Confessions of a Dirty Housewife

A couple of years ago I started enlisting the kids in a weekly ritual I like to call The Hour in Which My House No Longer Smells Like Dog and Used Kleenex. I followed up throughout the week with nag-the-children-to-pick-up-their-things-until-mommy’s-saliva-dries-up. But somehow it’s not working. Somehow I am still slightly fearful that I’ll pick up a staff infection from my own bathroom.

I feel guilty. But not because my house is a hot mess. I feel guilty for feeling like I should be able to do it all and not getting help. Because really – when there’s a quarter inch coat of dust that actually changes the color of that lovely glass vase you got for your wedding – when the dust bunnies have turned into a pack of vicious jack rabbits – when there’s stuff in the fridge that you can’t identify – when it’s that bad – you need help.

So a couple of weeks ago I finally broke down and called the woman who used to clean our house. And wouldn’t you know that poor dear was out of work? Providing a regular gig was the least I could do. Besides, now the kids and I can work on the deep detail cleaning more often so as to thwart the landfill-o-crap that threatens to overtake their bedrooms.

As I waltzed through the house on a lavender and Pledge scented cloud of happiness, I felt better. Not just because all the tiny hairs had been whisked away, but because I had a hand in the financial recovery of our nation.

Stimulate the economy: hire a housekeeper.

Can’t enough of my wit? See these gems:

Treat Your Husband This Valentine’s Day: Morph Into a 1950s Housewife
Cleaning the Children’s Suite – It’s No Earth Day Up There

Should you desire to clean your own house, check out tips and tricks over on Parent Bloggers Network.

Spring Cleaning the Children’s Suite – It’s No Earth Day Up There

My kids have the entire upstairs of our house to themselves. Two bedrooms, and adjoining bathroom, and a bonus room big enough to store all their toys, craft supplies, video games, fish, and apparently a landfill’s worth of garbage. Yes, four bags to be precise. And that last bag – the chock full bursting at the seams bag? That’s the one I filled after the kids both assured me that there was NO garbage, at all, none, zero, zip, left up there. I knew better.

I don’t know why my children – the same children who throw a fit if they see me toss anything remotely recyclable into the trash, the same children who recently pressed my husband to call for his company to use only recycled plastics, the same children who won’t let me leave the water running for more than 6 seconds at a shot – create so much trash.

And I know, yeah, yeah it’s my fault. But really it’s not because I don’t buy them all the crap that ends up clogging their rooms so that one whole half of my house looks like the opening scene of Wall-E. Between the school treasure boxes, the award certificates they get for merely showing up and breathing at practically anything, competing grandparents, and their friends’ ever increasingly generous birthday goodie bags – we’ve got a load of mess up there! Happy Earth Day!

Among the typical empty candy wrappers, spit laden gobstoppers, wadded up tissue, inkless pens, and toys that don’t work, I found unidentified underwear, fishnet stockings for the Whore Barbie, and a pee-scented sleeping bag wadded into a closet.

Spring cleaning: magical.