I’ve become quite a neat freak. Those who lived with me while the dishes mouldered in the sink will be surprised to hear it, but my relationship to housework has definitely evolved since then. I spend a lot of time swabbing down two highchairs and sweeping my kitchen 3-4 times a day. In addition, twice a month I have a cleaning service.
In honor of cleaning day, I dress and pack all my charges, their Peapod napping tents, swaddlesacks, wubbies, bibs, babyfood, bowl, spoon, puffs, my nursing pillow, diaper bag and who knows what else into the car, haul everyone to a friend’s house and proceed to impose upon her for 4-5 hours. This is almost the only time that I make the kids nap out of their cribs or nurse out of the house, and hence is a major undertaking.
Yesterday, I confirmed that we were the first stop on the cleaning team’s list, and off we went at 9:15am. At 2pm, we pull into the driveway exhausted. Salty has missed his morning nap entirely, and both of the boys need to sleep immediamente. As I am removing them from the seats, the cleaning people pull in behind us in the drive. Infuriating!
I send them away, put the babies to bed, and ruthlessly attack the housework. As I plunge in, I’m thinking, “I am absolutely firing them. What am I paying them for anyway? I keep my house pretty clean before they even start, and they rarely do a great job. I always come home and remake the bed because they don’t tuck in the sheet correctly at the bottom, then turn the rugs over because they put them back upside down, then revacuum the stairs and scrub out the corners of the kitchen and bathroom floors, and sometimes rescrub a sink or two. I’m practically doing the whole thing over anyway! This is ridiculous. I’ll probably get the whole house cleaner than they ever do by the time the boys wake up from their nap. Besides, I enjoy cleaning.”
Haha! Ha. Ha.
Seven gruelling hours later as I finish sweeping out my garage and vacumming the entry rugs, I am crippled and drenched in sweat, yet reluctant to shower in the immaculate master bathroom where I began. That bathroom is meticulously sterilized in every detail. The other three are also clean, but my standards have definitely relaxed over the course of this endeavor. Fluffy’s reading lesson lies untouched on the table. I have fed her microwaved leftovers for dinner with no vegetable sides and haven’t even gotten her to bed though it is approaching 2 hours past her bedtime.
My new thoughts are, “Wow, those girls work fast. I am way too picky. I should be so lucky to have danced in glass slippers at the ball so that I don’t have to do this myself every two weeks. My cleaning service is worth every penny, and I hope to be in a position to provide them with employment for many, many happy years to come. Besides, I hate cleaning.”
|Fluffy came in with these tights on her head the other day and asked, “Don’t I look like George Washington?”|
|I hope no one minds that my pictures are so often non sequitur. Who wants to see a picture of me cleaning?|