I’m done apologizing for the state of my house. Step over the toys, step over the baby. Pretend you don’t notice the stains on the carpet or the dishes in the sink. Watch out for the kid with the Nerf gun pointed at your back.
While Aron travels, the kids and I usually trash the house all week. I pull out the sofa bed in the family room for them to laze around on, fall asleep on, jump on. We pick it all up on Friday.
Soon the kids will be old enough to do a wonderful vacuuming job as part of their weekly chores. I envision myself eating bon-bons and watching Rescue Me and lifting my feet up for them to vacuum under. Yeah, right.
I’d rather write or scrapbook than clean the house. I’d rather go to the park or pool or zoo with my kids. I’d rather play Scrabble with my husband. I’d rather have a root canal. I don’t think I’m alone.
It’s all my parents’ fault (isn’t everything?!). They were Chore-ly Abusive to me. You may not have heard of it because it’s a new diagnosis in the therapy world. It means they made me clean my room occasionally, do a few dishes, vacuum, dust, change the cat box, clean the bathrooms in a mediocre manner. People, these days making your kids do those things will get The State called on you.
As a result of that abuse, my cleaning reserves are all tapped out and it’s like the guy on Office Space says, “I don’t really like my job, and I don’t think I’m gonna go anymore.”
Sometimes good enough really is … good enough.
And yes, my kids DO know how to pick up after themselves. They are actually quite helpful. I just have to bark kinda loud sometimes to get them to do it.
While I’m confessing things … I watch “The Hills.” I like the music. And the scenery. But not the way they speak. Too much like a version of a Valley Girl.
