Saturday 11 April 2009

Domestic goddess.....not!

Crazypixie is having a nap and I’m turning my back on all things domestic to escape online for a while. This is a very regular occurrence and partially explains why I’m such a disastrous housekeeper.
I love my home, and I love when it’s clean and organised. It’s just that I’m not very good at keeping it in that state.

I blame my mum, and she blames hers (as my daughters will surely blame me); she was brought up by the superhuman, ultra organised, spot-dust-from- two-streets-away woman that was my Gran.
So my mother’s rebellion lay in the chaos of our childhood home. In her defence it was a 4 storey thirteen room monstrosity of a house miraculously still standing despite dry rot, wet rot, rising damp, missing roof tiles and the penury of my poor parents in the 80’s.
Our bedrooms were our lairs. Huge spaces with open fireplaces and wooden shutters on the windows, epic wardrobes that would have been at home in a C.S.Lewis novel and wallpaper that could be peeled back to reveal the decorating trends of the 1800’s. My room was always knee deep in clothes, paper, paints, and stacks upon stacks of books. It was my mess and nobody bothered me about it.
I do remember cleaning alright; it was always just before my Gran came to visit. The panic would creep through the house; we’d be assigned a room or two each and then ensued three days of making the place presentable.

So, I never got proper training……………………..well, that’s my excuse (pathetic, I know).

Now, don’t be calling social services. I don’t do filthy. We keep, what I like to call, a basic standard of hygiene. It’s just that stuff builds up everywhere. Not helped by the fact that, of himself and myself, I’m the tidy one.
He is one of life’s hoarders. The attic is full, the shed is full, the two of us packed a four bed house and all its storage space even before crazypixie was born. Himself has his college books (just in case) in the attic, every old computer is saved for parts (you’d never know), there are bikes that we never use, bits of boats everywhere (a catamaran parked outside the sitting room window as I write - temporarily , you understand, until we get around to repairing it), spare paint and tiles for every room, lengths of counter top (someday it’ll be just what we need), at least two tents, air beds, hill walking gear, wetsuits, dry suits, oilskins, body boards, dozens of safety boots, hardhats and high vis vests. And then there’s the stuff bought for projects we haven’t got around to yet: copper piping, shelves, rolls of insulation and stacks of floor boards. We’ve only lived here 6 years and with the arrival of crazypixie you can add buggies, cots, and the EU toy mountain.

So, with a second baby on the way, himself has decided it’s time for a bigger house. I’m just going to nod and smile and leave him at it. In the meantime I’ll keep sneaking stuff off to the charity shops and do my best to ensure a few hygienically clean play spaces for the crazypixie.

1 comment:

artyfeminist said...

As a woman who comes from a long line of hoarders down my paternal side, I can say it is so difficult to get rid of things. Sneaking them down to the charity shop is definitely the way to go. I find it impossible to part with anything sentimental - hence the piles of fabric left to me by my grandmother, the old books I've been using to 'make cards' (that never really took off) and the old china I am sure will make a great mosaic. :)