Selling your house makes you do weird things. Or at least, selling my house makes me do weird things. Yesterday, I cleaned my oven. Ok, so it's self-cleaning, but I had to clean the door and scrape the piles of burned cheese off the bottom, and then I had to sit in my house and sweat. Maybe a 95-degree day with a heat index of a million and twelve was not the best day to jack the oven up to 600 degrees and open all the doors to clear the fumes. And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, I scrubbed the oven racks with a scouring pad.
I've learned that maybe an oven ought to be cleaned more than every five years. At least, I'm assuming the previous owners cleaned it before we moved in, I'd certainly never done it before.
Also, Mia is suddenly very two. All I hear from her all day long is "No Mama! No help! Do all by self!" This is moderately ok when she is insisting on dressing herself, which she can basically do provided you have an hour or more to wait while she works it out. It is less acceptable when she wants to buckle her own carseat, which she is not yet strong enough to do, and you spend half an hour sitting in a roastingly hot car before breaking down and doing it yourself just accepting that she's going to scream her head off all the way home. Which she did, thankfully it was a short drive.
Today, I'm cleaning the fridge and freezer, which at least will be cooler than the oven, but which unfortunately is Beth-cleaning rather than self-cleaning. After that, I'll be spending my time packing up all the piddly little crap that you don't know what to do with so it ends up in a box marked, helpfully, "Misc." and turns out to contain three critical things that you can't find for months. Gosh, moving is fun.