I try to enforce good personal hygiene. I make my kids shower, wash their hands after using the toilet, brush teeth twice daily. With teen boys, nothing short of holding them down and doing it myself will work…some days. Other days, they are all about self-motivation or a crush on a school mate of the female kind. But hey, whatever works.
The girls, well…they are as clean as can be, although a bit mangy sometimes. And exceptionally bitchy. Don’t let the prettiness and the clean hair fool you…girls are possessed by the devil or the ghosts of the Salem witches.
In the home, as you know, I struggle with getting the kids to do chores. I assign them and they fulfill their duties, with a huge fight, for a few days or maybe, if I’m lucky…weeks. And then nothing. So, we all give up. It’s easier than the constant arguing. I’m a chore enforcer failure. I can admit it though, but I don’t believe in that being the first step to the battle of recovery. And my husband will be the first to tell you that it’s all my fault, as well.
My house is clean but a mess, although, I wouldn’t recommend eating off the floors. Laundry is always piled on the dining room table. Things cluttering the kitchen table, making it harder to set the table for dinner. Swiffering twice daily is part of my day. Washer, dryer switcharoo. Loading and emptying dishwasher. Kids dropping stuff on the floor and leaving it. I’m constantly bent over and taking it up the…picking it up off the floor for them.
Apparently, I live with a bunch of barnyard animals. I’m exchanging the table for a trough and the beds for piles of hay.
It seems though, that I have become quite a hypocrite.
You see, I scream. LOUDLY. To get the kids to pick up their bedrooms. To give me the respect of putting away their clothes after I had so nicely folded them…which, I’ve stopped doing because no one puts their clothes away neatly so why bother. I beg…LOUDLY…for the kids to pick their garbage up off their bedroom floors and throw it in the trash.
I want their rooms neat. I do.
But somehow. Between all the yelling, screaming and cleaning…
My bedroom. The mecca of love room. That place where fun things happen at night…sometimes.
It’s become a sty. An absolute pigpen. Clothes everywhere. My yarn which I have stored in bins under my bed…everywhere. Thanks to the dog.
It’s a disgusting and vile excuse for a master bedroom.
In my defense, I spend so much time trying to keep the main floor neat that my bedroom becomes kind of like the shoemakers daughter type effect.
So, my husband got sick of me saying that I’ll get around to it. But, I really DID plan on getting around to it.
Instead though, he hired our cleaning lady. She came yesterday and folded all our clothes that were all over the floor after being dumped there when we were trying to quickly clean up the dining room table for the dreaded poker games.
We have a floor. A real, live bedroom floor. With hideous pink carpet.
When all the clothes were piled up around the room, we could ignore the fact that the carpet is vomit inducing and needs to be replaced. But now? No. There is no denying it.
We need new carpet. Something fierce.
Or we need to start throwing our clothes back down on the floor until we can afford new carpet.
Now, if only I can enforce the whole “do as I say, not as I do” concept. Because I’m NOT paying the cleaning lady to clean their rooms.
I can’t afford to recarpet the whole house.