Look, I'm not much of a housekeeper. I never have been, even when it was just me and Ben. And it is becoming quite apparent that having kids did not create in me a motherly nurturing instinct to become all June Cleaver-esque.
Firstly, I really don't want to spend my time at home stressing about keeping the house clean. Playing with the kids generally leads to things getting messed up, and I am perfectly okay with that.
The problem is, now that there are five of us, my lack of motivation and skill in this department is exponentially more problematic than it used to be.
Add to that the distractingly difficult chore it has become to get even a modicum of work done around the house with three young ones underfoot. I could generally be more productive in a coma.
Take this weekend, for example. We really had no plans -- we took the kids to a museum yesterday, but today had nothing to do and, except for Ben, none of us even left the house. By Sunday afternoon the destruction was really starting to catch up with us. I was feeling mildly motivated and ready for a decent cleaning session. Ben headed out to do some grocery shopping and also head into school to get some work done. The account that follows is literally - no exaggeration - what happened as I tried to tackle the tornado that is our homestead.
My goal was general straightening, dusting and vacuuming of the main floor. Nothing drastic, remember who you're dealing with after all.
I start by picking up random trash, toys, dishes, etc. Pass by the kitchen to drop off a stray glass (yes, it was a wine glass from last night, don't judge), and realize my best bet is to start with the dishes before they revolt and start a battle with the kitchen appliances. Forget the general straightening and start on the dishes.
Midway through loading the dishwasher, Noah asks me to come see something in the castle that the boys are playing with. I don't want to blow the kids off just because I'm trying to get some work done, so I agree to go check it out. Head into the front room and watch Noah show me some Mario character going through some secret exit. I pretend to be thrilled and am sufficiently interested for the requisite amount of time, and then flip the light switch on my way out of the room, because it's twilight and starting to get dark.
The light bulb burns out. I head to the laundry room to get a replacement bulb.
In the laundry room, I realize I really should have started by beginning a load of laundry, so that the washer would be running as I worked on my other chores.
Dump the dirty laundry into the washer, and gather some additional from upstairs. Pour in the detergent but then realize that before I start the laundry I really should go search the rest of the rooms in the main floor for the random articles of clothing that my offspring generally toss aside throughout the day.
Go in search of socks, pants, undies, what-have-you, underneath the living room couch, in the bathroom, crammed in dad's snow boots, the usual. Realize that I never got that light bulb for the front room that the boys are playing in.
Dump the laundry off and grab a light bulb. Replace light bulb.
Head back through the kitchen and finish up the dishes.
Realize that I never started the washing machine after tracking down all that laundry. Head to the laundry room and start the first load.
Move on to sweeping the living room and kitchen. Go let the dog out because apparently his life's mission is to destroy any and all brooms that dare make their presence known in his vicinity.
Sweep for a couple minutes, and then realize I haven't seen nor heard from Sophie in about ten minutes, which is never good. Search for her while calling her name. Find her with the bag of crayons that I had fully intended to seal up and put away about twenty minutes prior but never got around to.
It becomes clear that Sophie has been planning a gigantic crayon treasure hunt throughout the house. Crayons are hidden EVERYWHERE.
I enlist the boys' help and we search for crayons for about fifteen minutes. Travis locates a jackpot of crayons in the tray table stand, but we also find some in the princess chair, wedged in the heat vent, on the staircase, and in the dog food bowl.
Crayon bag sealed up and put away.
I head back to sweeping. I sweep up a glue-stick lid in my pile, and realize that previously, there HAD been a glue-stick (complete with lid) sealed inside that crayon bag. No longer. Search in vain for the glue-stick that matched up with that lid for about ten minutes. Decide to go back to sweeping and daydream about the havoc that Sophie has probably wreaked with said uncapped glue-stick, like gluing up the iPad or my suit jacket or something.
Finish sweeping and let the dog in because he is barking bloody murder at the neighbor boys shooting basketball.
Begin dusting. Am dusting the piano and the kids come to me and ask if I can play some music so they can dance. I've recently been playing songs on the piano for them to dance to, but today offer to tune the TV to one of the music channels. They agree.
Finish dusting with JT's Bringing Sexy Back blaring in the living room.
Spray the carpets with carpet cleaner. Instruct Sophie to stay out of the dining room, which is covered with white foam. Sophie stomps out of the room and joins Noah in dancing to the Pussycat Dolls.
I drop a few blankets off in the front room and spot the glue stick, sans lid, inside the castle. Retrieve it and reunite the two.
Head back to the dining room and spot some incriminating, footie-pajama footprints all through my foam-sprayed carpet. Track Sophie down, she is in the bathroom trying to take off said footie pajamas so she can "sit on the potty!" Assist her in this endeavor, which does not have any satisfying results, but at least it is good practice.
Decide this is a good time to take the trash and recycling out before vacuuming. On the way back in, slip on a teeny tiny swatch of ice on the driveway. Catch myself before falling, but feel a twinge in my back that is not likely to turn out good.
Come inside, Sophie has a penny in her hand. As she watches me, she puts her hand up to her mouth as though she is going to eat the coin. I sternly demand that she desist and give me the penny. She furrows her brow angrily, throws the penny at me and runs away.
At this point, who cares.
I give up. I collapse into the recliner and decide to write a blog about it. I'm way better at that than cleaning anyway.
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