Cleaning is a chore for which I have no patience for. I am busy, with my job and my children and my life and frequently the things that are not vital and are not easy simply don’t get done. The evenings are for dinner and homework, reading with the children, putting the baby down. Saturdays are for swimming lessons, laundry and the illusion of “rest”. Sundays are family days, dedicated to long walks, roast beef dinner and board games before bed.
So you see, scrubbing walls and washing windows and all the rest is of no use to me.
Alas, occasionally even I must look around and see the state of things. So I berate myself without sympathy and resolve to clean up my act.
And so, we clean. I vaccumm and clean carpets, scrub walls, wash blinds, clear window sills of junk. And then, despite my disdain for the act of cleaning, I take a step back and can’t help but marvel at how very nice it all looks, this state of cleanliness. And I assure myself that I will force my family to do more REAL cleaning every day, and I will not let it get to be a mess again.
And so it goes.