Cracklin' Rose

I've been putting off writing this because I don't want it to appear that I have more bark than bite, because my bite is pretty big. BUT...

I've been cleaning.

Don't say it. I know.

I've been keeping a clean house.

And it's damn tiring. It's wearing me out. It's true that all I do is clean or think about what I need to clean, and it freakin' NEVER stops. It's getting easier and there are perks which will be discussed in the next paragraph or so, but d-yamn!  It's just further proof that my job never ends. Ever.

Two things that have rarely happened in my house before J had his tantrum have happened. My daughter's teacher stopped by unannounced (another post. A happy post. A proud as hell post!) and I didn't flip out or make her stand on the porch and chat. She called through the screen and I said these three words, "Come. On. In."  I had no worries that she would talk to the other teachers about the sty Dee has to live in or worse, that she might call social services.  It was a good feeling.

Yesterday morning the family spent an hour cleaning. J swept all floors, I did bathrooms and windows and laundry and mopped the kitchen and foyer (but not deep cleaning because they didn't neeeed it. Whee.), Dee watched Rosie and organized her toys, and Bear... looked for a missing X-box cable.  But whatever. 

It wasn't a horrible hour. It wasn't a rushed hour. We weren't tripping over toys to do it. We weren't wading through piles of clothes. We weren't overwhelmed with the mess we had to get through just to find a place to start. We didn't fight through it. We didn't glare at each other and think, you should knoooowww why I'm hating you right now!  I didn't have to ask him to help. I simply started the laundry and all of a sudden there he was with the sweeper. I didn't have to scream at the girls to get them to help. It was weird. It was nice. 

As a result I invited my in-laws over for dinner and it was a no stress kind of night. Fun and clean and I didn't have to worry that they might wander into the room/closet that we'd shoved all our crap in and get killed or lost. So that was good.

BUT... d-yamn. I'm not sure I'm embracing this whole thing. Yes, J's happier, and it is kind of nice and I do enjoy the results, and at least one of my kids has confessed that she enjoys the cleaner environment, but why is it that it feels like I'm constantly worrying about the state of my kitchen counters? Is that healthy? It can't be healthy. By day's end I have no energy left to write. Or relearn how to punctuate.

Where's the balance?