The second best part of being a working mom

My cleaning lady. Every other Friday I come home to an immaculate house. The wood floors gleam, the toilets sparkle, every single bed is made (at the same time!). When I walk in, I swear I can hear angels singing (usually Handel's Messiah).

I clean. I clean from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep. I am continually picking up, and, on average, I complete more than 15 loads of laundry every week. It usually takes me more than 2 hours just to pick up the house to a point where it can actually be scrubbed and polished. I know that I have earned these children (most certainly products of the mother's curse. You know the one--Someday, I hope you have children exactly like you!) I was a slob as a child. To be honest, I would probably still be a slob if there was any possibility that I could escape actually living in my mess (i.e. if my mother worked here). But since I can't escape it, I've wrestled my basic self into some semblance of order. It is a fine veneer, full of holes and cracks (more accurately clutter and dust), but I swear I try.

So that is another reason I am glad I work. I can justify, rationalize, and afford to have someone else come into my house to clean it every other week. Until Claire was born, I did it myself. Contrary to my husband's fond belief, I CAN scrub a floor and clean a toilet. I just really, really don't like to. I like my professional job a thousand times better than cleaning my house. Before we hired Darlene, I spent most of every single Saturday cleaning. I started with the picking up process that is infinitely more complicated when continually interrupted by the needs of little people who seem to produce clutter effortlessly, like little tinkerbells dropping pixie dust. I would also do most of my laundry on weekends in those days. By the time I got everything picked up, washed, folded, dried, put away, polished, scrubbed, wiped, and cleaned, Saturday was usually gone and I was hysterically following people around muttering "don't touch that!" "I just scrubbed that!", "get out of that!" It wasn't pretty.

So now, Saturdays are a lot different. I still grieve a little bit about just how darn quickly my gleaming house deteriorates into its typical controlled chaos. I bite my tongue to keep from screeching when socks, shoes, and bookbags are dumped inside the front door, crumbs are dribbled across the clean floor, puddles make their way from my driveway to my entryway. I vow every single week that THIS time, I'll keep it looking tidier longer. I usually don't. But it sure feels less painful to say, "We paid good money to have this floor scrubbed," then it used to feel to say, "I scrubbed this floor on my hands and knees!"

Darlene has asked me, on occasion, for advice on how I like certain things cleaned. My general instruction is simply this "not by me." That's how I like it cleaned.