When we arrived home from our two weeks in Utah last month, it was wretched and painful to walk in the door and suddenly feel the weight of having responsibility for the upkeep and cleanliness of our entire 800 square foot apartment. I actually emitted a low groan and asked Marcos, "Can we please get back on the plane and live out of suitcases for the rest of our lives, in someone else's guest room?" In my world, sharing cooking and cleaning duties and striving to be a helpful guest are such a breath of fresh air from the daily war of trying to keep an entire home together.
I don't mind cooking.
I don't mind doing dishes.
I don't mind doing laundry.
I don't even mind doing deep cleaning.
But put all of these independently decent activities together with working and caring for a busy child (even with a husband who is helpful in ways rare among men), and it just turns into a losing battle in a never-ending war. This year I have been feeling like I am always losing the war. If you are reading this and wondering what I am talking about because my home seems just fine when you come over, let me assure you that we knew you were coming and über-exerted ourselves for the sake of upholding an old - and somewhat outdated - reputation of being able to keep it together.
My reputation is like the tight pair of jeans I wore three years ago: I'm trying to hold on to it in case I can fit it again in the future.
Wish me luck.