domestic goddess has a nice ring to it

"I call myself a domestic goddess." - Roseanne Barr

A friend of mine came to visit yesterday.

I was psyched.  This rarely happens. She was in the neighborhood and stopped by for a few minutes.

She was in my house for 30 seconds until the waves of panic started to hit.  I started looking around, taking a quick inventory of what it must look like to one stepping in from the outside.  One without kids, for that matter. . .

I could tell you that we were stuck inside on a dreary, cold, rainy day and that's why it was a mess.  Or that it was laundry day (which day isn't?) and that's why clothes were all over the living room.  Or that I was just too tired to wash the dishes before bed last night.  The kids are cranky. . .we have head colds. . .I have to work tonight. . .excuse. . . excuse. . .

I'm pretty sure I managed to slip all of those excuses into our first 45 seconds of pleasantries.  Just to make sure.  We don't really live like this. . .like everyday.  Just on the days I'm home alone, with two kids.  Once she left though, I really started to look around . . .

Admittedly, Cole made quite a mess.  Yesterday was "dump-everything-out-of-its-container" day.  She was able to sit on the couch once she stepped over about 400 matchbox cars and Thomas trains.  That is, until she moved a few burp cloths and receiving blankets off the seats.  Even then, I saw her shift from one side to the other, certain she'd sat in something Cole had been eating.  And honestly?  I'll admit that I changed the kids from their night-time pajamas into clean pajamas for the day.  I didn't even open the shades. . .it was that kind of day.

Just in the living room there's a pack and play, swing, bouncy chair, bumbo seat, boppy pillow and a 10 gallon Rubbermaid tub full of clothes. . .and that's just for Matilda. 

For Cole, our place is divided into sections:  there's the Little Tikes section, where Cole keeps his buses and airplanes and little people.  There's the stuffed animal section:  where we stack stuffed animals (usually gifts) that Cole doesn't really like but I feel too guilty to get rid of.   There's a Lego section, a play kitchen section, a book section, coloring and art section, a section where we keep toys that Cole likes to push around at warp speed and slam into our ankles and a clothes section;  because going all the way upstairs to get clothing in our gigantic homestead would just be too tough. . .and don't forget the diapering section:  see previous excuse. 

But our home isn't big enough for all of these "sections". . .so what you get are rooms just full of stuff.   I see organized sections, but I can admit that it looks like piles and piles of stuff that belongs somewhere else.

Let's not even discuss the dining room or the kitchen.   I'm pretty certain there's a kitchen table in there somewhere. . .but you'd be hard pressed to find it under the stacks of mail, bibs, more clothing, fingerpaints and another bouncy chair.  As of press time, there's some insurance paperwork in an empty fruit bowl, a 4 pack of brownie mix, my breastpump and a lint roller on the table.   Yesterday, I had hung laundry all over the chairs and the swings to dry.  It must have been insane to look at it all.  Just insane.

And that's what I could have tidied before she came over.  A quick, throw it all in the hallway closet kind of cleaning.  I truly believe having a toddler is like wearing rose-colored glasses when it comes to housework.  Let's take into account I was never a homemaker to begin with. . .and add to that smudgy fingerprints on the windows, sticky spots on the tile, my general lack of organization and you've got one, crazy mess to contend with.  The kind of mess that just might make your child-less friends not come over unannounced again. . .

. . .well, that. . .and the fact that I answered the door wearing an oversized, ripped sweatshirt and Halloween pajama pants at 11:30 a.m.  That might have done it, too.

So for the rest of the afternoon, I cleaned.  Ran around in circles placing out-of-place things into other, out of place areas.  Rearranging the mess.  Finishing the laundry. . .well, finishing what I had started at least.  Did the dishes.  Even put them away.  Mopped the floor.  Dusted.  And made dinner. . .all before leaving for work at 5:00 p.m.  This includes dealing with the children's minute-by-minute demands and passing off two, relatively happy children to their father.

And when Bill got home I told him that my friend had come over to this horrible, indescribable mess (me included!) and he looked at me . . . and said, "uhhh. . . .huh."  Like he knew all along.  Like he's been waiting all this time for me to finally understand what he sees everyday.  Like there could be some part of my day rearranged to include a thorough cleaning of the Paradis homestead.   Every. . .day?

I don't buy it.

After more than two years of staying home, I still haven't figured it out.  Martha Stewart I am not.  I'd much rather spend my afternoons rolling around and playing with the kids than sweeping and mopping and vacuuming.  Although once in awhile I'll relent that it would be a good idea to do those things. . .and I suppose it's just good sense to not answer the door wearing holiday pajamas. . .out of season. 

And don't get me wrong. . .our home isn't dirty. . .it's just lived in.  We will never be the kind of household that has a living room for living and one for company.  Not that I wouldn't love to own a white couch, I'm not sure anyone with a 2 year old should have one.  I don't send the drapes to be dry cleaned and I don't deep clean the carpets (although it's something I should look into). 

And at least I know where the insurance paperwork is. . .that's more than I can say for my mind most days.