But where do you live?

Ever been to someone's immaculately groomed house? I'm always envious at first. No whatnots or geegaws. No magazine stack or letter piles. No dishes in the sink, no coffee cups on the table or toys on the floor.

After the first bout of admiration fades, I begin to notice other things. No books on the end table. The fluffy towels are for guests (read: don't touch) and the pillow arrangement on the bed is so intimidating I don't feel comfortable resting there.

And I wonder, where do these people live? Do they drink and eat, read and sleep? Or is every action a chore, because the house must be meticulously maintained at all times?

Where do they live?

Doe-MESS-sticity

I've often fancied myself a writer/editor type who jumped at the career change to freelance to be able to spend more time with my two young children. But this premise leaves me with a few life balance quandaries.

In the abstract, the hierarchy is simple: family, freelance work, housework. But the reality is a little different for a couple of reasons.

The first, quite simply, is that the housework interferes. Taking care of the kids and he spouse requires a fair amount of maintenance housework—at the very least, daily kitchen duties and laundry. And the dining room table needs to be cleaned to make a space for board games and crafts. And how can we possibly make a train track if the carpet hasn't been cleared and vacuumed?

Add to that my natural aversion to working amongst a mess—something I've had to simply overcome, because the alternative means I'll never get anything done.

My writing life can be just as big a mess as my house. First off, I'm a split personality, craving the money producing freelance work and the time to enjoy writing and editing my fiction. I need the freelance work, because there's something properly fulfilling about getting paid for something I like to do. But I also believe that achieving success in the fiction market requires keeping regular hours as a fiction writer. In essence, writing and editing daily. Treating fiction as my business.

That can be a real leap for me, because I often feel I'm stealing time for a "hobby" (god, I hate that word) because I'm unpublished. And wouldn't it be more productive to be cleaning house right now?

Well, I'll admit this is all mostly rambling because my core plan remains the same. I will still opt for writing over laundry often enough to keep me balanced and hope my spouse can forgive me when my absentminded approach to chores means I've accidentally stained his favorite college t-shirt (yes, really. Sorry, honey!)

What are you balancing in your life?

Messing around

Have you ever seen how a 4 year old cleans his room? It's a little work punctuated between long pauses of play. It would be amusing if you weren't on a mission to clean the house.

Most of the time when I'm cleaning the children are already asleep or they're making messes in another part of the house. And we all know there's a hearty amount of work that accumulates without anyone making any messes: dishes, laundry, dust, mold. We're household warriors, striking against the evil invaders that seek to make our homes cluttered and unwelcoming.

My gift to myself today is to ignore the clutter. I've got another mission—literary. The dishes can soak, the laundry can linger, and I'll be fighting other battles.

Live to fight another day, I say.

I am not your maid

We're all blessed with special talents. I'd like to think mine includes a way with words, the gift of compassion, and a creative spirit. If I'm sometimes a little bit of a klutz or a little bit of an organization freak, my friends mostly look past it.

But I have no special talent for toilet cleaning. My dishes are not shinier than yours, and my floors aren't polished. So I have a hard time justifying spending so much time on the chores I don't adore.

Now, on the other hand, as I mentioned before, I am an organization freak. My out of control craft cubby sends low level vibrations of anxiety through me every day. I hate my too full linen closet. And I find it difficult to write if I'm surrounded by mess.

It's a Catch-22. It's with a little bit of resentment I recognize that even if I were working full time outside of the house, the bulk of the housework would fall on me. A good part of it is that I care more. My lovable husband isn't sexist--he just has different standards. (He calls me driven and a perfectionist. And I will admit I can be a little pushy. And maybe a teensey bit anal.)

But with two miniature mess makers in training (read: children), I'm feeling a little ganged up on. I want the kids to recognize their own messes and take responsibility for cleaning them up.

As my mom used to say, "I'm not your maid, and I'm not a short order cook."

God bless you, mom. I finally get it.

Queen of the house

"Who's Mess" started me thinking ... A man's house is his castle, right? So that makes his wife the ... housekeeper?

Wait, that's not how the fairytale goes. But ask yourself this: When you notice a ring around the bathtub at a friend's house, do you automatically think, 'Wow, her husband's a bad housekeeper?'

Why not?

My husband will tackle any household task, from scrubbing toilets to laundry or cooking. But sometimes life gets busy. And I admit I'm a reluctant housekeeper. I'd much rather be going to the swimming pool and the zoo, writing and editing, eating lunch with friends. But a clean space is the most zen thing. It feels great to slip between clean sheets.

Between me and my husband, we can make an agreement that sometimes the dishes will wait. And I just can't control it if company drops by and thinks, 'Wow, she must be really lazy.' But I can resolve to never be so judgmental of my own friends.

Today, I promise to:
• Fold laundry only if I feel like it
• Do dishes if it strikes my fancy
• Cook if I feel hungry

Who's mess?

Last week, we spent the entire day cleaning. The house looked worse than when we started.

My children seem most comfortable with a certain level of clothes and toys covering their floor. I never considered myself a neat freak - hey, messes happen - but I'm quickly re-evaluating that opinion. I feel like I'm constantly telling one of them to pick up. Shoes, construction paper, dishes, books, Play-Dough. It's all spread evenly throughout my house. And I have neither the time nor inclination to stand behind them, ensuring the job is done.

That's why the house looks the way it does. And I'm so tense. My long term goal hasn't changed: my kids will learn how to pick up after themselves. But when company's on the way, I may have to change tactics. Who wants to play outside?

Do it yourself

I got another add from a company that wants to clean my house today. Sometimes the idea appeals to me. I adore clean work and living spaces, but it's almost impossible to achieve unless I'm constantly running behind my two little mess-making cyclones (read: children).

So what's a girl to do?

Well, there's nothing wrong with cleaning your own toilet. I think it keeps you humble ... in a good way. Do you think Mark Sanford would have had time to run around with his Argentine hottie if he was busy cleaning up his own messes? It's a funny idea.

But on a serious note, my real resistance to hiring a cleaning service—beyond cost—is guilt. A few years ago, I read Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America by Barbara Ehrenreich. The premise is fantastic. Barbara takes a series of minimum wage jobs to demonstrate how people can't survive on minimum wage. One of the jobs she took was with a cleaning service.

And we should all be ashamed. These (mostly) women are hardly more than slaves, just so everyone in America can afford to have someone else wash their floors and wipe their windowsills.

So I say, "No thanks." I'd rather scrub my own floors. It's character building, right? That's what I tell myself. At the very least, it keeps me humble.