September 26th, 2016
I didn't clean my house for two years. Well, it's not that bad... we did the minimum.
We weren't living in filth. We just didn't deep clean.
I saw piles forming, clutter building, and stuff sprawling. I saw it and had no energy to do anything about it.
As I've been slowly finding myself again, I have had pockets of energy where I want to tackle some longstanding pile. In doing so, I've found other things:
A long-dead big cockroach in my bathroom cabinet, that was crusty with white mold and dissolved into crumbs when I picked it up.
Enough fur under the couch to build a new large-breed dog.
My slipper that went missing for three months and drove me crazy looking for.
Pencils and coins under the sofa cushions (of course!)
Some school supplies (ruler, protractor, etc.) that, had I looked sooner, I wouldn't have had to buy. Murphy's Law.
A zillion missing halves of Olivia's earrings.
A school note that I was supposed to do something about. Last year.
Nine more beads from Olivia's broken bracelet that I had already restrung. They just kept popping up everywhere.
A bag of dead Funyons.
Look, my husband is awesome and domestic, but deep cleaning isn't his thing. I'm lucky he can and will do everything else.
Here's the thing. I'm a big pain in the butt now. I think my family's going to soon hate that I'm home all day.
("What do you mean by 'soon'?" quipped Claus, when I read him this draft.)
I've deep cleaned my personal spaces and I asked Claus to do his (the garage.) I had the nerve to sweep the whole garage and move his stationary bike trainer and extra wheels. "Don't move those," he said. "They're carbon fiber and they dent easily."
Then I asked him to please clean the garage shelving. "What shelves?" he questioned.
The ones above the washer. "What's wrong with them?" he asked.
"They are such a big mess of man junk," I pointed out. He gave me silence for a response.
We have a nine foot long kitchen counter and a dining room table. In my house, any horizontal surface is an invitation to put stuff there.
The counter and table were laden with things before. Anything and everything. Papers, shells, crafts, science experiments, candles, books, beads, massage oil, fishes, shrimp, picture frames, and so much more.
I finally got around to cleaning it all off. We see the counter again in all its granite glory.
We paid a lot for that. Might as well be able to look at it.
Claus had the habit of claiming one end of the counter as his "desk." I claimed the other counter. (Even though we have separate home offices.)
"If I have to move my stuff, you have to, also!" he complained. So I did.
The next day, a small pile was back on his corner. "Hey!" I noted. "Your stuff can't live there anymore!"
"Just leave it for now," he growled. "When are you getting a job, again?"
"Do I make you crazy?" I laughed. I got raised eyebrows for a reply.
"But you know I love you, right?" he added.
"Sure," I said. "But if you loved me, you'd clean the garage shelves."