The dirty truth

On the tidiness spectrum, I've always been somewhere near the middle. Unfortunately, living with two little people who couldn't care less whether we have a clean house has seemed to nudge me toward the slovenly side. I've said to Mark time again that I don't know how people do it, have young kids and maintain a clean house. It's all I can do to stay on top of the big three: clean bathrooms, clean kitchen and laundry. Even at that, I seem to be coming up short on the kitchen especially. My countertops alone can send me into a funk. I try not to even look at the floor, which cannot stay clean for more than a few hours.

It doesn't help that on the organization spectrum, I lean toward the dis side. I find myself drowning in piles of kindergarten artwork and handouts. Each day Ben brings home another stack. I have my system of putting special artwork in a binder, important handouts in a folder and tossing the rest. Despite my best intentions, I always fall behind. Usually Ben's papers find their way to the piles that litter the countertops for at least a few days before being filed.

"But Jess," you may politely assert, "we all have a hard time keeping our houses clean." Why, just the other day my friend Julie confessed to me that she hadn't dusted in a month and it was driving her crazy. Ha! I don't remember the last time I actually dusted. Dusting for me typically consists of looking at a surface and thinking, gee that looks dusty, and then swiping at the dust with my hand sending particles flying into the air. No, really.

"But Jess," you may press on, "I've been to your house and it looks perfectly fine." To that I will mentally pat you on the head in a patronizing way and think, "Oh good, you fell for it." If you come over and my house looks tidy, it's most likely because I knew you were coming and scrambled around like a crazy woman to get the house looking decent. If you had come over unannounced, here's what you would see. Various socks, shoes, and books littering the living room floor. And toys, lots of toys. Most likely you would step on a car, probably Chick Hicks from the movie Cars. I do at least once a day. ("Dinoco is all mine!" "Chachooga, chachooga, chica, chica," he shouts.)

And if you really think I'm the slightest bit organized you haven't seen the pièce de résistance of the house, the room that my kids, unaided, have coined "the messy side." This would be the unfinished storage half of our basement. There beats the ugly and cluttered heart of the house. Much like the Wizard of Oz, when kids come with their parents and approach the messy side, I think, "Don't look over there kids, there's nothing to see." I know it doesn't have to be with this way, but right now taming the mess seems an impossible task.

In my doctor's office I read this saying: "The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow, for children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow. So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep. I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep." I've always thought this was apt, and right now it describes pretty well the philosophy to which I ascribe. So if you come to my house, go easy on me. And whatever you do, don't look at the messy side.