The worst housewife

My poor husband had the misfortune of choosing a partner who is probably the train-wreckiest train-wreck of housewives. An unintentional housewife, I of course planned on working or teaching outside the home. When it became apparent that jobs in our area were scarce and not suited to my degrees it was decided that I would work in the home. Naturally I assumed I would be the millennial Martha. Unfortunately for us all that is not the case. I don’t have a brain for organizing, I disdain cleaning, I do not prioritize removing dust bunnies. Instead we have clutter, but big adventures. We have a sink full of dishes but walls full of art projects. We have piles of laundry but hours logged in to hikes and park time.

My big claim to terribleness? I once waited two days for our dog to eat throw up off the floor. I hoped that my barf scarfing dog would do me a solid and clean it up. She who eats cat poop turned her nose up. I finally cleaned it once I had recovered from sickness (it was me who did the throwing up). That dog eats my kids boogers but would not eat my barf.

I could say that I care, but that wouldn’t be true. I decided to prioritize joy instead of cleaning. Cleaning makes me angry, I don’t want to be angry, my kids don’t want me to be angry. I’d rather accept myself for who I am; a terrible housewife, a pants hating, coffee drinking, mother who swears. One day my kids won’t want to go on walks, or camping trips, or do art projects with me. One day too soon I will have all the time I need to clean and organize and vacuum. Until that day comes I embrace my terribleness, it’s liberating.

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Note the guinea pig cage cavalierly left open, the books toys and hay strewn about the floor, the tuffet unraveling.