I am a really, really shitty housewife.
Okay, so I'm super good at some pretty important things. Today is Tuesday, which means it is bread day. Iliana and I will make two loaves of white, and maybe a loaf of pumpkin for easy grab-and-go breakfasts. Later on I'll make a lasagna and tuck it into the freezer. We're having tacos tonight.
I know how to keep people fed, is what I am saying.
And what's more, I adore doing it.
What I don't adore doing is cleaning up after myself. Wiping down stovetop and cupboard and counter after exploding the kitchen in a whirlwind of meat sauce. Last night I dropped a recipe onto the ground and stepped over it like ten times before grudgingly picking it up.
I just so cannot be bothered.
I mean, part of it is that there are two children careening wildly into everything, leaving trails of grody wherever they go. They're like demonic flower girls at the world's worst wedding. After awhile, you just have to chill out and not freak out about yet another giant predictable spill, if you wan to keep your brain in your head.
(And by you, I mean me.)
Another part is that we bought a (hahaha) "fixer upper" that we haven't finished fixing yet, so everything is in a perpetual state of halfway done. No matter how much I put everything away, the house always looks disheveled. Another thing you just have to kind of go with, if you want to live here. (Which I do.)
But the most important part is that I'd rather be doing almost anything else other than cleaning. Sure, I get into it sometimes, scrubbing down crannies with someone's old toothbrush, but for the most part I just make more messes with them. More bread and messy art projects to contribute to the dirty. What's so wrong with that?
Plus, we're just busy, you know? There's a lot to be done, what with the homework and appointments and sitting around making each other laugh. If I have a choice between sweeping the mess under the dining table and playing a game with my daughter, the mess is going to stay there all the livelong day. All the livelong year, if we're being honest.
Sometimes the mess really does get to me, and I ask the family to pitch in so I don't go bananas. Or we'll invite someone (besides my sister) over for dinner, and make an excited stab at putting away the most egregious tripping hazards. But after that? I'm like fricking meh. Nobody I'm inviting over really gives that much of a shit. That's why they're invited.
All of my best people are really shitty housewives. We may not all be housewives, and we may not be shitty in the exactly same way, but still. We're all letting our meh shit slide. Accepting each other and all of the ways we're doing it wrong. Reassuring each other that disgusting messes don't brand us as failures.
Solidarity for slobs, so that we can feel normal. Feel a little less grody about being gross. My friends and I have been calling it slobidarity, which makes me ridiculously happy. Still living in filth, of course, but at least not absolutely hating myself for it.
And that seems pretty dang cool.
after a typical SAHM work day
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