I guess we can check that off the list, even if it’s not that great of a post.

Another would be to make him a fractal. Well, that’s slated to be finished at some point before tomorrow too, but I’ve given him fractals before.

I need something that will take some serious work. So, with the baby screaming in the next room (I get up to see to her and she’s fine for two-minute increments), I have nonetheless committed myself to this.

And that is: cleaning the entire apartment.

I know that there are people out there who think this is a downright retarded birthday present. Mostly because I’m the stay-at-home-mom, so shouldn’t I be keeping the house clean anyway? Well . . . I admit that I am not that great about keeping up with the housework. My husband, being the amazing man that he is, understands that I’m not SuperMom or even SuperWoman, and that even without a baby to take care of, I never was great about keeping the house clean for other reasons (mostly involving depression and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome). And, through some miracle of proper raising on his mother’s part and general great personness on his part, he’s okay with this. Even though he would like for the house to be clean. Even though he would like to be able to come home from work and follow his heart’s desires. He still does loads of dishes, helps out with the baby, and gets up in the middle of the night to change diapers, all while keeping our family afloat financially.

I think he deserves a break.

For one day, I’m going to clean the entire house, not give myself breaks, and keep the cleaning ongoing until I’m finished. Or until I pass out. Ideally I’ll also cook dinner, but yanno, while the depression and chronic fatigue went away during pregnancy, the chronic fatigue did come back. So dinner is entirely optional.

Happy birthday, Erich! Or, well, almost-birthday. I hope my present isn’t too stupid.

ETA: And of course, right after I finish this post, Summer demands to be fed. Ah, well.