Confessions of a Dirty Housewife

A couple of years ago I started enlisting the kids in a weekly ritual I like to call The Hour in Which My House No Longer Smells Like Dog and Used Kleenex. I followed up throughout the week with nag-the-children-to-pick-up-their-things-until-mommy's-saliva-dries-up. But somehow it's not working. Somehow I am still slightly fearful that I'll pick up a staff infection from my own bathroom.

I feel guilty. But not because my house is a hot mess. I feel guilty for feeling like I should be able to do it all and not getting help. Because really - when there's a quarter inch coat of dust that actually changes the color of that lovely glass vase you got for your wedding - when the dust bunnies have turned into a pack of vicious jack rabbits - when there's stuff in the fridge that you can't identify - when it's that bad - you need help.

So a couple of weeks ago I finally broke down and called the woman who used to clean our house. And wouldn't you know that poor dear was out of work? Providing a regular gig was the least I could do. Besides, now the kids and I can work on the deep detail cleaning more often so as to thwart the landfill-o-crap that threatens to overtake their bedrooms.

As I waltzed through the house on a lavender and Pledge scented cloud of happiness, I felt better. Not just because all the tiny hairs had been whisked away, but because I had a hand in the financial recovery of our nation.

Stimulate the economy: hire a housekeeper.

Can't enough of my wit? See these gems:

Treat Your Husband This Valentine's Day: Morph Into a 1950s Housewife
Cleaning the Children's Suite - It's No Earth Day Up There


Should you desire to clean your own house, check out tips and tricks over on Parent Bloggers Network.