But unlike most adults that I know, I am still like a teenager when it comes to fighting the entropy battle. My defenses are pathetic. Occasionally I get inspiration and the dishes get done or the laundry gets put away. But then there are diapers to wash (Does the baby EVER stop pooping?) and toys to put away and receipts from all of the up-and-up corner markets that follow the tax laws. I don’t know how adults have immaculate homes. Dusting? I think I have dusted three times in my life. I always have bigger fish to fry. (Hmm… fried fish for dinner?)
When other people invite me over and say that their house is a mess I inevitably feel embarrassed. Do they really consider the coffee cup in the sink a mess? What would they think of my stove top? Or the spider webs growing in forgotten corners? Or the mountain of laundry? There is ALWAYS a mountain of laundry.
Of all of the household chores I neglect, laundry has always been the worst for me. Perhaps it is the worst because I have an excuse. The hippie in me that wants to conserve water and limit my use of chemicals cannot condone the act of washing my clothes every single time I wear them. Add to that my complete distaste for being clothed at any given moment (And breastfeeding as an excuse to quickly shed layers, although I don’t know any other woman who decides she just CAN’T breastfeed in jeans at the moment…) and I am hopeless. While the perfect couples know to toss their clothing directly from their bodies to the hamper, avoiding clutter, mine and my husband’s are strewn about the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen… those are the only spaces we have in our home or I am sure the clothes would be elsewhere as well.
Apparently there is a term for this. It is called a floordrobe. (Isn’t that adorable? Doesn’t it sound a lot less intimidating than giant mess on the floor?) It is a term for those of us who know exactly what the growing piles on our floors contain, and somehow magically know exactly when a re-worn piece of clothing is up for washing, usually without even having to sniff it. (Although, sometimes…)
I have made an effort to fight the floordrobe in our house. I really have. I designated one space where our pre-worn clothes could be folded and ready to wear again. I like to blame my husband for that failing, but I was just as bad at it. I have considered a second hamper, but as it is, the only clothes that regularly make it into the first hamper are Peatuk’s, and then only if he has managed to pee or spit up on them.
Honestly, I am at a loss. I always feel like if I could just get on top of the housework it would never get out of hand again. Then I get Nikola to take care of Peatuk for the afternoon and wash and scrub, and by the time I cook dinner I really just want to zone out or work (oh, the blessed escape of work!) rather than doing the dishes. Or folding my clothes. Besides- when we only have ten minutes to have sex before the baby wakes up from his nap, do I really want to spend one of those minutes putting my clothes away!?! (Or, forget sex, a SHOWER, on my own, without entertaining the baby… am I giving up one minute of that for housework? No way in hell!)
When I started writing this I thought it was going to be a how-to, sharing how hippies actually organize their floordrobe. Now I think: Screw it. Clothes on the floor just make for softer walking.
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