I Hate It

January 22, 2009 | Category: Thy Wedded Life

Where we lived when I was a teenager. My room is the 2nd floor window facing left.

Before I quit my job to be a SAHM, I was constantly cleaning. A walk from the front of the house to the back could take a thousand steps. I would pick this up, sweep that mess, drop those books into the bag. Not to give the impression that all my efforts actually equaled a clean house.

Uh, no.

I'm not a neat freak. Or a control freak. All my freakishness, frankly, falls in a whole different arena.

In fact, I was a pretty unruly and untidy kid. My parents once famously shoveled my room clean while I was at summer camp. Yes, it took rakes and hoes and implements of destruction just to unearth the floor of my closet.

By my mid-20's I'd found a habitable level of discipline. "Habitable" being pretty loose, and subject to change due to mood, weather, and musical choice.

Yet as low as I go (and I can go low) - I've got nothing on CD. That man actually leaves a trail, like the Peanuts character Pig-Pen.

It's important to know where the lines are. Strengths, weaknesses, expectations, etc. etc. And with him and me, that line? It's written with a fat-bottom Sharpie around the dishes, laundry, bathroom, and heads out on a rickety rail out to the trash cans in the alley.

We argued about it, as you do. We made lists, and split chores. Even with a housekeeper, keeping the house free being condemned as hazardous living quarters was always a battle. Much more than maybe your usual kid-and-dog-and-old-house-with-no-closets one.

You can see where this is headed, right?

No more cleaner.

I am a "stay at home mom" now. That means that not only does my fair share of the housekeeping fall on me - but his, too. Because, let's face it, his mess was tossed on top of Bear's mess and all that is piled on my mess. So it takes a bottle of Lysol and a big pair of bright yellow gloves just to get down to my undies in the hamper.

I hate it.

It makes me feel less than equal and a drudge to be dragging a sponge through a spill he left behind. I grit my teeth. Every time. I shout when he calls and stew with the injustice I feel.

Sara the wonderpoodle knocked over my milk this morning and I opened my mouth and just screamed.

I know I'll get over this. I know I have to. There is no money to make this go away. And after all these years, I know I can't change him. He does the chores he does. He fetches me coffee, even when it's out of his way. He washes up the dog vomit, knowing it makes me gag. He does a dozen other things that I know take up the time that cleaning would, and usually I'm grateful. Because he does contribute, in other ways.

But the housekeeping part of this SAHM/WAHM job description? I'm having an overwhelmingly hard time coming to peace with it.

I just...

I just...

I hate it.

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