A House Keeper I Am Not

You know those beautiful, put together, well-organized, beautifully landscaped, immaculately clean homes in the Better Homes & Gardens magazines?

You know what I’m talking about.

Those homes make me swoon.

I’d probably saw off my left arm for a home like that.

And then I’d sob into my coffee because I didn’t step on Legos when I woke up or walk past a heaping pile of trash art on my dining room table.

I’m good at a lot of things. House keeping though? Nope. I should be doing laundry right now (I feel like that could be my life’s anthem, “I should be doing laundry,” because the laundry in this house is never-ending). Instead I’m sitting here with a sleeping baby on my chest. I should be unloading the dishwasher and doing dishes and sweeping the floor and figuring out to do with all this stuff that just accumulates on any flat surface in my house (I’ve offered to literally sell every flat surface in my house, but J seems to think that’s not a terribly reasonable solution).

But housekeeping isn’t my strong suite. Baby holding and kid cuddling; I’ve got those things down. You want to listen to loud (kid) music and sing and dance in the car, I’m your girl. You want someone to read until she’s hoarse, I’ve got you covered. You want a well-balanced, hot meal three times a day, I can typically swing that for you. You want to bake cookies? I’m hard pressed to say no.

But you want to a home that looks like it came from the Better Homes & Gardens magazine? Whelp. I just can’t. Not now. Not in this season.

Mostly, I’m okay with that.

But then some days I crack open a magazine and swoon…

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