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.

House Envy

Today we had a little end-of-the-year party for Miles’ preschool class, hosted by one of the parents at their home. I waited until the very last minute to feed the baby and dress all 3 of us, ensuring the best chance of us leaving the house in our original outfits. So, naturally, we arrived 40 min. late, the baby covered in spit-up.

Anyway, this family’s house was GORGEOUS. I mean stunning. It was built around the same time as ours in the 1930s, judging by the identical bathroom tile. But that’s where the similarities stopped. Their house had been tastefully updated and beautifully decorated. Every room looked like the page of a magazine.

I tried not to get all green-eyed, but I had to laugh when Miles said when we were in the bathroom, “Mom, look at all the beautiful things in here.” It’s true. We don’t have French hand soap in a silver dispenser and flowers in our bathroom; just stacks of rumpled books, damp mismatched towels, and a plastic potty.

Of course, if we were having the whole class over, I’d make a little more of an effort. But, still. When we got back home, I looked around our cluttered abode with disappointment. I like to think we have SOME style, but there’s only so much you can do with hand-me-down furniture and a coat of paint. Especially when you have a dog who’s prone to shedding and 2 kids.

But you know, I’ve never aspired to live in a designer showplace. I certainly didn’t grow up that way. I remember one time in high school going over to a friend’s sleek, modern, white-carpeted house. Everything was glass and stainless steel, and nothing was out of place. When I returned home to our eclectic mess, I asked my mom what was up with our non-decor. “We prefer to spend our money on education and travel,” she said. Touche. The irony is, when I visit them now I think, “Wow, that upholstery has really held up well, and look at those gorgeous wood floors.”

Now that I’m a homeowner myself and know what things cost, I’m amazed my parents even did as much as they did with our house growing up. My friends and I joke that the minimum estimate for most any smallish home improvement job is $2,000. All of us have encountered it. Want the stairwell stripped of wallpaper and repainted? $2k. Built-in shelving for that tiny corner of the family room? $2k. Unless, of course, you’re talking about waterproofing our basement. Then it’s $10k (!). Needless to say, our basement still floods when it rains.

I know it’s silly, but now I’m self-conscious about having my son's schoolmates over for playdates. Will they judge us for our ghetto duct tape and foam babyproofing around the fireplace? Will they sneer at our outdated kitchen appliances and chipped tile? Will they wonder why there’s a changing table and diaper pail in the dining room? (Because it’s easier than trudging upstairs 10x a day!)

Probably not. Probably it’s just my own insecurities and I should get over them. But it didn’t stop me from embarking on a cleaning frenzy the minute we got home. Now, the damp towels are folded neatly and the potty is shoved out of sight. Maybe I’ll even buy some of that fancy French soap.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: This was written by one of my students: The Myth of the Perfect House. Kinda makes you think, huh?

SHOUT OUT: Happy Birthday to my dear old dad! (Emphasis on the “old.” Hee, hee!)

Domestic Goddess by Default

I have never been an enthusiastic practitioner of the domestic arts -- cooking, cleaning, sewing, gardening, crocheting, what have you. I mean, I CAN whip up some tasty peanut noodles. I DO clean my kitchen (too often for my liking, yet still not often enough). I HAVE managed to keep a few houseplants alive. I even sewed a quilt for my unborn child. (Hey, I had to pass the time somehow during my 41+ week pregnancy!) But I wouldn’t say I particularly enjoy these activities.

I know people who love to cook. Look at Rachael Ray. The woman cooks for a living, and still claims she goes home and makes dinner every night. My question is: why?? Same goes for people who make their own clothes. I can appreciate a hand-sewn quilt, but why would you spent all that time making a dress when you could just go out and buy one? Gardening I sort of understand -– at least you can admire and maybe even eat the fruits of your labor -– but it’s still one of the least-appealing activities I can think of. Just the THOUGHT of dirt under my nails makes me cringe. And to me, mulch smells like vomit.

OK, so Holly Homemaker I’m not. Unfortunately for me, none of my hobbies (if you can even call them that) lend themselves to raising a child. Traveling, reading, going to concerts, eating out, exercising, even writing is not easy with a baby in tow. Early on, I was frustrated that motherhood curtailed so many of my favorite pastimes: the beach was too bright for a baby, his neck was too floppy for a bike seat, kayaking was too dangerous, and whenever he was sleeping, I was too tired to read.

Now that Miles is a toddler, he’s more adaptable. Still, we spend a lot of time housebound. Naps are sacred, he goes to bed early, and he prefers to stay home and play with his toys a lot of the time. So, I have been forced to find things to do around the house – like cooking, cleaning, and even (yikes!) gardening. It’s true. Miles and I spent a nice afternoon planting window boxes. Well, I planted while he dug in the dirt for worms and emptied the watering can on his shoes.

My mom, a skilled sewer and bread baker, revealed that she took up baking after she had a baby. It was a quiet, time-consuming activity she could do while he napped. Plus, it made the house smell nice and everyone got to enjoy the finished product. I learned to knit when I was pregnant, because I could do something productive and chat or watch TV at the same time. (Sadly, I ditched that hobby the minute I finished my first, and only, scarf.)

I have friends who are avid scrapbookers. (Or "scrappers," per the lingo.) That, I can get on board with. At least it’s an attractive way to deal with all those shoeboxes and/or hard drives full of photos. Other moms I know refinish furniture and make their own stationery. All productive activities you can do while keeping an eye on a baby. And that don’t take too much brain power. And that can be easily interrupted should you need to nurse, change a diaper, or rescue your toddler when he’s wedged his head between the slats of a kitchen chair. (Not that that’s ever happened to me. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course it has!)

I have not embraced my inner Martha. I do not aspire to win any bake-offs. I will never make a pair of overalls for my child or decoupage a lamp. (Actually, I don’t even know what that means.) I might, however, keep my window boxes alive this year. Fingers crossed.

LAUGH O’ THE WEEK: We were at the pool and another boy had a squirt gun. Miles asked me what it was. I paused, reluctant to introduce the concept of firearms. “What do you think it is?” I asked him. “A hairdryer!” he shouted. Sure. Let’s go with that.