I will walk past a basket of clean laundry for four days before I sit down to fold it. Of course that’s after waiting until the hamper is overflowing and stuffing the high capacity machine to the brim because I walked past the dirty laundry all week.
I wait to vacuum until I can have the satisfaction of seeing the debris on the floor sucked up into the cleaner and hear the larger particles rattle up the tubes. If I can walk through the house without crumbs sticking to my socks the vacuum doesn’t come out.
I dust only after I can write poetry in the light specks on the dresser, and when I do it’s usually with the dirty shirt on top of the hamper in a rush to get rid of the shameful snow that has accumulated.
I am the mom who lets my youngest have cottage cheese, two pieces of pizza, a bowl of cereal and a cookie for breakfast.
On rainy, sick or otherwise crummy days I can veg behind my tablet or phone for prolonged periods whilst my kids do the same.
I mop my kitchen floor only after something sticky spills on it, which means it’s actually the cleanest area of my house.
When given a choice between domestic duties or running, gardening, or farting around I will always chose the latter, often to my own detriment.
I am that mom. I tend toward laziness and half-assery. I work in bursts, and only as much as necessary. I accomplish the necessary, and leave the for another day…or week. My house is never actually gross, at least not for long, but it’s never quite clean either.
I’d like to say it’s because of the demands of parenting, because I prioritize my kids, and that’s somewhat true, but I suspect that once the kids are no longer in need of my constant attention I still won’t be in the running for good housekeeping awards.
I am that mom. That mom that gets by. The one whose house can sometimes be embarrassing when visitors come by unannounced. The one who shoves the laundry basket into the corner so I don’t feel as guilty walking around it for the 37th time this week. It’s not the housework is beneath me, it’s that in a perfect world it should be beneath me. At least I would like to believe that.
But I’m over feeling guilty about it. Life is hard enough without adhering to random standards that you don’t truly value and allowing them to disrupt your peace.
So I’ll be that mom. I’ll name it and claim it. I’m the head honcho of half-assery and that’s not going to change. So suck it housekeeping standards and mom guilt. I’m fine as is.