I have to admit, I've been occasionally writing blog posts for the past few years, but haven't been publishing them because since there has been so little content, the pressure for the post to be "good" or "worth it" was a little too much and I was hesitant to publish. So just know this post will be neither and I'm setting a low bar so I can stick to my resolution! I'm not enabling comments for a while but probably will after a few more posts. Just trying to get my sea-legs back for now.
Today's topic, Cleanliness. I had a feeling when I married Spike that he was a tidy boy. Back in our courting-days, we had more than one date to the car wash where he fastidiously vacuumed his car for inappropriate periods of time. Sexy, right? And I knew he'd had a job cleaning vacated apartments at BYU before we met and had mad cleaning skills. Unfortunately for him, we met, fell in love almost instantly, and I proceeded to trash his world, his car, his house and his sense of dignity. Fourteen years later, I find myself needing to lower my cleanliness level even more to keep up with his increased vigilance for neatness. It is quite a chore to keep a messy kitchen when he's around but someone has got to do it.
It wouldn't do for me to live in a tidy house. A tidy house means there are no more projects to be done. No amazing feats in progress. No excuses why I can't volunteer at every PTA event. It's not healthy or natural and I refuse to be a part of it. Tonight while I was working on a project, he snuck off with the girls and vacuumed under the couch cushions of all things! WHY?! What's even the point of that? Little Cher came and ratted him out to me like a good daughter should. And now here I sit. On a coach with no history, no hidden treasures, no ecosystem and no soul. It's all I can do not to run to the pantry, grab a handful of potato chips, crush them up and stuff them under the cushions again along with some broken crayons. But I won't. I'll just sit here like a movie star on my perfect couch and think about all the women who deserve my guy more than I do. So many.
To close, here's one of the poems I wrote for my girls this Christmas based off their own misadventures in cleanliness:
A Fresh Start
On Monday mother filled the bath, but I read a book instead.
On Tuesday mother asked again, so I hid under the bed.
Wednesday came, she asked once more, I went to play with chums.
On Thursday Mother came to ask, she must so hate dry bums!
On Friday when the order came I faked a violent chill.
On Saturday she begged again, her tone had gotten shrill.
But Sunday morn I had to say, the smell was quite obscene
So Monday’s undies I did change, now I’m all fresh and clean!