I have decided that anyone with kids who says their house is tidy and clean is lying. Their house is not clean. It’s a fucking disaster like mine.
Don’t tell me I’m wrong. I’m not wrong. THEY ARE LYING.
I don’t give a shit if they have photographic evidence on Instagram. You know they pushed all the crap out of the camera frame and stuck their kid against the wall in its slouchy cap and harem pants and posted it like it ain’t nothin.
YOU CAN’T FOOL ME.
My light may be dim but it ain’t that dim.
Or, I’m wrong. That happens. Been wrong at least 4 times so far this year.
But I have given this a lot of thought man, and I just don’t understand.
Last Friday morning I looked around and said to myself “What the actual fuck
has happened to my kitchen, living room, bathroom, hallways OhFuckItEveryRoomInTheHouse?”
It’s like all 6 inhabitants of this house walk around spewing toys, paper and dust from their fingertips.
And clothes. Oh my god the clothes. I hate clothes.
So anyway, Friday morning: I make a list for the 3 older kids. They each have their jobs, and I have mine. 1.5 hours of cleaning. Rocket, Ava, Georgie and me. Mac is at work.
Whine. Tears. Rage. Whatever offspring.
This ain’t my first rodeo. Do the damn work.
Rocket takes 50 minutes to unload the dishwasher. This baffles me. I tell him “We’re going to the beach once this is done so maybeYouShouldHurryUp. Miraculously, he does his other 5 chores in 12 minutes.
Uncool, Rocket. Uncool.
Georgia is 4 so her jobs require putting things in other things. For example, “Put the shoes in the shoe baskets.” Fortunately this is also a fun pastime for Arlo, though he more enjoys taking things OUT of things.
On Friday I watched Georgia load shoes into a basket while Arlo removed them from the other side of the same basket.
We are an efficient fucking machine.
But we managed to get it done.
The house is clean. Swept, mopped. Shit picked up. Vacuumed.
Full floor visibility. I feel like a domestic goddess. Where’s my motherfucking apron? Somebody bring your father a casserole.
I look around and feel good. I’m so capable. I can move mountains. Let’s move mountains!
Look at me walk on these wood floors without shit sticking to my feet! Oh glorious motherhood!
We go to the beach. We’re gone til 9pm. We wake up. We eat breakfast on Saturday. We leave for the entire day, get home at 8:30pm.
Wake up on Sunday, look around — AND THE WHOLE MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE IS EXACTLY LIKE IT WAS ON FRIDAY.
It’s been 48 hours and it’s all gone. How is that even possible? We’ve only spent like 4 waking hours in the damn thing.
HOW PEOPLE HOW?
Then I curl up in the fetal position and weep and cry out unto the lord “No but seriously dude how the hell am I to survive in these conditions?”
In response I hear only the sound of the cat food overturning across the living room floor which Arlo will surely begin eating within 44 seconds. (What is it with babies and pet food?)
Sometimes I feel defeated. Not gonna lie. Like when I open the hall closet and see my husband has decided a good place for cockroach catchers we’ll never use (given to us by the exterminator) is in the basket with the sunscreen and goggles in the linen closet.
Or when I FINALLY remove the 396 garments that no longer fit the baby and organize his dresser drawers FINALLY and one of the older kids “puts away clothes” by shoving random piles diagonally across my beautiful rows until the drawers won’t close. AGAIN.
Sometimes my life feels like one missing shoe and drawers that won’t close.
Ya feel me?
I know. I know it’s not that big of a deal. And I know it’s “nice” that my kids attempt to put clothes away and that we can afford an exterminator who gives complimentary cockroach catchers and that I even have a house and kids and husband at all and yes someday I’m sure I’ll miss the pitter patter of tiny feet dragging my household organization attempts into the fort they just built with clean sheets over a sticky kitchen table.
And newsflash yes I know I’m not “defined” by the condition of my house or car and blah blah fucking blah I’M NOT ASKING FOR MUCH HERE PEOPLE.
A visual on the floor of my car, perhaps.
A reduction in strange substances dried onto the floor.
300% fewer toys showing up on my floor even though I take shit to the Goodwill every week it seems.
Maybe a Level 1 instead of Level 4 hurricane in the bedroom after the kids “play.”
PICK UP AFTER YOURSELVES YOU TINY INSANE CREATURES.
People tell me it’s that easy: “Just have the kids pick up after themselves. Before they get out a new activity have them clean up the old one.”
Would somebody kindly explain how the fuck I’m supposed to do that WITHOUT becoming Stalin?
So maybe that’s it. Maybe I just refuse to become the type of person I would have to become to keep a tidy house all the time.
Or maybe I’m inept.
Let’s go with the former. It makes the circus seem intentional and therefore slightly more palatable.
On the plus side, we cleaned the refrigerator, so we can definitely look forward to 4 hours of clean refrigerator.
AT LEAST. Go team.