From the kitchen sink cry my stinky dishes (it's the worst when there's raw garlic involved), wailing to be scrubbed before bedtime.
From the living room, Baby J's toys sit, strewn about like colorful wreckage, pleading to be put in the toy basket.
And a trail of baby-safe bathroom toys (hair brush, hand-held mirror, kid-proof vitamin bottles) stretches from the hallway to my bedroom, just mocking me with a final mess.
And the question is: Do I clean it all up? Or do I let it wait until tomorrow?
The answer? Entropy. Domestic entropy, to be exact.
To not clean it all up is to allow the "gradual decline into disorder," as one dictionary puts it. And after the kitchen goes to pot, the living room decays into a Fisher-Price sink hole and my bedroom becomes little more than an unmade bed buried under a mountain of clean yet unfolded underwear straight from the dryer, I'd regret the decision of that one, fateful Tuesday night, the night I was so tired and thought, "I'll get to it tomorrow..."