Cleaning the house

http://www.babble.com/mom/work-family/messy-house-cleaning-family-time/?utm_source=Babble&utm_campaign=2bdda39659-1_211_20_2011&utm_medium=email

I read the above article and was fascinated, a little envious, and mostly just slightly depressed.  The writer contends that she doesn't clean her house on a regular basis and is okay with it.  She's all zen about it, she'd rather read with her kids, walk in the apple orchard, hang out with her husband.  And I'm with her, I'd rather do all that as well - but I'm nowhere near as relaxed and happy about it.  I'm neurotic and irritated by a messy house.  I feel as though it's a personal failing on MY part when my house looks like three kids live here.  When there are plastic cups and bowls scattered all over the floor by the cabinets because Julianna has been rearanging and the magnets are all off the fridge because Sam was doing something (what???) with them and then got distracted.  When shoes are piled up in the closet and toast crumbs are on the table, when clean diapers are scattered across the floor because Julie recently figured out how to take them out of their drawer and deliver them to me.

I'm not relaxed about housecleaning.  I'm guilty and stressed out and irritable about it.  The first thing out of my  mouth when people stop by is to apologize for the mess.  I don't know why - I don't think mean thoughts when I go to someone's house and it's messy.  If anything, I'm relieved that it's not just me.

Because the facts are that I'm a crappy housekeeper.  I don't LIKE it, I don't derive any real joy from cleaning, I just like the finished product.  And even on my best day, my house is never as clean as it should be.  I rarely, if ever, dust, I've only ever ironed that one time and didn't enjoy it.  My dishes are almost always done, and my clothes are almost always washed and dried (folded and put away, not so much).  But beyond that - there's always some sort of clutter or mess that shouldn't be there...

I wish I was more relaxed about it, more at peace with the mess.  It seems as though I should be either one or the other.  Maniacally focused on cleanliness, driven to get rid of the dust and clutter or relaxed and laid back, not caring that my house is in shambles.  Instead, I'm neither.  I wish it was cleaner.  I just don't care enough about it to devote my life to it.  Because I like my kids, I like my husband, I like my books and my crocheting and my life.  I don't want to clean.

Twenty years from now - my house'll be spotless.  And I'll be lonely and wishing for the days when Julianna threw the plastic bowls all over the place, and Jessie's art projects littered the table and I couldn't walk without stepping on one of Sam's little army guys.

like shoveling before the blizzard is over

It's an old quote, and I'm not sure where I read it, but it equates trying to keep a clean house when you have small children to shoveling while the snow is still falling.  Today is one of those days when I just feel worn down by the overwhelming amount of completely repetitive work.  I got up and vaccumed the rug because the kids had popcorn last night (hands down, the messiest snack ever).  So I vacuumed and swept before I had any coffee, because the mess was making me crazy.  Then I folded blankets, put away stuffed animals, made breakfast, tossed in another load, folded another load, started cleaning Jessie's bedroom and then made lunch.  Now I'm looking at a messy living room that needs to be vacuumed once again, I still have another load to wash and at least three more to fold, Jessie's room STILL isn't done, and I'm just sort of depressed about it all.

Not depressed.  Just out of sorts about it.  This is my life right now - and there are many, many parts of it that are amazing and wonderful and I'm very grateful for it.  But I really hate housework, I hate laundry because it's never ever done, I've got five kids here and for some reason, I literally never have any clean cups.

Duty calls... back to my never-ending quest to not have my children raised in squalor.

My big, big, big girl....

Shipping my baby girl off to Hermit Island this week, up in Maine.  Not my baby baby, but my eight year old little love bug, my Miss Miz (short for Misery - Jessie was a toddler who really embraced her emotions).  I'm sending her off with my sister, who I love and trust more than anything.  And of course, my mother, my cousins, my aunts, etc... so she'll be surrounded by family and I know she'll be fine, but I'm still a little panic stricken at the thought of her being gone for an entire week.

But I am looking forward to being done getting ready for Hermit Island.  Jess is a girl who loves being prepared, and has a deep and personal attachment to many, many of her stuffed animals, and between packing her clothes, and repacking them after Julianna has unpacked (seriously - this kid adores throwing clothes all over the place) and figuring out which stuffed animal(s) should make the trip... it's been a two day effort and she's not leaving until Saturday.  I've now got all of her stuff in one laundry basket and am seriously considering just sending that up instead of a bunch of little bags.

House is still in shambles.  You'd think I'd either get used to it, or get a lot better at either forcing the kids to pick up or start picking up more often.  But nope, I just sort of do all three, I try to make them clean up after themselves, try to pick it all up myself at least twice a day, and mostly, I try to just resign myself to it.  Both Jess and Sam love to create these worlds with figurines, and while Jessie has mostly outgrown it, Sam is really just starting to get into it.  Sam is even willing to put up with Julianna crawling in the middle of it, mostly.  Jessie used to hate having Baby Sam in her stuff, and she'd happily set up in her room, but Sam doesn't like playing alone in his room, so I'm constantly dealing with army men and trucks and monster figures scattered willy-nilly thru my house.

Julianna is still struggling with nighttime issues.  She's okay once she's down, for the most part, but getting her to sleep at night is now taking hours.  Literally.  I'm distinctly ill amused - and vetoed Marc attending a committee meeting tonight at the synagogue so he can handle her.  I need a break :-)  Bedtime used to be his special time with Sam when Sam was about this age, so perhaps that's just the transition that we need to make.  As it turns out, I've started reading Harry Potter to Sam at night before bed, so this might work out perfectly :-)