My neighbours have a sign in their house that reads “With children, cleanliness isn’t next to Godliness. It’s next to impossible.” No kidding. My house is such a disaster that I’m actually starting to feel creeped out. There are enough crumbs between the cushions on our living-room couch to make a loaf of bread, enough splatters of paint on the kitchen floor to make Jackson Pollock jealous, and so much dust in the corners of our bedroom that you could stuff a pillow. It’s disgusting.
Yet I feel like we’re living with Pig Pen from Charlie Brown: just as soon as something is cleaned up, it’s instantly dirty again. Or like I’m following a hurricane, desperately and pathetically and frantically scooping up one mess before moving on to the next one.
I’m a big believer in letting the kids get messy, whether they’re pretending to bake with little bowls of flour and sugar or dumping out huge boxes of blocks. But no wonder I can barely keep the surface clean, never mind get to the depths of the carpets, when mini eruptions of stuff are happening all around me.
The worst part of it all is that once it gets to the point where things are really gross, it all seems overwhelming. Where do I start? With the pine-needle-covered front entrance? With the muffin-crumb-coated dining-room floor? With the icky toilets and tub?
It’s all enough to make me want to leave it till tomorrow...