No time to write this week. The kids and I have been sick and the dishes and laundry are piling up. Every time I clean one pile, another magically appears. (Why does the same principle not apply to the cash in my checking account?!) I hate housework. I hate it so much. I hate the repetition and futility of washing clothes and dishes that will be instantly replaced by newly soiled clones. I hate how, in the time it takes me to clear and wash the breakfast dishes, my kids can cover the entire living room with Elmer’s glue, pencil shavings, and cotton balls.
I wish I could just accept the filth and get on with my life, but I can’t. I don’t function well when the house is a mess. During my separation, family and friends have asked how they can help, but I don’t feel right asking, “Can you come over every other day, tidy up and then leave a casserole on your way out?” I don’t want a husband, but I sure could use a wife right about now.
I’ve tried getting my boys to help. If I frame my plea just right, my six year-old-future-debate-team-captain will pitch-in… a little. His younger brother is useless (in regards to house cleaning, that is). If he can’t think of a good reason not to help he pulls the “I have to poop” card. On the upside, poop is a 25 minute activity that significantly decreases his mess-making radius. On the down side, he strongly believes it is also a social activity and spends the entire 25 minutes yelling, “Mama! I want you to snuggle me on the toilet!”