I live in fear of the casual drop-in. You know, the people who were “in the neighborhood.” So they thought they’d just “stop by.” Without calling first. Or providing any kind of warning whatsoever.
Why? Because if I’m not expecting company, my house is most likely fairly messy. Embarrassingly dirty, even. Okay, more like a total sty. Mail lives in piles by the door. Burp cloths and dirty clothes find semi-permanent homes on the floor. Dishes get stacked in the sink. And don’t get me started on the obscene height of our in-need-of-folding/hanging clean laundry pile.
Most of the time, it doesn’t bother me. I’m a slob, always have been, and always will be (and so is my husband, although he denies it).
I just can’t be bothered to slave over the house when no one’s going to see it. There are too many other things I’d rather be doing. Like sleeping. Or playing with Tori. Or chatting with my husband. Or fussing in the garden. Or reading a book. Or clipping my toenails. Or getting a root canal.
Sure, I go through phases (usually when I’m PMSing) when I insist on the house being sparkling clean. But as soon as the mood passes, the spotless kitchen counters disappear too.
I thought that after Tori arrived, I’d change my ways. Not so much. Now I’m told that once she starts crawling, I’ll have to pick up more. But I think she’s destined to plow her way through our usual muck.
In fact, we’re kind of hoping she turns into a neat freak as an act of rebellion. It might be the only chance we have of ever having a clean house!