Housewifery Reformation
I started a new house cleaning program. One that is guaranteed to easily move me from clutter and chaos to organization of my time, home, and life. Easily, huh? The program is outlined in a book entitled, "Sidetracked Home Executives" written by the self proclaimed "slob sisters."
I've read the book. Cover to cover. I've implemented their ideas with a computer program that will tell me daily what my chores are. Everything from making the bed to cleaning the oven is plugged into my program. Nothing is too mundane or habitual for my glorified to do list, let me tell ya. It all but tells me when to take a potty break and which bathroom to use.
My day begins at 6:20 am with the two year old bounding into my room with literally an arm load of toys. She dumps half the contents of her toy box on my bedroom floor and joins me and her brother in bed. Fortunately, Roman is already awake and squeals with delight at the sight of his beloved sister. I get out of bed and find the floor cluttered with the toys she's strewn all around. I clear a path for myself to the bathroom, where I put my to do list the night before. As if I'm a gypsy fortune teller, I see my entire day laid out before me. In plain black and white, inkjet ink.
First on the list: situps (it's either do 'em or look forever 5 months pregnant). I'm mid crunch when it hits me... or rather she hits me. Full force. All her weight. Onto my crunched, flabby baby belly. Ugh, that hurt. "I love you, Mom," says Reilly obviously craving attention at an early hour. "I love you, too, Mom," she replies to herself (or was that to me she was replying?). "And I love brother and I love Daddy and I love GG and Papa..."
She doesn't quit talking again until 7:04 pm when she falls sound asleep in my arms. For those of you keeping track, that's over 12 straight hours of nonstop, ceaseless talking. I have so much two year old running around in my brain that I'm starting to develop a crush on Bob the Builder. Can he fix me? Yes, he can!
By 7:45 am I had made Reilly's breakfast, changed the baby's diaper twice, run a mile and a half, planned our dinner menu, and was in the midst of doing two loads of laundry. And I hadn't even made a dent in that damn to do list.
According the reformed slob sisters, to succeed in this cleaner, more organized and time efficient lifestyle, one must finish the to do list before leaving the house. If I were to keep to this rule, I might never leave the house again. I would be a prisoner of my warden -- the to do list. So if days go by and you haven't seen me, you know I'm trapped inside with two small offspring and a sheet of paper ordering me around.
On the list was instructions to clean the bathroom and sweep and mop the whole downstairs. This would take a normal person about 20 minutes at the most. But I am not normal. Neither are my children. I set about my tasks, however, neglecting this fact.
I was about five minutes into my sweeping when Reilly takes a tennis ball from Truman (our miniature dachshund) and shoves it into a slot in Roman's exersaucer. I look over and poor Tru is up on his hind legs with his long snout pushed into a plastic toy barn attached to the exersaucer. He is trying to pull the ball out but he's only managed to get it wedged into the barn loft. Roman thinks this is high comedy and giggles to show his approval.
Reilly Kate has moved on to better things at this point. She is now running the length of our couch and leaping from the arm rest of the couch onto our rocking recliner. Run run run... leap... Land!!! And each time she lands she says, "Be careful, Mom. Be careful! Just be careful." What the heck to I have to be careful about? I keep my distance from her just to be safe. She seems to know what she's doing. I don't interfere.
To finish the floor with interruptions like this every five minutes or so, it takes me three hours. It's 11 am before I'm done with the floor and on to the bathroom. This is a little powder room off of our living room. It shouldn't take more than ten minutes. And it wouldn't have, if I hadn't let the dogs outside.
We live in a fairly new house and the grass in our yard hasn't fully grown in yet. It can get pretty muddy out there. But I didn't pay attention and I let the dogs back in without washing their feet first. All over my newly washed floor were bright red, Hawaiian mud prints. I get out my trusty mop (the one I had become so attached to earlier in the morning) and damp mopped the spots up. I also stain treat the carpet. Not, of course, before I get out a bowl and stoop down to wash each dog's foot. If you would have told me five years ago that I would be crouched down with a bowl of warm soapy water washing the feet of two mangy mongrels, I would have told you that George W was gonna be president, too. I must be a gypsy psychic.
By the time I get back to the bathroom, Reilly has already used her little potty and was swishing the pee around in the bowl before pouring it into the big potty. The pee went spinning out of the bowl and all over the bathroom. Fortunately, I wasn't completely done with the bathroom so I didn't feel like it was a total loss. Just a setback. Minor setback at that.
