Let’s face it: I’m a bit of a slob—okay, more than a bit. My kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom could all use a visit from a cleaning fairy. If someone offered me the choice between a pristine home and a scene straight out of a reality TV show about hoarding, I’d choose the clean option in a heartbeat. But here’s the catch: I don’t want to be the one doing the cleaning.
I’m not filthy by any means. If I had the time, I’d shower twice a day, and I find myself obsessing over germs in public spaces. I nearly lose it when my kids walk in with muddy shoes, and spilling something on my shirt during lunch sends me into a tailspin—spending the rest of the day awkwardly trying to cover it up like I’m hiding a secret.
Honestly, the chore of cleaning feels pointless to me. It’s a never-ending cycle; I clean, and it just gets messy again. If I had the cash and didn’t care about the planet, I might just toss out dirty dishes and clothes and replace them with fresh ones. I’d happily throw away every scrap of paper, and if I didn’t fear my kids would need therapy later, I’d snap photos of their school projects and toss them too.
Sometimes friends tell me how therapeutic they find cleaning. “It brings me such peace,” they say. I can’t help but wonder what other substances they might be enjoying. Is it just cleaning supplies, or are we talking industrial-strength lye here?
My husband is undoubtedly the most let down by my cleaning habits. I may have embellished my domestic skills a bit when we first started dating. “I’m super organized,” he might have said over dinner. “Oh, me too!” I would have responded, not quite realizing I was setting the bar way too high.
In reality, my household skills are about as reliable as an outdated resume. I throw whites in with darks, use a dust buster to collect crumbs from the dining table, and change sheets so rarely that they might as well be a museum exhibit. My dresser drawers are perpetually ajar because I shove clothes in without folding them, and I can’t remember the last time I mopped (seven years, maybe?).
I worry our home might resemble a chaotic indoor yard sale if it weren’t for the occasional motivation that comes from having guests over. My strong desire to keep my slob status a secret pushes me to do something quite radical: hire a cleaning service.
If you are curious about home insemination, check out this blog post for more information. And if you’re seeking reliable resources for pregnancy, the World Health Organization has excellent material on the subject.
In summary, while I may be a secret slob, I also know when to ask for help. After all, avoiding the mess is sometimes the best solution.