Twelve years ago, when I married, I never realized that I would be giving up more than my last name, my single status, and a few freedoms. I would also have to give up my right to live a self-imposed life of a neat freak. And as the count of male children mount within my household, I know, without a doubt, that I will no longer be able to control the level of cleanliness at the frequency I require ever again!
I love my husband and two little boys with all of my heart and soul, but I feel like they have slowly, but surely, taken over the house. I’ve tried to implement a weekly thorough cleaning schedule with a few days of “maintaining” in between, but alas, the tornado look is still prevalent in our home. One minute the floors I just hand-cleaned are sparkling and luxurious, then the next minute, there are juice droplets, black scuff marks, cereal crumbs, and honey with pieces of lint stuck to the floor. Are you kidding me!! Did I just clean my floors on my hands and knees for the past 30 minutes to turn around and see a big huge giant mess no more than ten minutes later?!!
I love how I carefully fold their clean, fresh out-of-the-dryer clothes to prevent excessive wrinkling, only to find the same clothes thrown across the floor of my sons’ room an hour later! That was time well-spent. [insert sarcasm]
Man, I could have sworn I said, 1000 times, “No eating in your room!” But every day, I step on popcorn kernels, see dried spaghetti glued to the floor, and granola bar wrappers all over the place! I must have been talking to myself. [again, with the insertion]
Is it really that hard to clean up after yourself? Isn’t it easier to clean as you go, than it is to clean a two ton mess days later? But what do I know, I’m just the mom-the minority in a house of men who could care less if a cracker has been on the floor since last Tuesday.
I haven’t given up completely, yet. But there are times, maybe two or three times per year where I refuse to clean up for a week or two. That’s about as long as I can last. I
don’t even think they notice these silent protests. They probably think that two or three times a year they get a break from hearing me yell at them to help me clean up their messes.
But it’s ok. I’d rather have a home full of my messy men, than have a clean house to myself.
I can forget the mess when the four-year-old sees me in bed with a headache and asks me if I want a snack to make me feel better and brings it to me a few moments later. I can forget those little beard hairs in the sink when the hubs makes me the best shrimp fettucini alfredo served with my favorite wine. I can forget when my eleven-year-old leaves his shoes in the middle of the floor when he offers to make me breakfast in bed. They are so sweet!
What was I complaing about again?