Things have got to change.

I’m taking a break from cleaning. My God, I would rather do anything but clean. I’d mow the yard if we had one. 

The thing about cleaning is it’s just going to get messed up in a week or less. Now that I’m married and have a kid, it’s going to get messed up as soon as they walk in the room. And, I know, I bitch about my mom probably too much, but I just remember her getting so wound up and angry about cleaning. I swore I’d never do that. And the only solution for that is to not clean. Selah. I totally get why she was angry—she was the only one doing any of the work. But she couldn’t bring herself to stop doing the work because of her own expectations and, I guess, society’s expectations. 

I had some insight into expectations when we tiled our bathroom floors. John did it all in one weekend and I told my mother what a wonderful job he did. They really are beautiful, I said. “Now it’s up to you to keep them that way,” my mother said.

That’s become a punchline in our house. Good grief, it is not my job to keep those floors clean. It’s both our jobs. Just like it’s both our jobs to keep this house clean. But we both gave up when I got sick. But why John didn’t pick up the slack when our lives fell apart…well, I have not figured that out or forgiven, as I often mention.

Unlike my mother, I really have no problem not doing the work. Plus, because I’m so out of shape, I start sweating if I walk across the room, so if I start cleaning…forget it. I have not done routine housework for three years. And it shows. Arizona brings contributes its own special evil to the mix. I have never lived anywhere where I had to dust vertical surfaces. Or where inches of dust collect on things kept in closets or cabinets that are always closed.

The man from the moving company came last week to look at our stuff to do an estimate for the move. He was an older man who probably believes I’m supposed to keep house. I could tell he was appalled. He was very friendly getting out of his truck. By the time he left, he was barely acknowledging me. Whatevs, dude. Not my job. Not doin’ it by myself.

The cleanest room in the house is Finn’s room. He does get routine cleaning from me. He gets his sheets changed. I clean the tub for him. Finn deserves better than the dysfunctional people he’s got raising him. I just hope that getting out of here works the miracle that I hope it does. I hope getting back to a normal life, where I have a routine day, where we have a dual income, instead of an income and a constant drain, will help. If not, we’ll *all* go to therapy.

This is a case where things have got to change.

But all the therapy in the world is not going to make me like housework or do housework.