My 3 Lil' Piggies That I Love

Nineteen hours or so is what the polls say the average American woman puts into her household cleaning each week. That just depresses the hell out of me. Not because I know its true, oh no, most weeks I'm certain that is low ball figure. The depressing part is that on most given days if you just show up at my house unannounced you are met with what resembles a spinning whirlwind. As fast as I can pick things up, they are displaced in another location. There has to be some scientific law in relation to boys and a clean home. Newtons third law of motion states: 

 Third law: When one body exerts a force on a second body, the second body simultaneously exerts a force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction to that of the first body.

"A force equal in magnitude and opposite in direction." Yup, that sounds about right. Fortunately, I overhear convo's of clusters of mothers at the park in which they express this exact problem. But the validation is short lived. Images of their homes suddenly come flashing to mind, and then the comparisons begin. Motherhood comparisons are a wicked cycle. Never a great idea, yet the inevitability of comparing, is a correlative law of womanhood. I'm not saying it can't be stopped, I'm just saying, that when you are tired, overwhelmed, frumpy, and bummy it is an easy 'go-to,' that is always lurking on the sidelines waiting to pounce on an already degraded self-esteem. 

So back to the housework. Why not just throw in the towel, toss in the bandana, and eliminate the disinfecting? Because that is gross, and dents my sanity and self-esteem more than feelings of perceived inadequacy. It is also a health hazard. Honestly, I'm not kidding. If you clean up the bathroom of young boys, or older boys for that matter, then you are right there with me. I won't post the picture of their bathroom that I sent to a couple "lucky" friends a few weeks back. Ew. 

Recently, I picked out a smashed M&M out of the zipper area of P's pants, a taffy off the fireplace, and a fruit-roll up off a stool. Vacuuming has become a one man search and rescue mission, as I intermittently stoop down to rescue leg and limb of the Star Wars figures. And one of our new playtime favorites is color changing cars in the kitchen sink (aka flood the kitchen.)

 

So it is Friday, I've worked at the house all week. Probably not with the vigilance of say a pre-relative visit, but still, I've made a considerable effort. I have a mountain of unfolded, clean clothes on my bed. Piles of papers and mail, and coloring books on the kitchen table. My office is crammed full of artwork, projects in progress, paperwork, magazines, and frames. The boys playroom is a disaster. My front hallway is littered with Matchbox cars, a dog bone, a pillow, a Thor hammer, books, socks...and yes I picked it up this morning. My kitchen is clean, my counters are disinfected, the dishes are done, the laundry is clean, my bathrooms were cleaned a couple days ago, and there are not crumbs all over the family room carpet. It's times like this that I need to restate a mantra I saw on one of those FB shares: "My house is clean enough to be healthy, but messy enough to be happy."  

So with that sentiment here are a couple of *my tips* to try to outwit the housework forces of nature that are seeking to destroy your sanity:

1. Forget about the grout. I don't know why this has become the subject of so many of my friends frustration, but it has. You are the only one that notices. Seriously, scrubbing the grout with a toothbrush is only going to intensify the OCD, and therefore the frustrations that follow. Inevitably the moment you've wiped off your rubbed-raw hands, someone will spill juice, while another walks in with dirty shoes. Relinquish this one. Sweep and mop your floor if you must, but LET THE GROUT GO. 

2. Unless ironing is your therapy, then LET IT GO. I know I've probably sentenced the man to fashion faux pas hell, but I even gave up on my husbands work shirts. He usually throws over a lab coat anyway. The wrinkle out spray with the hang up method is my new go-to. As for me, I wear iron-ready clothing about as often as I style my hair outside of my classic pin-up girl up-do with a bandana. Once a month date night, and a Sunday here and there I'll break out something iron-worthy from the wardrobe.

3. If all else fails, THEN GO BUY FLOWERS. Choose a bright, cheap bouquet that makes you smile. Go home and clear & clean a table. Place the flowers in a vase, or jar and set them on the table. Put on your blinders to the rest of the house. 
  
 And for me, there is hope on the horizon. My littlest piggy that I love, is a 'helper.' The messes frustrate him too, but he doesn't quite have the skills to keep up with it all. For now, he gives me glimpses of hope for the future, and melts my heart with scenes like this, and reminds me of a poem I once saw in my moms office: 

Sometimes you get discouraged 

because I am so small
And always leave my fingerprints 
on furniture and walls
But everyday I'm growing
I'll be grown up someday
And all those tiny fingerprints 
will surely fade away
So here is a final fingerprint 
Just so you can recall 
Exactly how my hands looked
When I was very small
 

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