There was only one thing that went wrong during yesterday’s now famous Playgroup Christmas Party. It was really just a little something, in terms of the time it took to happen. But. It was so embarrassing and traumatic; it has become the reference point by which I will measure my life from this point on.

When was Lucy born? Right after THE INCIDENT. How long have Dave and I been married? Well, it was before THE INCIDENT, so at least X number of years.

You see, I’m a procrastinator. And while I said I spent the last month planning and anticipating the party, which I did, in my head; I did not spend the last month putting those plans into action. I saved the action for the very last possible minute. It’s what perfectionists like me do. We wait until the last minute to do things for fear of failing miserably. I mean, the more time I have to do something, the greater that something I do should be, right? But if I wait until the last moment and then pull off something great under the gun, I can feel good, because I delivered against the odds. I can also tell myself that while what I did was good, it could have been better if I’d had more time. Sure, I’m the one who made it a race against the clock, but that doesn’t matter in crazy Leslie’s brain.

So, I saved the bulk of my housecleaning for the party up until the day before. I mean, who can’t clean 2,000 square feet of dwelling space for four adults, one toddler and four cats in less than 24 hours?

The answer would be me at five months pregnant.

So, around 1 a.m. on Monday night / Tuesday morning, I conceded defeat to the powers of filth and clutter and made a compromise. In other words, I got so freaking tired, I took some shortcuts. I did not wash down all my woodwork; I swiffered it. I did not wash all my windows; I spot cleaned the finger marks. I neither folded and put away my clean laundry, nor did I sort and wash my dirty; I threw it all in my bedroom. I did not repair Julia’s ripped books or clean her dirty toys; I threw them in my bedroom. I did not haul boxes meant for the attic to the attic; I threw them in my bedroom. I then ripped into the boxes while trying to find the Santa sack I’d purchased last year and I neither replaced the items I pulled out of them nor did I restack them in an organized fashion. I also piled a box fan, one humidifier, a sewing stool, various scrapbooking supplies, boxes of photos, books, and cds into my bedroom. After I turned out the light to go to bed and I knocked various unidentifiable items over, I did not pick them up. I just neglected to pick up my feet and, therefore, created a path from the door to my sleeping spot. When I woke in the morning, I did not make the bed. I did not lift a finger in that bedroom. I simply shut the door and gave Julia a very stern warning that the door was not to be opened during playgroup under any circumstances at all.

This meant that during playgroup, Julia opened the forbidden door and invited all of her friends in to hunt for monsters, which one of the other playgroup mothers discovered first. To make matters worse, her daughter was hiding in there for the monster hunt and did not want to come out. So, she had to go and get her out. She not only viewed the scene but had to go in and experience my pit of humiliation and retrieve her child.

I was mortified.

I’m not certain what my next step should be. A written apology? Perhaps I should just let it go so as not to draw more attention to it. Or now that the room is clean, perhaps I could invite her over and be certain that she walks past the open door to see the now spotless bedroom to prove that I’m not as negligent as that room may have insinuated. And my unborn baby really was not conceived in a pig sty.

I don’t know people. I guess what I really need is for you all to tell me that you have a hidden room like that. You do, right? Oh for the love of my sanity, please tell me you do.