Let's face it... I'm a terrible housekeeper. I just am. I have tried to reform myself using the methods of superior housekeepers to no avail. Interventions have been staged. Professionals have cringed. I set up goals for myself and offer myself fabulous rewards for the accomplishment of said tasks, but I fail miserably. Even the lure of full priced shoes has not been enough to get me to change my mediocre ways. I make a list of "To Dos" and find it in a stack of paper seven months later. Even then I'm still only able to cross off a couple of items.
Now, I know that some of you who love me are saying that you have no idea what I am talking about because the house always looks fine to you. Well, you're wrong. You haven't opened the doors, closets, and cabinets that I strategically close when you come over. And I wouldn't if I were you. Similar to the hooptie, if you open the wrong door, you never know what might fall out into the elementary school parking lot (umm... I might be willing to tell you about this in person, but it would require far too much explanation and embarrassment on here...). Please don't open the door to the laundry room during a party. You have been warned.
And then there are a couple of you who are just like me, and you are my favorites because you get it. We are outnumbered by the children in our families. We are exhausted beyond belief. And we frequently feel judged by those who only have one or two children and who are able to have a spotless home at all times. Let me tell you, one child was a breeze. I could clean my house from top to bottom, clean the carpets, paint a bathroom, and have twenty-five people over for the appetizer portion of a progressive dinner all in the same day. All while looking like a goddess. But those days are gone, baby, G-O-N-E. And rather than feel constantly defeated, I have lowered my standards significantly. And now, I just focus on the looking like a goddess part.
Fortunately for me, Mr. Incredible realizes I have other talents that are far more important than a sparkling house.
Housekeeping is an area where I struggle. Perhaps because I find an immaculate house unattainable when Bonus pulls out the same stinking box of band aids and leaves them on the kitchen counter SEVEN times in the same day. And drops the wrappers and the weird little static backings all over the floor because I'm not in the kitchen telling him to use the trash can. It's a losing battle. I waved the white flag when that last child was added. I can't win. And I usually just don't care that I have lost the battle, the war, and my coral tank top.
I do not believe in living in a museum. Children should be allowed to pull out all the Barbie paraphernalia in the house and leave it strewn across the playroom until the current season of Barbie 90210 has been played out. Even if that season has eighteen episodes. Unless company is coming and then that drama must be stopped and return to its assigned bins immediately. Ken and Barbie can pick up where they left off next time. And why wasn't Ken wearing any pants?
I guess the long and short of it is... it's no longer uber important to me, my husband, or my children. I know it's shocking, but we live in our house.
However, enough is enough. And here it turns to the confessional.... I had been looking at some red goo at the bottom of my freezer for quite some time (read: longer than I am willing to share...). And it had been taunting me. It was sticky and frozen (melted popsicle or toxic science experiment from my little potion makers?) and seemed like more than I was willing to bite off every morning I opened the freezer door. After all, I had band aid wrappers to deal with, and they are far more public. I can police who enters the fridge...
|Does anyone know what this is?|