to be unable to keep your house even remotely habitable. To not be able to muster the energy to do something about it despite being well aware of and duly frustrated by lack of habitability?
I have some ishoooooos with cleanliness, I’ll admit. I do prefer my house to be a certain way, you know, to be able to see the floor, to have a sofa which is not encrusted with unidentifiable globs of, well, who knows?
Now, I know, I have a four-month-old baby who likes to be held against my body for about 19 hours out of every day. I have a three-year-old who seems to be compulsively messy. (Just to give an example, we have those letter magnets on the fridge and every day, WITHOUT FAIL, he heads over and sweeps them onto the floor, nods his head and with a satisfied look and turns to find another area of the house he can destroy. I leave them on the floor now.) I have a ten-year-old with a very strong sense of the orderly, it’s just that her sense of what is orderly may involve laying out everything she will require for school the next day on the lounge room floor – and leaving it there – so that she can check it before she goes to school in the morning! I have a twelve-year-old who….well, he’s just smelly.
To top all that off, I have a pelvis. A pelvis which decided to pack it in on pregnancy #3 and has left me in pain and with limited mobility pretty much ever since, actually, I was starting to get better around the time Pudding turned 2 – and then I fell pregnant again, so, yeah, I have to limit my activity. Fine.
On paper, I have a really good case for being a lazy slack-arse. But I have the gene, you know, the superwoman gene. The one which causes a part of my brain to malfunction on a daily basis as I sit amongst the filth and detritus left by my children (and Beefcake). My malfunctioning brain cannot shake the “bad mother” feeling and so I sit and I feel bad and I can’t be bothered to fix it (maybe scrape some of it into a pile in the corner) and feel bad.
Today, though, I think I’ve hit on what the problem is. You see, my darling Beefcake works from home. He has done ever since we returned to the land of oz from far away in March. It’s good, in it’s way. He sees more of the kids, he helps out with things like the grocery shopping because – pelvis. BUT, he makes mess. He makes a horrendous mess, and I , because he is here do less. You see, when he was at work I had to play the good housewife, so that he would return to a beautifully preened nest filled with beautifully preened babies after spending his day working to provide for us. His being here not only adds more mess, but he has taken away my sense of direction. Robbed me of my mission to trick him into thinking I am perfect and AMAZING. Cos he’s here and he sees it all. There is no chance to do the mad clean-up in the last half-hour before he gets home, and frankly there’s no motivation to do it.
So, I sit and feel bad.
Ahhhhhh, much better, I knew it was all his fault.