This morning when I left my house, pet hair carpeted the floors. Spilled cheerios lay under the table. A mysterious stain peeked out from under the cabinets. There may have even been a fur ball hanging from the ceiling fan.
But when I get home?
Everything will sparkle. The TV will have been dusted. The fan wiped clean. The oatmeal removed from the microwave. Even Tori’s potty seat will be clean.
Because, you see, I broke down and got myself a cleaning service.
I said I never would. That I didn’t want anyone touching my stuff or wandering around my house when I wasn’t home. Plus, it just seemed so….bourgeoisie.
After all, my mom never needed a cleaning lady. Neither did my aunt. Or my grandma. Or any of the women I was surrounded by while growing up. They kept immaculate homes and gardens, with nary a pillow out of place.
But I? Am a natural born slob. As is my husband. Add in a toddler, three furry creatures, and a 70-hour work week (because this crazy lady is freelancing at night) and you have total chaos.
So I did it. I made the call. I let a stranger in to see how we “really” live.
And now that the embarrassment’s over? I’m really glad I did.
There’s just something magical about coming home to a super-clean house. One you didn’t clean.
After the first time they came, I wandered around the house with my mouth hanging open. Things I hadn’t even realized were dirty looked brand new. It was awesome.
They’re coming again today. Which means I spent last night frantically picking up all our crap and swearing under my breath at our innate sloppiness.
But it will be worth it this evening.
Because for a few hours? My house will be beautiful.