I hate housework.
I hate it. I really do.
I'd rather dig ditches or do telemarketing or castrate pigs than clean house.
But it's my job.
My sweet mom came over a few weeks ago and helped me CLEAN Sophie's room. Not just put the shit somewhere other than on the floor--but actually clean it. Decide where everything belongs. Put it there. Clean the windows. Dust the floor moldings. Now--I can actually clean that ONE room without going mad--but the rest of my house is a total cluster-fuck.
I love my house, but it's small. Not quite 1000 square feet. Add to that the fact that a puppy and 3 year old live here, and that my husband is a computer guy who (bless him) strews computer shit hither and thither, and that we're both book people, and that, well, I FUCKING HATE HOUSEWORK, and you can see where this is going.
The book shelves are about 4 sections deep--books in the back, (well to be honest, dust and cobwebs in the back), then book stacked on top of the books, then another layer of dust, and finally assorted miscellaneous crap sitting on and infront of the books. CD's, pictures, videos, computer shit, etc. The thing is, I have no clue where to put it all.
I am not by nature a tidy person, though I desperately want to be. If I lived totally alone, I MIGHT be able to keep things reasonably nice, but keeping things clean with said other messer-uppers is impossible. Add to the fact that I FUCKING HATE HOUSEWORK and we end up slogging through total chaos.
See-although I FUCKING HATE HOUSEWORK I can't stand to live in a messy house. That's my mom's fault. Every Saturday she would provide every member of the family with a list. And every Saturday the house was cleaned--really cleaned. Dusted, mopped, sprayed and polished. This led to a weird kind of schitzophrenia in the cleaning part of my brain. Obviously, I hated my Saturday list. It was total injustice. I had to clean messes that I didn't make. I wanted to be at playing outside, or later, going to the mall, but instead, I was going through my list. When reporting to mom that the list was complete, she would inevitable ask, "Is it done to MY specifications?" Well, no. So I'd go back again--vacuum in the corners, clean under the bed. When the list was finally done, I would be hot, dirty sweaty, and mad. But the house looked great.
Add to that that when my mom was pissed--she cleaned, and made us clean. We would have bi-monthly sit downs where she would loose it, tell us "I can't do this alone!" And as the middle child, my mothers child, the peace maker and taker on-er of all other's feelings, I felt responsible, that I really WASN'T doing enough.
So now I associate cleaning with guilt, with anger, and with having to do something that I do not want to do. But I also think that my house should be, at all times, as clean as my mother's house.
Sophie is napping. (Poor kid is totally constipated. She keeps telling me "I have farts in my belly! Help me get them OUT!) and I should be cleaning the fuck out of the house. I swept the floor, made my bed, and wiped down the counter, but now I am totally fucked. I don't WANT to dust. I don't WANT to clean the walls. I don't WANT to scrub out the tub. If I do these things, I'll be much happier that they're done, but I FUCKING HATE CLEANING HOUSE! If, on the other hand, I read my book or watch tv or do anything else, I won't enjoy it. I'll keep looking at the cobwebs in the corners, the piles of shit on every flat surface, the dust--Christ--the dust--and feel like the world's worst woman, wife, and mother who ever lived.
It's a kind of aggressive impotence. It makes me crazy.
Of course, if you know my sweet, handsome, smart husband, you can imagine his response when I first presented him with his "Saturday" list. To his credit, he didn't tear it up in my face and tell me to fuck off, but he didn't complete it--and he certainly didn't care if the things he did were to "my specifications." He does help--don't get me wrong. But--I don't have an army of cleaning troops like my mom did.
OK. I'll clean off one book case. I'll clean the tub. But that's all.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Soph and I went to the library this morning. She's starting to love books. Enough said.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Other than not knowing what to do to help "get the farts out," I have to say that sleep is such a big issue still. Last night, 2:00 am, she decided that she MUST sleep in her princess sleeping bag blow-up thing. OK. Whatever. Just go the hell to sleep. But--when sleeping in a sleeping bag, one is obviously engaging in slumber party activity--and therefore must have a partner in sleeping on the floor. That was me. I woke up this morning, on her floor, freezing, achy, and pissed. Being the most permissive mother in the world definitely has drawbacks.