I am a full-time, stay-at-home mother. I love it and appreciate this time even more because it’s temporary. But it’s about time I admitted to myself what has been bleeding obvious for a while now.
I am a crap housewife.
|“Honey, I’m home! Oops… wrong house.”|
You know those housewives who have weekly meal plans? A book for the household budget? A file with important, housy things in alphabetical order? Who wear things other than trackies and uggs around the house? Who always have clean hair? Who know where everything is? Who actually use all their cookbooks? I’m not one of them.
This house is fugly. This isn’t helped by the fact that it’s a complete tip. How can I put things away all morning, only for me to tread on them that afternoon? How the hell do you clean these revolting beige, pleather couches? Who buys a beige, pleather couch? (I’m looking at you, beige-loving Landlord.) How can a floor that’s just been vacuumed be covered in tiny bits of paper? Is someone lobbing their rubbish in through our window? I’ll finish dusting and the dust just wafts around until re-settling on the exact same surface. We don’t have a dryer, and owing to a distinct lack of sunlight outside, our wet washing is strung around the house. How can a kitchen be grimy even when it’s clean? And then there’s the bathroom.
The other day, a friend ducked upstairs to the loo. She came back giggling at the state of the hand basin. It was hideous. That week I had resolved not to clean the basin every day because it was starting to mess with my mind. The basin is maroon (why? Why??) and even when it’s clean it looks like an evil scientist’s petri dish. When people start commenting on how revolting it is after just two days, you have to go back to cleaning the fucker every day. And yes, this bathroom warrants such language.
We have loads of visitors coming to stay soon. I’m trying to sort the house out beforehand and I’ve got myself into a mild frenzy. We don’t have a spare room or cupboard space, so I’ve been clearing out cupboards with little effect. The idea was so no-one will have to live out of a suitcase, but all my efforts have yielded is one tiny, pissy little shelf. And it’s a moss green colour too. I’ve never wanted a spare room more. Or a dryer. Or decent plumbing. Or a talent for general housekeeping. Or one of those spacious kitchens where guests sip wine, while I effortlessly put together another impressive meal… which I planned at the start of the week.
I have to calm down and remind myself that family are coming from Sydney to see us and not to inspect our house. But aren’t we all our own worst critics?