Especially when you have a toddler in the house. Especially when the toddler is almost three, because they are more than capable of manipulating a perfectly sane and full grown adult into an acceptable candidate for asylum residence at that age.
For two days now I have been desperately attempting to deep clean my house. Chaos and clutter don't bother me half as much as they do my husband, God love him, so the cleaning has really been intended as a present of sorts for him when he returns home from his last ever drill wekend with The National Guard.
I started by straightening up our "stash". Well, part of it anyway...
Other than that, I have not made much progress, as I am basically moving in one maddeningly short circle. As soon as I step foot into one room with the Shop-Vac, swiffer and vinegar, my precious kid sets out to destroy another room. Usually the room I have most previously cleaned. I love the child to pieces, but I was exasperated last night, as I sat in my living room totally tired and bewildered at how I could put hours into cleaning and yet my house look virtually unchanged, but today, the frustration came to a head.
"Housework can't kill you, but why take a chance?" -Phillis Diller
I approve of that statement. And while housework may not kill you, it can make you BLEED, baby. FACT.
Today was laundry day, which means if you stop by our house you will be greeted by damp clothes hanging from curtain rods, draped over the staircase, flung over cabinet doors, and laying over the rungs of an old fashioned drying rack. I even rigged up an impromptu indoor clothes line, using an extension cord.
We like to air dry our clothes when we can, because it saves on energy and money. And, its a good reason to whip out one of my Dot's Diner aprons and fill the pocket up with clothes pins so I can pretend I live in a 1950's sit-com.
At one point I noticed that the child was unclipping clothes from the clothes line and throwing them on the floor. *SIGH* So I told the child to, "Please go sit in the living room and for the love of Pete, don't touch anything that isn't yours!" Which was really quite a stupid thing to say, as the clothes are technically hers, but after hearing ,"Mommy! MOMMY! Mommy! MOMmy!MomMY! MOMMMMMY!" for the 4,132nd time today, and being kicked, poked, pinched and prodded for the 2, 356th time today, and being begged for cookies, Scooby and/or Shaggy and Max and Ruby for the 1,879,537th time today, and saying, "Please stop pulling my hair. Please, don't eat my hair! PLEASE STOP touching that! Please do NOT do that! PLEASE PUT THAT BACK! PLEASE DO NOT KICK ME AND THEN TELL ME TO GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" for the 1,725,965,368th time TODAY, my brain wasn't counting on the child taking notice of any technicalities.
And she didn't. Instead, she decided to play in the cat's litter box, just as soon as I had my back turned to her pulling more things from the washing machine.
My germaphobe sirens(which don't fire off all that often) began wailing on hyper drive. The arm full of wet laundry hit the floor and I ran to snatch up the child and throw her in the shower(where we had finished bathing only a half hour before). On the way to the shower my heel slipped off of my flip flop and I felt the sharp, stabbing pain of something, God only knows what, pricking my flesh. Stepping on crap is not unsusual when you live with a two year old, though. Your feet get used to it.
As I rinsed her off I just happened to glance towards my foot and noticed a pool of bright red surrounding my heel.
Crap. Whatever I stepped on made me bleed. And bleed and bleed some more. On the floor, on a rag rug, on my shoe-blood, blood, blood.
I took the kid out of the shower, and as I sat on the toilet lid trying to contain the mess of bloody foot, she ran out of the bathroom naked, her towel flying behind her like a cape. I would have preferred she clothe herself, just so that had she peed, there would have been something to catch it(other than the hardwood floors), but I wasn't about to argue. There was bleeding going on. I could have died. Preventing death far outweighs preventing nudity and possible inconvenient urination, in my book.
She came back a few minutes later, not to check up on me, but to show me the pennies in her mouth.
At that moment, I gave up. I love the man dearly, but if he wants the house to look like a magazine photo for even just an hour, he is going to have to do it on his own.
And, realistically, he'll probably have to buy a whole 'nother house that isn't a 112 year old money pit, to do it.
Anyway, housework cuts, y'all. It cuts deep.
And I only have so much blood to bleed.
So I am going to spend the rest of my night counting down until the child's bedtime, then kicking back with a gluten-free beer and a PB&J, corn tortilla style(we'll talk more about the gluten free thing tomorrow).
Remember people, housework is DANGEROUS, and should only be attempted by trained professionals.
And if you know a trained professional who prefers to be paid in cupcakes and compliments, then please, for the love of all things sugary, send them my way!