I veer between not minding housework and hating it. I’m currently in the latter phase and have been for quite some time. Really, tidying the kitchen and taking out the trash and hoovering the floor shouldn’t be all that much, but my heart sank at the effort of it. I did it anyway (well, not hoovering, but I cleaned the toilet), which is better than say, three or four months ago.
It amazes me how much effort is needed to keep up a certain level of tidyness — and yes, I might have a more meticulous standard than most for my own living space, no doubt from living in quite small spaces (e.g., a single room of dwindling size) for six of the past eight years — especially when one has a full-time PhD, an avid reading habit, choir rehearsals, skype dates, a knitting hobby, never-ending appointments at the hospital, and now my GP wants me to add swimming or running or yoga in. I’m holding things together, just, when really all I want to do is sleep, because holding things together by sheer force of will is exhausting.
All this to say, I haven’t a clue how my friends with families manage it all. Melinda, Rebecca, Casey, and Anna with her menagerie to boot! Keeping up a house is a full-time job in itself, let alone being a parent (or soon-to-be), too. In case no one’s told you recently, you’re incredible and amazing, and not just because you manage to feed multiple mouths and wash dishes. And before you say that some days are worse or better than others, even doing what needs doing is cause for admiration, because heaven (and Ros) knows how difficult I can find even that.
Thank goodness my mum arrives tomorrow. I still don’t have a hang of this whole ‘grown-up’ thing.