Housekeeping 101

This past Saturday, we had the pleasure of opening up our house to several of Chris' family members including his delightful grandparents for a family get-together.  I, being a world class procrastinator, found it fit to wait until Saturday morning before looking around at my child infested home and noticing that no 80+ year old would survive a stay in our home, short as the stay was.  Because oh, I don't know, 400 toys littered the floor. 

And also, my children eat like wild animals.  So, food is on the walls, on the floor, in their hair, on their faces....possibly on the ceiling.

And also, they are just gross.  Let's just get that out of the way.  I could labor on and get into the nitty gritty of nastiness, but for the sake of our friendship and my small amount of hope that you might still have an ounce of respect for me despite your reading of my blog, I'm just going to submit to you that, in fact, three children under the age of 5 are gross.  They are cute.  But they are gross. 

Oh, and guess what?  I'm a terrible housekeeper.  Always have been.  It's not that I don't enjoy clean; I really do.  In fact, I'm prone to notice the smallest amount of yuckiness with the best of 'em.  However, even before children, Chris and I would start to clean up and then one of us would say "Hey, did you know that there was something fun to do instead of this?" And the other would appear suddenly shocked and delighted at the concept of not doing something boring and stupid, and we would joyfully drop our cleaning supplies immediately and frolic away to enjoy all that poverty and the pre-child life had to offer.  (I think it was the dog park and store brand Mac & Cheese accompanied by 69 cent hot dogs.  So fun...obviously we hated cleaning if that was the joy.)

So where was I?  (Can't stop thinking of the horror of that meal.) Oh yeah.  So this Saturday, my obsessive mind kicks in and I realize that we are literally going to kill his grandparents with the state of our affairs.  So I actually break a sweat cleaning my house.  And I'm cooking simultaneously.  And I'm doing my best to attend to the children, but I think that's the day that somebody hit somebody else in the head with a baseball bat.  And I'm pretty sure that's the day that Adelai played in the dog water.  Or maybe that's the day that she played in the toilet.  The days blend together.  I can't remember.  Anyway. In short, in order to keep my house, I had to almost completely ignore my children.  For 6 hours straight. 

And as I collapsed on the couch after it was all over, it dawned on me that if I actually wanted to keep my house the way that I deep down expected it to be kept, this day would have to be repeated every single day for the next several years.  I would, quite literally, have to never ever stop.  Because with this age combination, when you finish cleaning a room and leave it, it is a very real probability that the next time you look at that space, it will be a total disaster.  It will look like a nuclear bomb went off and no mother ever made an effort. 

And here's the real kicker.  Were I to actually maintain this house, not only would I have no idea who my children were, but they'd literally be in danger of killing themselves or each other.  You don't hear about that much.  You hear a lot of moms say that they are choosing to have dusty bookshelves so they can play with their kids and contribute to the development of their children as they grow into people that know they were deeply loved. 

Me?  Sure, that would be a lovely moment.  But I also just hope that they grow into people who are alive and don't have brain damage.  That would be really cool. Were I to choose to move about my house frantically cleaning every single day, there is a real chance that Justin could turn to me as an adult and say "Really, Mom? You made my bed every single day, but I have brain damage?"

So I do three loads of dishes a day and I vacuum daily so that Adelai doesn't eat stuff off the floor.  And the rest?  Well I do my best.  That's all I can do.  And if you happen to come to my house and it looks like a hurricane blew through it, I have a couple things for you to consider:

1. A hurricane did come.  It was a category 3 named Chase-Justin-Adelai and it was intense. 
2. Please note that no blood is coming out of any area of my three children.  That's success.
3. Please consider that my house may have been spotless just 4 minutes ago, and the mess that you see right now is actually an improvement.

Being outnumbered by children is....well, frankly a set up.  And so, I'm firing that place of shame as a mother.  My name is Jess, and my house is a war zone.  I plan on winning the war at a later date, but the first several years of battle I'm clearly losing.  And I've got limbs hanging off my body, and I look terrible and I'm tired and I'm a mess.  But I'll win.  You just wait and see.  I'll win. 

Or, I'll eat mac & cheese and 69 cent hot dogs and use the spare funds to hire a housekeeper.  And by God, she'll win. 

SHE WILL WIN. 



This is what my kids would look like if I cleaned non-stop.