I Used To Be A Good Housewife.

Then I got a house.  And became a wife.

Seriously, when I lived in an apartment with a roommate and was single I was — to put it mildly — a complete and total clean FREAK!

So much so that my mother bought me a ton of cleaning supplies for one of my birthdays and I was thrilled.

My half of the apartment was always spotless.  I didn’t at all mind cleaning the community areas because I figured if I wanted it clean then I could just do it.  (Plus at one point I lived with two boys so it was either I do it or… No, that’s it.  Either I do it or nothing.)

Point being:  I was clean.  My stuff was clean.  People who lived with me’s stuff was clean.

Then I got married.   But we still lived in an apartment.  So although living with this one boy seemed to be a little more difficult than the two I had lived with previously — still, I think I kept the apartment pretty clean at all times.  Clean and organized.

Then we got a house.  A regular 3 bedroom, 2 bath house — but much bigger than any apartment I had ever lived in.  And it’s the dirtiest place on earth.

Seriously!  Would I lie to you?  (yes.  but only to spare your feelings.)

I’m telling you — this house hides dust bunnies from me and waits until I’ve swept and then spits them out overnight as if to say, “My Lord woman!  You haven’t swept in ages!”

Stupid liar house.

I will clean the bathtub and that very night Huck will find a puddle of mud somewhere and roll in it.

I vacuum and then Kevin accidentally tracks dirt through the house.

I will clean off the dining room table (aka:  The place where all mail goes to die.) and then my husband will bring home some books he borrowed from a friend and some paperwork we need to fill out.  Plus, I’ve checked the mail again.  And I’ve placed one of the 314 scarves I own over the dining room chair until the chair becomes so covered in scarves that no one could ever sit there.

And I know this stuff happens.  It’s life — so I’m not blaming my dog or my husband or myself.  (I would never blame myself for my scarf-hoarding.)

The thing is — although sometimes I get in that “this house is a wreck!” mode and start making lists and assigning chores (Huck, go clean your room) — for the most part, I’ve lost my inner freak.

I don’t know what happened.  Or why.  Or when.  It’s like I got used to the craziness that was moving day and decided that it was OK for it to be this way sometimes.  Except ‘sometimes’ turned into ‘most of the time.’

And right now, I am a temporary stay at home mother and you would think (incorrectly) that this may be a time when my house and cleanliness would meet.  But the opposite has happened — because babies aren’t at all clean.

Now my coffee table is littered with baby things (burp cloths, gas drops, bottles, pacifiers, nail clippers) and the laundry is trying to take over my life.

The only real difference between going-to-work-Kate and working-at-the-house-Kate is that where I place the blame is different.  (Crazy Day At Work vs. Crazy Nut Baby.)

The real reason is — I will find almost anything else to do besides clean.  Like…write a blog.

Anyway — this house has been an eye opener.  It has opened my eyes to the fact I never want a house larger than this one.  Ever.  And preferably, I’d like a house that’s smaller.

(Except with a bigger kitchen and bigger closets and a million dollars hidden in the attic.)

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