I padded downstairs to shake my daughter’s shoulder, waking her for school. But instead, she woke to my “Oh, no.”
‘Cause that’s generally what you say when you see liquid pooling in the hall in the half-light, oozing from the laundry-room-slash-pantry.
That was the price-club-sized empty detergent bottle on its side, the cap to the air vent lying surrendered beside it, and the laundry room now flooded with a pleasantly lemony, biodegradable, outstandingly viscous liquid soap.
You’ve been there before, I bet.
For me: The wall boasts a to-do list scrawled in various colors and medium (crayon, perhaps; whatever’s available before my brain suddenly transforms into mashed potatoes and I remember squat). The items extend from the mysterious acronyms and cryptic personal shorthand (E-M BR; write for GG); to the perpetual residents (laundry); of the far-fetched, someday I will do this, maybe-when-there-is-a-snow-day-even-though-I-live-on-the-equator variety.
![Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language](https://www.janelbreitenstein.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/love-languages-text-1.jpg "Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language")
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