|Yes, those are my feet at the top of the photo.|
It’s more than just a drawer, though. It’s my SPACE. Mine, all mine.
You’d think as the person paying off half the bond on our house, and dishing out half the smacked bottoms – I’ve earned the right and respect to put my knick-knacks and belongings in any damn drawer I please.
I can’t even poop in peace without the feel of a chubby hand squeezing in between my butt and the toilet seat to gleefully drop newly-shredded loo paper into the bowl. Yeah, true story. The contents of my underwear drawer are frequently scattered around my bedroom – like it’s the stage of a Kings of Leon concert.
And the other day our silly novelty shop ‘sex dice’ I bought one Valentines’ Day (cause you do stuff like that when you’re newly married) were mysteriously found lying on the kitchen counter. Thank the Big Guy Upstairs we did not have guests visiting!
This is what my baking drawer looked like this weekend.
|(I'm willing to admit that I just might have a classic Type A personality and that this mess isn't that bad.)|
Scatter your toys like rainbow sprinkles all over the house – that’s cool.
But be warned, bratlings: with your new baby brother on the way, Mommy is now exercising her right as the sole vagina in the house to have one measly 30cm x 30cm space dedicated to my beloved silicone Le Creuset spatulas. Rummage through my baking drawer at your peril.