Right, a bit of girl power today. So boys, you can go and… er, do whatever boys do normally: build something, make a mess – whatever. Off you go. So Hubby and I were chatting to someone the other day (I won’t embarrass them by saying who) about shopping, and they happened to mention that their wife (a veritable cleaning demon) gets through two Toilet Ducks and a bottle of Pledge every week, has different cleaning products for different floor surfaces, and actually cleans the windows. This evoked a bemused response from Hubby: ‘hang on’, smirks the King of Smirksville, ‘do we actually own a bottle of polish?’ and an embarrassed cough from me. And no, we don’t. In fact, I think I’ve only dusted once, when we bought that really cute feather duster thing and I wafted it about a bit near the ceiling. I’d like to point out here that I’m not the only total retard when it comes to household management. Remember Bea’s classic take on housework? She said that her sum total of dusting was to spray polish about so it smelled clean and wipe the telly with her sock when it got too dusty to look through.
It’s not that I’m lazy. Oh, hang on, no, it actually is because I’m lazy. But it’s not that I’m dirty, exactly. My cooker’s immaculate and I’m careful not to let the toilets get too minging, but somehow the rest of it kind of passes me by. I can find so much more interesting stuff to do than tidying up or wiping down the inside of my fridge (nope, never done that either – it’s cold and it works, that’s where we part company). If I notice fluff, I’ll pick it up eventually, but it might have to sit there for several days while I procrastinate by making cakes, reading magazines, going shopping or, well, anything really, until I’m really, really bored and then I’ll get the hoover out.
I love my boys though. I wasn’t a good baby mum (as their Grandparents will no doubt testify), but you can’t beat the snorty, hold-your-sides, belly laugh that a clever 12 year old can deliver. They get loads of cuddles, yummy food, silly jokes and generally enough clean school uniform to last them the week. We dance manically round the house to Sweet Home Alabama, take great pleasure in throwing wet, cold flannels at each other and calling each other ‘ignorant boob’, we stay up too late, have inappropriate giggly conversations about balls, and we have loads and loads of fun. How many times have you compared yourself to another woman and though ‘ohhhh dear, I’m sadly lacking’, when you should be thinking ‘hey, I’m crap at housework/dressing smartly/ socialising, but I’m great at …….’ (fill in your own skill here)? Or the next time someone whips up their own choux pastry for a dinner party and you slink home to a freezer full of ready meals, well, sod it, you’re probably great at your job, or making people feel good about themselves, or putting up wallpaper or something.
Anyway, my point: we should all stop trying to be bloody fantastic and start being ‘good enough’. It’s going to be my new mantra. Nope, my house is never going to gleam and sparkle, but it’s clean enough to keep Kim and Aggie at bay, and my kids’ laughter fills the house on a regular basis (along with very loud guitar versions of Enter the Sandman and Smells Like Teen Spirit, but that’s another story).