The house resembles a pick-over garage sale. The counter ia a mountain of fliers, books, barettes and empty candy wrappers. The sink has acquired a yellow sheen and the stove top is crusted wtih brown spots. The entry door is barricaded with school-bags, brown bags holding the pitiful evidence of half-eaten lunches. If the house can scream, it would probably yell, “Clean me, yo! I’m choking from infestation of dirt and grime.”
But no, we see and we pretend we don’t. After all, there are many other pressing needs. Kids to shuttle–soccer practice, ballet performances, birthday parties and play dates. Work datelines and projects to complete. They all have a schedule. As for house-cleaning–when I have the time. After all, who sees the mess except me and my family. And I’ve trained them so well, they don’t complain or they get drafted to do maid-service.
Who wants to do house-cleaning? Not me, unless I have to. Which is why I’ve learned through the years–create a situation where I’m forced to do it, irregardless. So I have. I know it’s insane–who designs punishment like that? I do–I’ve a tendency to be hard on myself. Especially when you’re a mom, and you only have 24 hours a day and one pair of hands. Thinking of the ratio is dismal enough –24 to 1 (ok, 2).
I invite guests! Friends, family, people at work, so I have no choice but to spruce the house up. Which is exactly what I did today. I invite Shain’s ballet friends and their moms. They are seem well-kept and I bet they expect a clean house.
Maybe, maybe not. We all sometimes hide behind our beautiful front. Nobody knows what lurks in the confines of our home. Hopefully, it’s just physical mess.