I happen to be lucky enough to live in house that I love—a house my husband and children have booby-trapped with stickiness. We have a family rule, co-opted from Wayne Dyer and loosely enforced: “No Blaming.” I don’t care. I’m going there. My house is a mess and I blame them.
I’m a neat freak who grew up in a series of depressing rentals. Then I spent years as a single mom living in seedy apartments with views of rooftops and despair.
By the time I finally bought my own home, an old brick Tudor with built-ins, wood beams, 5 bedrooms, and an obscene number of closets, I knew that I was living in my dream house. Many people would probably find my home just “average,” but to me, it’s an actual mansion. I’ve been here 9 years and I still appreciate its beauty every single day.
When my house is clean, I feel a Zen-like sense of well-being. Nothing makes me happier than walking downstairs in the morning into clean spaces with clear floors and everything in its beautiful, proper place.
Which means I’m truly peaceful for maybe 30 seconds twice a year.
I’m married to one of those men who has a different understanding of “clean” than I do. He finds my standards crazy high and I find his shockingly low. I’ve been accused of “wanting to control everything” because I suggested the folded laundry go inside the drawers instead of onto the floor.
When I inquire about the weird smell emitting from my teenage son’s room (some combo of aged sweat and dead food), he tells me to “relax” and shuts his door.
My 8-year-old son is a sweet, creative, walking mess-maker who finds his chore list “too hard.” It contains things like “hang up your towel after you shower” and similar oppressions.
My 3-year-old daughter habitually breaks things and then puts them carefully back in their place. That way I get to stumble upon my gallery splurge art sculpture and discover delicate pieces broken off. Yes, I had it up high and out of reach.
Here are some recent messes I’ve come across in my dream home. Just normal stuff like:
1. Jelly smeared across the top of my tea canister and a matching blotch on my sugar bowl.
2. The fancy soap dispenser I just bought for the guest bath (which is supposed to be only for guests) “glued” onto the counter via soap scuzz. Also empty.
3. The tub surround, made of wood, disconnected from itself at the corner seam, nails exposed.
4. The wrought iron banister near the bottom of the steps—wrenched loose. (Tarzan-style “swinging” off the stairs is a thing here.)
5. A plastic container of marinara sauce tucked into a storage cabinet in my 8-year-old’s bedroom. I recognized it from a to-go order, accompanying bread sticks, delivered 12 days prior.
6. All of the salt in the salt shaker poured on top of the pepper shaker, then configured into a trail leading across the kitchen table.
7. A general moratorium on flushing—especially for Number Twos.
8. Handprints. Every possible place. Mirrors. Walls. Tiles. Windows. Cabinet doors. On lovely things made of glass.
9. Puddles. Caused by the “run-off” from hand-washing—which I’m not convinced is a thing. And from the aiming of shower nozzles outside of the shower. Can’t think of a reason that would ever be necessary.
10. Copious amounts of tiny black hair shavings all over the bathroom sink and counter. The signal that my husband has been body shaving again. We don’t share a bathroom, so he wonders why I even care and he’ll clean it up when he gets to it.
11. A running tub faucet. Still going 45 minutes after the last bath. I shut it off and leave the room with dripping socks. Dripping. Just from walking across the floor.
12. A mysterious glop of what appears to be the fruited innards of a breakfast bar–ground into the living room carpet. No food allowed in the living room, by the way.
13. The bountiful contents of a large cardboard box emptied onto a closet floor. The box is later discovered fashioned into a rocket.
14. All 1000+ stickers from the Princess Sticker collection affixed to a bedroom mirror.
15. A strange, wide streak of black sticky matter “pasted” against the slat on a bunk bed. I have a theory that it is the remains of a gel window sticker that melted. But that doesn’t make any sense, does it?
16. A water bottle filled with pee. Because somebody didn’t want to walk down one floor to use an actual toilet.
As you can see, I’m an oppressive, neat freak perfectionist who just needs to relax. Who else is going to keep the Clorox wipe people in business?
This post was originally published on www.mollypennington.com.
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About the Author
I’m a writer, a mentor, a speaker, a wife and a mother, and a lover of insight and whimsy. My default setting is perpetual cheer, but I don’t shy away from the wounds of the world. To me, nothing is more vital than social justice and I believe that perception and compassion are curative. I’m here to make the world a little less mean. Instead: smarter, brighter, better. You can find out more about me at www.mollypennington.com and follow me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest.