Once or twice a month, we commit a terrible act of ungratefulness.
A house-cleaning professional visits for several hours at a time, and I have to say she does an exceptional job, so good that our house feels like a showroom. Lights reflect off the hardwood floors, the kitchen island sparkles, the air is dust free; you practically hear the chorus of springtime birds even in the lifelessness of January.
We destroy it within the hour.
I feel at this point like one of those spokespeople in a medication commercial, the one who walks around in a pristine, brightly lit little world with the worst kind of fake smile—you know the one I’m talking about. As I stroll through my house, I look at the camera with a mannequin-like stare and say:
“Hi, my name is Dave, and I suffer from Lego-lodged-in-my-bare-foot-itis as well as chronic crumbs-on-the-couch. Seriously. If you lift a cushion up, there’s a whole cereal box worth of Cheerios dust. I’ve also put a restraining order on my wife because if she knew that I’m telling you about how the dishes pile up in our sink for so long we’ve become a supplier of penicillin products, the violence would be horrific.”
Few aspects of my life have changed more after becoming a parent than the condition of our living environment. Plates with congealed ketchup and dried out carrots sit on the dining room table for several nights, 18 different kinds of toy trains lay scattered in every room, somehow one of the boys’ sweaty socks found its way into the Blu-ray player, a depressing collection of various board game pieces huddle together beneath the couch like a refugee camp, and whatever it is that’s growing on the five-year-old’s windowsill will either win him a Nobel Prize in chemistry or give me a stomach virus.
Don’t get me started on Legos. When—after you’ve turned the house lights off just before bedtime—you realize you need to go back downstairs to close the garage door, one of those beautiful blocks lays waiting for you to bring your bare heel to its awaiting stingers. I have cried out with suffering to God, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Mohammad, Buddha, Parvati, all twelve Olympians, Dame Maggie Smith, and Jimmy $#@&%# Buffett (don’t judge that last one; we all have our indulgences).
This isn’t to say I was the most cleanly of people before we had kids. Anyone attending Elizabethtown College between 1997 and 2001 knows that, while I appreciated the college-issued dresser drawers, the floor and its dusty, industrial-grade carpet worked just fine for my clean laundry. Who had time for folding when reruns of The Simpsons proved a much better way to put off thesis papers?
Still, I find it remarkable and ironic how—with the maturity inherent in living in your 30s—an appreciation for a good, clean living environment takes hold, while simultaneously, because you have young children, you have no energy to follow through on this principle. Every night, once we finally get the boys into bed, my wife and I could sweep the kitchen floor and do the dishes. But that spout calling from the cleverly marketed box of Pinot in my refrigerator proves too tempting, so I set aside the broom and reach for a stemless glass along with the AppleTV remote.
Now I’m going to get real. We’ve tried assigning chores. We’ve tried bribery. We’ve tried to set good examples. And yet by the time you read this, I’ll probably be on our couch, another glass of Pinot in hand, sitting on a cold, wet plate of half-eaten grapes left there by the 5-year-old just before we put him to bed. Don’t ask. I was just too tired to look where I was going to sit myself down.
I would love to hear your suggestions about what’s worked for you. Send me an email, leave a comment on my blog or on social media, or tweet at me—whatever platform you enjoy. Let’s crowdsource this, and Susquehanna Style will share some of the best advice on Facebook and at SusquehannaStyle.com. I know I’m not alone in the struggle to keep the house clean for more than just an hour.
