I wish my house were constantly clean. I am not sure how, but it looks comparable to a meth trailer by the end of every night. Between dishes hidden in every corner, dog food splayed every where like semen in a frat house and toys all over the fucking place because our two year old decided renting a house with a playroom was a void reason to keep toys in there, I am tired. I have stepped on far too many tiny little soldier men in the middle of the night trying to get to Caroline’s room.
The sad truth is my house will NEVER be clean. Children are shit storms of dirt, toys, drool and hidden toast. Literally, I find hidden toast on a weekly basis. Why would you keep asking for it if you are just going to hide it in some random crevasse of the house? I swear, a month after we moved into our house, Layla lost a sippy cup with juice in it. Ten months later and I haven’t found one trace of it, I almost hope I never do. I don’t want to think about it anymore.
I have tried everything. Weekly schedules? Yeah, those work if you don’t have a child attacking you every time you try to clean, fold or organize. Every time I try to fold laundry, Layla waits until they are all piled up and organized, lookin’ spiffy and reaps mass destruction at the first moment I walk away to put a pile in it’s designated location. I now have resorted to piling all of our clean clothes up next to my bed, and it drives me crack-cocaine crazy. Chores? Ha. The biggest chore I can get Layla to do is to avoid pissing her pants in the grocery store. Nagging? That one never works. I could tell Alex a million times over to put his dishes in the sink, and at least once a month Layla is still knocking over an eight hour old coffee Alex left next to his chair. I even tried putting a laundry basket at every location Alex strips when he gets home from work. Did that solve the problem? I find clothes piled next to the laundry basket in a five foot radius. He does it just to piss me off.
Maybe I just have a complete obsession with the idea of having a perfectly clean house. Scratch that. I know I do. This obsession is really difficult being married to a mechanic, and a child who’s greatest joy is rubbing her head in dirt.
I have seen so many times “A messy house is a happy house.” No, indeed it’s not. It may be happy for about an hour, when Layla is running around with freshly washed thongs on her head screaming “SUPER LAYLA!”, but when I have to find every single undergarment in a mess of mega blocks and orange slices, it’s an unhappy house. I go Hulk over this shit, ask my husband.
I so wish I could give in, and let my home become an abyss for toys and shit, but I just can’t. As soon as I hear someone is coming over, I go into panic mode. It involves shoving shit into closets, my bedroom and power washing dishes. I am screaming at my husband to get out of his Mt. Dew pants and help me clean before we are judged as white trashy Mt. Dew wearing hillbillies. I am sure I have tried to shove my children into closets before, because the idea of cleaning yogurt from Layla’s hair and convincing her she cannot continue to wear the same dress for the third day in a row just seems too difficult.
For now, I will pretend like I am going to go to bed, but in all reality I am going to power clean my house and wait for the day that my two year old decides I am not her personal slave, and instead a human being that is tired of cleaning her piss off of the couch, carpet and my leg. Hopefully by that point though, she has stopped pissing every where.