You mean I have to clean the house?

I was having a hard time figuring out why the house was so thrashed. I mean, didn’t I have a system? Don’t I ask the kids to clean parts before I leave it? Doesn’t Mate clean the kitchen sometimes? Haven’t I been making the short people clean up their stuff? What’s missing?

Oh? Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Crap.

Okay–I used to actually CLEAN the house. I did. I clearly remember a time that if I didn’t, we’d be swimming in filth. I used to have some pride in how my home looked. I’ve been trying to remember what happened to supplant this, i.e., why I seem to be wading through some serious crap to do simple things–like go to the bathroom, and I’ve come up with some reasons why I can’t haul my fat, lazy ass off the club chair enough to make my home un-embarrassing.

* I was pregnant. Okay, I admit this was almost three years ago, but I think those days when I was pregnant with Arwyn, trying to write, work full time and chase Kewyn were the origins of my determination to make everybody else BUT me clean the house. I remember cleaning house back then, when Mate’s mom came by to help me out, but I was part time then and the after school stuff wasn’t nearly as crazy as it has been this year. Which brings me to…

* After school stuff. Oi. Just, fucking, Oi. Exhausting even to write about. Which leads me to…

* Writing. I take it MUCH more seriously now than I did before Arwyn was born. I guess I realized that if I wanted to keep up this ‘quirky little hobby’ and make it a career, some things would have to make it to the backburner. What I DIDN’T realize was how GUILTY I’d feel about letting my house become an embarrassing stew pot of bacteria and detritus. When I look at my kitchen table I think CPS is going to be knocking on my door at any minute–and then see the spaghilli I cooked for dinner (not one of my better experiments, that) and lock me up and throw away the key. Of course I’d have to hobble to the prison cell, which brings me to…

*My foot. Just frickin ouch. I swear–I’m finally getting to the point in part time/afterschool activities/writing schedule wherein I thought I could catch up, and I find I’m surfing the net or knitting more (don’t mind that much, truth to tell) because walking FUCKING HURTS. I can go shopping. I can walk around the block a couple of times a week for exercise. I can cook dinner. But doing housework–all of the standing, the little trips, all of it–kills me. And whining about it just feels old. (Mom’s feeble, old, and falling apart kids–hey, could you pick up the slack? Maybe raise yourself while you’re at it? And, yeah–plan Christmas, that would be AWESOME!!!) And usually the times I’m doing it are not good writing times–they would, in fact, be REALLY good cleaning times, because the kids are running around anyway and I could distract myself by playing with them which make cleaning the house a zillion times less onerous. And make that CPS call seem a little less likely.

So, you add it all up and the house is disgusting–but I’ve got to tell you, even with all of these good reasons for a crappy house, I just discovered the best one of all–and I have to thank Galad for it, because she said it first, and with a little tweaking, I love it. I want it on a T-shirt and a coffee cup and magnet and a needlepoint sampler. So thanks, Galad, for leading me to a true epiphany:

I APOLOGIZE FOR THE STATE OF THE HOUSE. I’VE RECENTLY DISCOVERED THAT I HATE HOUSECLEANING AND MY HUSBAND ISN’T PICKY. THANK YOU–I’LL BE KNITTING.

so there.

(I’ll clean the table tomorrow so we can have pizza, dinner, and ice cream for Trystan’s b-day, and set the kids on the living room on Saturday so we can get the tree. It will have to be enough:-)