The day progressed like that. Two steps forward, one and a half steps back. I finally finished my to do list at 9:30 this evening. All but one thing: Pick up trash by the computer. I wonder, does that "trash" include tomorrow's to do list?
I've read the book. Cover to cover. I've implemented their ideas with a computer program that will tell me daily what my chores are. Everything from making the bed to cleaning the oven is plugged into my program. Nothing is too mundane or habitual for my glorified to do list, let me tell ya. It all but tells me when to take a potty break and which bathroom to use.
My day begins at 6:20 am with the two year old bounding into my room with literally an arm load of toys. She dumps half the contents of her toy box on my bedroom floor and joins me and her brother in bed. Fortunately, Roman is already awake and squeals with delight at the sight of his beloved sister. I get out of bed and find the floor cluttered with the toys she's strewn all around. I clear a path for myself to the bathroom, where I put my to do list the night before. As if I'm a gypsy fortune teller, I see my entire day laid out before me. In plain black and white, inkjet ink.
First on the list: situps (it's either do 'em or look forever 5 months pregnant). I'm mid crunch when it hits me... or rather she hits me. Full force. All her weight. Onto my crunched, flabby baby belly. Ugh, that hurt. "I love you, Mom," says Reilly obviously craving attention at an early hour. "I love you, too, Mom," she replies to herself (or was that to me she was replying?). "And I love brother and I love Daddy and I love GG and Papa..."
She doesn't quit talking again until 7:04 pm when she falls sound asleep in my arms. For those of you keeping track, that's over 12 straight hours of nonstop, ceaseless talking. I have so much two year old running around in my brain that I'm starting to develop a crush on Bob the Builder. Can he fix me? Yes, he can!
By 7:45 am I had made Reilly's breakfast, changed the baby's diaper twice, run a mile and a half, planned our dinner menu, and was in the midst of doing two loads of laundry. And I hadn't even made a dent in that damn to do list.
According the reformed slob sisters, to succeed in this cleaner, more organized and time efficient lifestyle, one must finish the to do list before leaving the house. If I were to keep to this rule, I might never leave the house again. I would be a prisoner of my warden -- the to do list. So if days go by and you haven't seen me, you know I'm trapped inside with two small offspring and a sheet of paper ordering me around.
On the list was instructions to clean the bathroom and sweep and mop the whole downstairs. This would take a normal person about 20 minutes at the most. But I am not normal. Neither are my children. I set about my tasks, however, neglecting this fact.
I was about five minutes into my sweeping when Reilly takes a tennis ball from Truman (our miniature dachshund) and shoves it into a slot in Roman's exersaucer. I look over and poor Tru is up on his hind legs with his long snout pushed into a plastic toy barn attached to the exersaucer. He is trying to pull the ball out but he's only managed to get it wedged into the barn loft. Roman thinks this is high comedy and giggles to show his approval.
Reilly Kate has moved on to better things at this point. She is now running the length of our couch and leaping from the arm rest of the couch onto our rocking recliner. Run run run... leap... Land!!! And each time she lands she says, "Be careful, Mom. Be careful! Just be careful." What the heck to I have to be careful about? I keep my distance from her just to be safe. She seems to know what she's doing. I don't interfere.
To finish the floor with interruptions like this every five minutes or so, it takes me three hours. It's 11 am before I'm done with the floor and on to the bathroom. This is a little powder room off of our living room. It shouldn't take more than ten minutes. And it wouldn't have, if I hadn't let the dogs outside.
We live in a fairly new house and the grass in our yard hasn't fully grown in yet. It can get pretty muddy out there. But I didn't pay attention and I let the dogs back in without washing their feet first. All over my newly washed floor were bright red, Hawaiian mud prints. I get out my trusty mop (the one I had become so attached to earlier in the morning) and damp mopped the spots up. I also stain treat the carpet. Not, of course, before I get out a bowl and stoop down to wash each dog's foot. If you would have told me five years ago that I would be crouched down with a bowl of warm soapy water washing the feet of two mangy mongrels, I would have told you that George W was gonna be president, too. I must be a gypsy psychic.
By the time I get back to the bathroom, Reilly has already used her little potty and was swishing the pee around in the bowl before pouring it into the big potty. The pee went spinning out of the bowl and all over the bathroom. Fortunately, I wasn't completely done with the bathroom so I didn't feel like it was a total loss. Just a setback. Minor setback at that.
The day progressed like that. Two steps forward, one and a half steps back. I finally finished my to do list at 9:30 this evening. All but one thing: Pick up trash by the computer. I wonder, does that "trash" include tomorrow's to do list?
posted by The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife at 3:02 AM
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