Admit it. If you read my post about Prince Charming vacuuming and mopping, you may have been a tiny bit jealous of his fabulousness. But there are problems that come with desire to be in a clean house. When we were first married, I was working 50+ hours per week at the bank, and he traveled from Monday-Thursday. Back then we lived in my tiny two-bedroom rental downtown. I lived how I wanted: clothes and shoes scattered or hanging from doorknobs and the bathroom counter covered with all my “stuff”.
On Wednesday nights, I would wash dishes, dust, change bed linens and clean the bathroom. On Thursdays, I would hurry home light a candle and vaccum. Looked clean. Basically WAS clean. Basically.
On Fridays when I went to work, he would do the things I had neglected. Like mop and clean weird things like window blinds and ceiling fans. These are things I would INTENTIONALLY neglect because a) I hate to do them and b) I don’t care. It was a perfect fit for us right up until I forfeited the rat race to stay home and care for our daughter.
Until she was four, he continued with the position that required constant travel. During that time, however, I had stepped up my cleaning while he was gone. I had a toddler who ate off the floor so it had to be cleaner than his weekly mopping. Plus I had a lot of free time. And all was well until that one Thursday afternoon when he came home early and said, “Why don’t you take Sophie out for a while and I’ll get this kitchen cleaned?”
The hairs on my neck bristled and I wanted to throw a pee-soaked Pull Up at his head. On one hand I was pleased to have some help, but I just cleaned the damn kitchen. Literally JUST mopped that morning because Sophie had made a vicious mess during breakfast. And now it is not clean enough for your standards? Well. Kiss. My. Butt.
I don’t clock in at an office any more and our home IS my job. I wondered how he would feel if one of his peers walked onto one of his jobsites and (in essence) said, “This looks like shit, Pal. Let me give you a hand.” Pretty insulting, right?
Don’t misunderstand. I DO know how good I’ve got it. My Daddy was that guy who walked in the house, relaxed in the recliner and barked orders. He has not picked up his own dirty socks or washed a dish since the day he married. What my mother wouldn’t give for a little help around the house. Or a maid.
So I try not to be a bitch. It’s been a challenge to beat down my pride and accept help from him. I know his heart and know that he really wants to be a help to me not insult me. And I have to admit, I really do love that man when he’s holding a mop.