After two children, it shouldn’t surprise me, and yet somehow, it does.
I don’t like to do housework. I’m not a very good housekeeper. My Diva Grandma used to have a sign in her house that pretty much summed things up.
“My house is clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy.”
I don’t like to do laundry, primarily because it seems like it NEVER FREAKING ENDS. Just when I think I’ve conquered Mt. Laundry, I realize that my family is still clothed, meaning there’s STILL laundry to be done.
I despise doing dishes for much the same reason as laundry, but I think that hatred is more deep-seeded, going back to my childhood, as it was my job growing up. I had a tendency to rush through my job and, well, let’s just say that I didn’t always get ALL of the food off the dishes. My punishment, which I remember having to do only twice, was to wash ALL of the dishes in the cupboard.
All of them.
In one sitting. Or standing, as it were.
But I digress.
One of the known side effects of late pregnancy is the nesting instinct. At 36 weeks, I shouldn’t be surprised by my recent burning desires to wash all of those tiny clothes and seemingly endless supply of burp cloths.
And yet, much like this pregnancy itself, it was an enormous surprise when I spent the better part of an afternoon this past weekend doing just that. I went through all of The Manimal’s clothes, packing away what no longer fit him, and organizing and arranging his closet and dresser in order to make room for the array of tiny things.
And then I cleaned the powder room downstairs.
And conquered Mt. Laundry and Mt. Dishes.
And cleaned the kitchen sink.
And made brownies.
And marinated steak.
And then sat down and explained to my family that, while this behavior might please them immensely, it was, most emphatically, a temporary, 36 weeks pregnant, situation.