Where Socks Go to Die

I realized today that I do not have a household. I have a househole. A hole. A pit. A cavity especially useful for burying things. That's what I've got.

Today is not my most positive day of domesticity. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

On the bright side, I am creating a treasure trove for future anthropologists. There is real cultural study to be gleaned around here, rife as we are with tools, papers, toys, clothing, books, and art projects. Based on this one test case, however, generations from now might believe that early 21st century people worshipped shoes and suffered from a phobia of closets and dresser drawers.

Time to tame the savages. Time to turn the nomads into agriculturalists. It's time to clean the house.

* * *


Teacher Mommy said…
We decided months ago to go ahead and have a cleaning lady come in every two weeks. She does the deep cleaning stuff, the kind of work we really don't want to do, like scrub toilets and the floor and such. She's independent, so she's surprisingly affordable and worth it for us.

Here's the side bonus: in order to keep it affordable, she does the deep cleaning but we do the decluttering. So at least every two weeks (though with MTL and I the way we are, we put the kids to work more often on this), we have to make sure that surfaces and floors are decluttered. It is a little annoying to have to clean for the cleaning lady, but on the other hand, our house doesn't look like an archeological treasure trove.

Just an idea.

And courage. Yikes.

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