I don’t clean on the weekends.
I mean, sometimes I pick up. But I take the weekends to relax (Read: Run to every activity imaginable) and enjoy my children instead of pretending to enjoy them while I’m on house duty during the week.
So in other words, by Sunday, the house looks like a Fraternity on national probation resides within.
This is a problem, for several reasons. Let me walk you through my incredibly interesting life.
When you make the transition from working mom to stay-at-home mom, you become hyper-sensitive to the notion that people might think you are lazy. This is because you don’t have a job, and people with jobs can say things like, “Ugh, I have to work,” and everyone in the room joins in a collective groan because NO ONE wants to go to work. But when a mom says something cute like, “I don’t want to go to work tomorrow,” everyone rolls their eyes because this crazy lady is not on anyone’s payroll and she can stay in her PJs and nap all day if she wants. STFU, mom.
Because of some bad PR along the road, stay-at-home types must carry with them a feeling of guilt for not truly enjoying the freedom that comes with MAKING EVERY SINGLE DAMN MEAL THREE TIMES PER DAY EVERY DAY PLUS – OH GOOD! THERE’S MORE BANANA ON THE HIGH CHAIR AND WHAT’S THAT SMELL? HAS SHE HAS PEED IN THE REGISTERS AGAIN?
Unless the stay-at-home types are dads. They don’t really care whether people think they are lazy or not. They struggle mostly with other moms who think what they do is “adorable!”
So whatever, people.
This heightened sensitivity is particularly dangerous within the spousal relationship. I have become raw toward any hint that I am anything other than holy and awesome. This is a huge problem, especially on the weekends, when I am, in fact, lazy. And unholy. But strangely, somehow MORE awesome.
I heard you kick that toy across the room, sir. And no, the blue sweater is NOT clean at the moment. Your belt? It’s probably still a leash leading the stuffed bunny around the yard. I’ll fetch it on Monday, sir.
Oh, the capacity for resentment!!! Marriage can be a festering sponge.
But today I choose not to.
Instead of growing the chip on my shoulder, instead of curling up into a ball and squeezing everyone in my family so tightly that I suffocate them all, taking their sweet Cheerio breath out, rendering them eternally incapable of smashing graham crackers into every single stair tread or stacking six beer cans full of backwash within reach of Molly Mae Teter ( ** rolls eyes with delight at the joy of that fantasy ** ) I’m just going to be stubbornly prideful of the job I do here. Regardless of the results, or the evidence to the contrary! Unless the kids are at grandma’s, there will ALWAYS be evidence to the contrary.
And whenever I encounter the and the 6-foot 3-inch human in my life, who huffs around picking up toys, making innocent remarks like, “Are you ever going to do laundry again or what’s the deal?” – things that, in an ordinary world, would make me laugh and bust his balls in some hilarious way? And I’m going to resist the urge to be a humorless, angry house troll.
I shall overcome.
I do a great job with the kids, with the house, with the animals, the home dairy operation. I am good enough, I am smart enough, and dawggonnit … people LIKE me. A+. Five stars.
And those days where my husband doesn’t like me very much? The days called Saturday and Sunday? Well … instead of buckling down and cleaning, I’ve come up with a handy list of EXCUSES to get me through till Monday. Feel free to copy, girls. This list is BULLETPROOF.
So other than rage, resentment and random acts of violence, what’s the best way to respond when your husband is physically revolted by your messy house?
1.) Bat the stained white T-shirt out of his hands and tell him the dirty clothes are hot lava! Push him onto the couch. For safety.
2.) To head off any protest at the pass, as soon as he opens the door on Friday, complain wildly about the micro-burst tornado that struck INSIDE THE HOUSE. Weird! Before he can challenge you, insist he help with something techy like alerting NBC 4 weatherman Bob Nunnally via Facebook from your smartphone. Men love to help with stuff like that.
3.) Or, if the whole micro-tornado thing feels like too much of a stretch, just mutter, “Meteorological event!” and immediately take off your shirt.
4.) Tell him you are pregnant. After he freaks out, tell him you were kidding, and the relief will erase any memory of filth-inspired rage from moments prior.
5.) Hop on Molly’s tricycle, feverishly push yourself along the carpet toward the door, and tell him you would answer his questions, but you have to go because you “are in the middle of a big bike race.” Peddling to the end of the driveway will show him you truly are committed to the ruse.
IF all else fails, take a cue from the Internet:
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