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?

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.

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?