The signs are always the same. A distant, thoughtful hum. The slow, measured pacing. A long, exaggerated sigh that signals an incoming shift in the household’s entire geography. And then—movement. The bookshelf inches sideways. The couch is rotated (for the third time this month). The dining table legs are scrutinized as if they might suddenly reveal a hidden potential that has gone unnoticed until now.
Mum is rearranging the apartment again.
I, of course, recognize this ritual for what it is: procrastination dressed as productivity. She’s supposed to be working on an art installation. Instead, she is moving furniture like some kind of sleep-deprived deity reshaping the universe. She claims it helps her “clear her head,” as if pushing a sofa into a different corner will suddenly unlock the focus she needs to sit down and work.
I watch from a safe distance, tail wrapped neatly around my paws. This is not my battle.
Enter Schmutz, The Under-Bed ArchitectAs Mum disrupts the surface world, Schmutz—ever the impressionable one—decides to join in. But unlike me, who observes with detached amusement, Schmutz fully commits.
Mum moves a chair? Schmutz moves a pillow.
Mum drags a shelf across the room? Schmutz drags a bag to a new location under the bed.
Mum inspects the feng shui of the living room? Schmutz redesigns her under-bed queendom with the same level of manic intensity.
You see, under the bed is her domain—a labyrinth of boxes, bags, and extra pillows meant for guests but claimed by her long ago. It is where she hoards crumpled paper, misplaced socks, and forgotten toy mice. And now, inspired by Mum’s furniture crisis, she is actively reshaping it.
At one point, Mum pauses mid-chaos, watching as Schmutz determinedly paws at a box, shifting it by approximately two centimeters before stepping back to admire her work.
“Oh no,” Mum murmurs. “She’s copying me.”
Yes. Yes, she is.
The Psychology of It All (Or, The Excuse Mum Will Use Later)Later, when the apartment has been successfully rearranged (read: everything is basically back where it started), Mum will explain this phenomenon as “needing to clear mental space.” That somehow, physically changing things tricks the brain into feeling like progress has been made, even if nothing tangible has actually been accomplished.
Schmutz, meanwhile, will proudly sit beneath the bed, surveying her newly adjusted empire. No doubt she believes she has revolutionized her living quarters, despite the fact that everything has just been shuffled into slightly different angles.
And me? I will continue to exist in my unshaken corner, unmoved by these absurd rituals of change.
Is Anything Really Different?In the end, has anything truly changed? The apartment, despite its brief stint in chaos, will settle back into a state of near-identical arrangement. Schmutz will, inevitably, lose interest in her interior decorating career. And Mum? Mum will find something else to hyperfocus on, until the cycle begins anew.
This is the nature of things. The illusion of progress. The rearranging of space to rearrange the mind.
I suppose, in a way, that is a kind of productivity.
Or at least, that’s what I’ll let them believe.
A Hope for Order Before Paralysis Sets InOf course, there is always the lingering fear that the rearrangement won’t actually end—that the apartment will remain in a state of suspended chaos for a week as ADHD paralysis kicks in. Mum will stare at half-moved furniture, overwhelmed, unsure whether to continue or undo everything.
Schmutz, sensing the shift, will immediately retreat to her under-bed haven, mirroring Mum’s paralysis with an exaggerated sigh and a dramatic flop onto a freshly relocated pillow.
And I? I will wait. Because eventually, order will return—if only until the next great rearrangement begins.
