Please, for the love of God and my sanity, tell me that I am not the only woman whose house completely falls apart if I miss a day of cleaning. Why is there an inverse proportional relationship between the size of children and the size of the mess they make?
Example one:
This is the pile swept up from our dining area at the end of the day. Just the dining area. Which is my fancy term for too-small nook where I shove my table and chairs. Three freaking meals, and this is what I find. If those three meals were eaten by rabid honey badgers I might understand. But they’re humans. With opposable thumbs.
Example two hails from a busy day with the family, followed by a day where I was gone from 8:30 AM to 11:00 PM. I don’t do midnight cleaning unless I’m pregnant. Which I’m not.
Two days. Not two weeks. Two. days. Umm, gag.
I feel like it takes actual effort to pull this off. As though gravity couldn’t have dragged that much filth down to my floors of its own accord. As though the rabid honey badgers actually tried to make this happen.
Don’t get me wrong. Kids are still rocking the chore chart. They’re just so … dirty. And sticky. And they drop things everywhere all the time. And see that red thing on the far right? That’s a plastic whistle.
Who buys plastic whistles? Grandparents. People without children. Certainly not a parent of young children who knows – KNOWS – that it will only result in endless torture.
The Nerd bought those. He thought it was hilarious. When I heard high pitched screeching before the sun came up the next day, I didn’t.
Why do they hate me?
