i can quit anytime i want.

Great.

Nothing done.  Again.  The house is a reservoir of filth.  He’s going to be so pissed when he comes home. 

(Echoes of his disgruntled opinions, of a few nights past, regarding your inability to successfully manage the household duties while simultaneously managing your blogging habit, begin playback in your head.)

Stick the kid in the high chair.  Scratch rear of scalp.  Swallow the last of the water in the old container that you’ve been pathetically re-using as a glass for the last several days, mostly because you know you won’t have to shove it in the dishwasher at any point – when you tire of it, you just toss it.  No muss, no fuss.  Scrunch nose because water smells a little bit like dirty socks.

Scurry around the kitchen like a madwoman, ladeling dishes into the sink, then ladeling them into the dishwasher.  Look over to see the kid scooting his snack side-to-side on the tray, a sure sign that he’s over it.  Run to fridge.  Scan anxiously through the shelves, praying that there’s a piece of overlooked fruit hiding in its recesses.  Nuh-uh.  Instead, you spy the sugar-free jell-o paks, sisters to the one that you only gave him once because he had a look on his face that said he’d just eaten from the tree of forbidden fruit, and you were only trying to stave off some of his (eternal) suffering from teething pain.  You think, what the hell.  He’s only a kid once – and really, is sugar-free jell-o *that* bad?  Probably.  But, oh, fuck it.

You scoop a big dollop of the limp, wiggly, orange goo onto his tray.  His face lights up.  You:  “Okay!  Good enough!”  Run back into the kitchen.  Scrape weird, black bits off counter by toaster.  Wonder why your mate seems not to notice these kinds of things when he’s “cleaning” the kitchen.  Sigh.  Stack more garbage on the counter because the garbage can, the big, shiny, alluring garbage can that is apparently akin to a toddler mecca, is in the bathroom, which is behind the door that you have just shut so that he won’t try to stick his hands in the dog’s water dish, also behind the door. 

Give the kitchen a visual once-over, tell yourself you’re satisfied with the level of tidiness achieved in the hyper-speed straightening quickie that you are wrapping up, even though you are forcing yourself to squint during the process.  Keeping your eyes open wide during the cleaning process, these days, is too much for your sentimental, anal-as-fuck spirit.  You know just how little in the house actually merits the title of “clean,” and it sort of breaks your heart to know how incapable you are of doing anything about it.

You rush over to the laptop to bring up the program that is your bread-and-butter, and open a few windows that are jobs waiting to be completed, in order to create the appearance of having spent even the slightest amount of time on them today.  You start in on one, so as to flesh out the deception, only to be interrupted by a loud “sshhhhhhhhhhhhwaaaaaaah!”  Your door to finish clearing up, provided so kindly by the questionable jell-o, has slammed shut.  You high-tail it over to the kid, who is now dumping chunks of jell-o onto the dog’s head.  You pull him out of the chair, wipe him down, pull his goo-encrusted pants and onesie off, and set him free in the living room.

You wipe down the high-chair, wash off the tray, yell at the dog to eat the remaining bits around the chair’s circumference and stop hanging around underfoot.  Run to the dryer to grab a clean set of clothes for the baby.  Run back into the kitchen before he can pull open the drawer with the plastic wrap and sandwich bags, tossing them all over the room.  He only manages to pull out four plastic bags before you sternly correct him and reveal the drawer *beneath* that one to be *his* drawer.  He seems to accept it with little fuss.

You pull his squirming body onto your lap and slide the shirt over his head, his pants onto his bucking frame.  He throws himself headlong onto the ground, then leaps up and toddles back to a pile of toys.  You heave a sigh of semi-relief.

You call your husband.  He answers, his tone curt.  You: “So you insist on bringing dinner home?  Okay.  I guess I’m fine with that.”

Okay, so fast food is the devil incarnate.  You start to adjust to the notion that you no longer feel as concerned about things that used to seem devil-incarnate-y.

You look to make sure that the baby is happily ensconced among his toys.  You rush back to the laptop to squeeze just one or two more blog-reads in.

After all, you deserve a break.  

Comments

[Mrs. Chicky]

You've been secretly peeking through my windows, haven't you? How else would you know what every day in my house looks like?

But make that dog times 2. They make great garbage disposals.

[Her Bad Mother]

Yep. Sounds like we're livin' the same life right now. In the same house.

(Your comments on my recent posts were beyond lovely, BTW. And you've got a room at my place anytime.)

[Andrea]

This sums up how I feel the day Mike comes home from a week out of town for work. My last day is spent covering for the fact that I did NOTHING in the evenings while he was gone. Except eat chicken nuggets and watch TiVo. And of course blog!

Thanks for your comment in HBM's Basement. Really. Thank you.

[Paula]

Ah. The garbage can. Who needs toys?

There must be some sort of mystical connection between babies and trash. The Impling treats the garbage can like a shrine. And a toy dispenser. All in one!

In the middle of all this madness, don't forget to breathe.

[Mignon]

You know what seems like the perfect kids' snack but in fact is not? Fig Newtons. Apparently they squish easily in little paws and double as hair gel, diaper rash ointment and eye shadow. The shit gets everywhere and is worse than tree sap to clean.

Soooo... no kidding about the peeking in my window? Husband's questionable cleaning practices - check! Toddler chucking plastic bags everywhere, one drawer above "his" drawer - check! Scanning fridge for something edible that's not a condiment - check! And so on...

