On Saturday night we invited some friends over for pizza. Let’s say, hypothetically, that this was a last-minute get-together. I actually knew about it for days.
When you have two dogs, two kids and a husband who doesn’t care when the house is dirty, it won’t do any good to clean ahead of time. You can’t straighten up until an hour before your guests arrive or else dirty socks and half-chewed dog bones magically appear.
After my daughter’s morning track meet we came home and went to work. She dealt with the clutter, while I vacuumed, mopped, dusted and cleaned the half bath. Although there were random shoes laying around when our friends arrived, for the most part the house looked clean. Well, clean enough anyway. They’re friends, not royalty.
Everything was fine until one of the moms in the group offered to read my son a bedtime story. She took him upstairs, made sure he brushed his teeth and got him into bed. I got a night off from the bedtime routine and my son got a night off from me rushing him through it.
So, what’s the problem? The problem is that she went upstairs.
Upstairs to the land of unmade beds and a kids’ bathroom with soap on the faucet, toothpaste on the mirror, dog hair on the floor and a huge rust stain in the tub. And there is a table in the hallway that looks like I am trying to feed the dust mites until they’ve had their fill.
If I had remembered the mess that awaited her, I would have never let her climb the steps. I was this close to faking her out and letting her believe that I’m a decent housekeeper.
Clearly, I need to be more conscious of where my guests go. Either that, or my next house needs to be a ranch.