I don’t know. Some times being a stay-at-home mom can be a little more challenging than others. Sometimes it feels more like I’m just a housewife, which sounds, to me, really lousy. While other moms are out working and being productive, I’m at home, most likely in sweats, picking up toys and dirty dishes. All…day…long. Don’t get me wrong; I do not want to go to a full-time job. I LIKE staying at home with our daughter. It’s just that it’s such a thankless job. A job where progress never really happens. A job that is much more difficult than it appears. No bon-bons and soap operas for this lady.
I never get to enjoy the fruits of labor from cleaning the house top to bottom. You know that feeling when everything’s all clean and sparkly and there’s a fresh scent and the laundry is all done and put away? That feeling after a cleaning sesh that was actually enjoyable because you can actually make headway? That feeling where you can light some candles, pour a glass of wine and watch reality television or read a book without even the slightest touch of guilt? Well, between my tornado of a toddler and a husband who doesn’t think twice about where his dirty clothes land or what happens to his dishes after he leaves them on the coffee table, I never get to have that moment.
Even if I do get all of the clutter picked up, the toys put in the toybox, the dishes in the dishwasher and the laundry all folded, I NEVER get to the point where I wipe down the bathroom or mop the floor…what’s it called again when you wipe down your furniture? Dust? No. I don’t do that either.
Why? Because I know that nap time only lasts two hours unless I get lucky. I know that when said nap time is over, all of the mess that got put away will be upheaved and strewn around the floor again. I know that after I go to bed hubby will most likely have a glass of milk and some other snack, whose dishes will still be on the coffee table in the morning when I get up to start everything over again. The dirty underwear will be in front of the bathtub, the jeans hanging over the back of the couch, the socks directly in front of the couch, and most likely globs of jelly or a warm bottle of ketchup on the countertop.
So, I wonder, what’s the point of cleaning up the mess at all? I’m not entirely sure that our house wouldn’t start resembling an episode of Hoarders, but maybe I’m okay with that.
If I could spend half the time just picking up after the other two people in my house — oh, all right, I guess I leave my own fair share of the mess — I could probably actually pull out a cleaning product or sift through the box-of-crap-I’ll-deal-with-later-cause-I-don’t-know-where-to-put-it-now. But it doesn’t happen.
Maybe the problem is that we just have too much crap.
So you know what? I decided to treat myself to a little time alone with my blog. A little time so I can just complain without worrying about sounding like an ungrateful diva. I don’t have to get up and go to a job that I hate, so what do I have to whine about? The truth is, I don’t really like working. Lazy? Perhaps. (But I’ve always done a good job when I actually did have a job, so future employers, don’t count this against me.)
And what do you know? As soon as I sit down and get comfortable with my computer, the “you are now running on reserve battery power” message comes up.
Guess I’m going to use this time to read a book!