(Oh great, I just noticed the P-town mama links. There goes another hour...)

[bubandpie]

I've heard it's helpful to have a regular schedule. Here's mine:

Morning: Scroll through my blogroll, checking out the new posts. Intervene occasionally when infant screaming suggests that Pie's head is being ground into the carpet again by Bub.

Afternoon: Children nap. Compose new post. Spend several hours trying unsuccessfully to load pictures into Blogger.

Evening: Explore new blogs by randomly following links. Vow to retire to bed before 10 so as to avoid meltdowns due to Bub's 5:45 am waking habit.

11:30: Go to bed. (at what is a very reasonable hour, I think, based on the timestamp on some of the comments I see)

[mothergoosemouse]

This is why I need a dog.

And I really had to giggle about the plastic bags and the *other* drawer. Word for word, that's the situation here. Just this morning, in fact.

[sweatpantsmom]

Hey - you DO deserve a break.

We've all been there. The empty fridge, the messy house, the dirty clothes - my motto always was, "As long as nothing is ON FIRE, I'm doing a good job."

[Mommy off the Record]

I'm with sweatpants mom, you DO deserve a break. It's frickin hard keeping a house clean with a dog and a kid!

On the whole cleaning topic, I have to tell you that my dad is a total clean freak and I always make sure to clean before he arrives so I don't have to watch him go around "inspecting" my kitchen. Still, it's never good enough. Last time he came over to babysit for us and when I came back he had re-cleaned my entire kitchen. He is totally OCD though. Me, I don't mind the tumbleweeds of dog hair that float by on my hardwood floors. They're only so much we moms can do, ya know?

[Izzy]

Have you been spying on me?

Seriously. Our lives sound similar, which makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.

But I'd bet my house is worse because I have 2 kids and the older one is not one iota less of a human tornado than the 11 month old, who, coincidentally, also has his own drawer but prefers the foil and plastic wrap drawer above it. Eerie, huh?

[mamatulip]

Yup. Sounds familiar.

[jaelithe]

We clean, we clean; the kid messes it all up. So we start cleaning again, but then the kid throws a tantrum; then the kid needs a nap, but won't take it; then we suddenly remember it's time to start dinner, so we try to cook-- but then the kid finds something suspicious to eat on the floor, so we must rescue the kid from certain poisoning, and in the ten minutes it takes to pry open his mouth, the dinner burns; then the utility company calls to tell us about a change to the bill or something, and while we're on the phone, the kid runs gleefully through the house and sacks the place.

At the end of the day everything looks worse than it did before, and a decent dinner still isn't ready, and then our husbands come home and say, "What on earth did you do all day?"

And we try our level best not to kill them where they stand . . .

[Nancy]

Ah yes, yes. I know this very well, except that I am running back and forth between my 4 year old and 20 month old, and they cannot engage in any of the same activities for any length of time (except Sesame Street). So I'll set Mimi up with crayons and a coloring book and run into the kitchen to try and get some dishes done -- quick glance at the laptop sitting there on the counter -- OK, need to respond to this e-mail. Shriek from living room indicates that Rosie has started eating Mimi's crayons. Separate chilluns and return to kitchen, determined to start dishes... but gee, there's several new posts in Bloglines.

Later, rinse, repeat.

[MelanieinOrygun]

Well, my rugracers are all too old to be getting into my stuff (well, except for, say, my chocolate stash, and they know they take their lives into their hands if they do so), but I so remember this. Oh, what fun!
And as a serious confession: I think my house has been clean for oh, two minutes at a stretch in the last fifteen years.
Better a happy house where clutter is than an unhappy, spotless one.
And to continue the trend of LONGEST! COMMENT! EVER!, I have a poem, the link to which is http://www.stat.washington.edu/mmp/nina2.html (apparently, no HTML, so copy/paste). That's always been my philosophy, and it's worked for me so far. :)

[Kristin]

mseey kitchen? blog reading? child with weird dinner?

i can't relate. ;-)

[Jenny]

Do you ever "make-up" baby emergencies to account for blogging time? Like "Oh, honey I've spent an hour cleaning up the cereal that Hailey spilled all over the floor and that's why it looks like nothing's been done around the house. Now can you make me a cocktail? I need to lie down."

I know...I have a problem.

[Suebob]

This is a hilarious post. I don't even have kids, but I can relate. The lawn is 12 inches long, the shower is growing something, and god knows what that is lurking in the fridge...but I post at my 2 blogs everyday, dang it!

[wordgirl]

Mr. Half always knows where to find me when he comes home...I'm in my office blogging. He's made his peace with it.

[MelanieinOrygun]

Also, can I just say that this: "too much for your sentimental, anal-as-fuck " did NOT read correctly to me the first time I read it, and I was all set to ask you how anal came into the story, and then I re-read it and went, "oh. OH!!!"
Me = dumbass...
;)

[Suebob]

I gave you some link love over at my link blog,
http://linkateria.blogspot.com

[scarbie doll]

I love how the fear of the husband coming home is enough to make it look like we did something, but not enough fear to prevent us from sneaking in a few blogs. Dude, when I hear that key in the door, I can't get the computer shut down fast enough. It's like when we were kids and my folks would come home and feel the TV to see if it was hot from us watching it.