Clean House? Not So Much

I may have mentioned a time or 20 how I try to squeeze as much freelance work into as little kid-free time as possible, which necessitates arrangements so complex that pulling off a triple axel on dull ice skates seems easy in comparison.

So it was nothing short of a miracle when the mom of my son’s classmate offered to give him a ride home once a week. This meant Miles could stay an extra couple hours for the after-school program instead of being forced to come home and be quiet while his baby brother naps and I work. Plus, I wouldn’t have to cut the baby’s nap short to pick him up. Win-win, right?

The first time this other mom brought Miles home, however, her son needed to come in to use the bathroom. Terror shot through me.

You see, people, our bathroom is not what you’d call “guest ready.” Not only do we not have decorative hand towels and French-milled soaps, but you’re lucky if there’s toilet paper and no puddle on the floor. You might find a half-eaten banana in the bathtub, a sippy cup of milk in the sink, and a toothpaste self-portrait finger-painted on the mirror.

It’s disgusting. I know. But when you have 2 small, exceedingly messy boys and no time (or cleaning lady), that’s what you get. Certainly if we’re expecting guests I’ll run a Clorox wipe over the counters and toilet and chuck the mess behind the shower curtain. But if it’s just us, what’s the point? A clean bathroom lasts only until the first potty break.

So, disguising the panic in my voice, I said to this other mom, “Sure! Of course! Let me just run in there real quick and make sure we have hand soap.” (As if. That was used up long ago when the boys decided to give their action figures a bubble bath in the sink.)

The next week, I was prepared. The bathroom was passably clean. But this time she asked to fill up her kid’s water bottle in the kitchen. Where she encountered a sink full of dirty dishes from breakfast… and lunch. I was humiliated. I’m not striving to be Martha Stewart, but there are low standards and then there are frat-boy standards. We were probably violating several health codes in the kitchen and bathroom alone.

So the following week, my house was CLEAN. Really clean. (I mean, not under-the-couch clean, but come ON. Let’s be realistic here.) And you know what happened? The other mom was running late and drove off without stepping foot in our immaculate abode.

I took some small, sick comfort in the fact that when my son came home from a playdate at their house, he said the kid’s room was really messy.

READ O' THE WEEK: In case you missed it, here's my article on "The Truth About Kids and TV." You'd think I could clean while my kids are watching a show, but no.