always be honest, except for when you lie

Monday, October 25, 2004

despite all efforts

Before having my children I was not proficient at keeping a house. The suggestion that I ought to be offended me. Whether gainfully employed or aspiring without pay to be a professional writer I did not care to be associated with the details of maintaining my home. Things got done as a matter of neccessity but never based on traditional expectations set upon someone of my ilk (that is to say, someone who has breasts and innie bits).

Today I am an aspiring without pay Martha Stewart who has learned to bake and cook and clean. I iron every item that I wash, my family does not suffer the evils of store bought cookies and my tub is clean enough to eat off of.

So why then is my home such a mess? I have dedicated myself to this life of being mommy to these Glorious Children and within that dedication has come a concession that someone must make things liveable and if liveable why not nice. My linen closet is nearly always stocked with beautifully folded (and yes ironed) towels, my food pantry is a sight to behold. The Glorious Children are always sparkly when we go out, wearing clean, pressed clothes and rarely have a dirty face among them. But if you were to drop by on any given Sunday you would be shocked to discover (or perhaps not so shocked now) that we live in a state of perpetual disarray.

Is it The Children and their excellence at making rather than correcting messes?

Is it the fact that there are four people here every day all day who are busy living life without a care in the world for whether you will be dropping by?

Is it that the day is still made up of only 24 measly hours and that for so many of them my body still requires sleep?

No matter the effort I attend it I am forever tripping over a toy, a stray pair of jeans or shoes that don't stay where I leave them. So if you do drop by later be warned that I'll have to move the mountain of toys from in front of the door to let you in and the cushions of my couch are strewn about the family room. The lunch dishes are still on the counter and our jackets are hanging off the backs of the dining room chairs. Don't think me odd if I insist on showing you to our master bedroom where I will happily show off all of the clothes neatly tucked into drawers and indulge me if I ask you to eat off of our tub.

I am an embarrassment to Martha Stewart and all those like her. But I do try, I really do try.