The Cleanliness Gene, it Skipped a Generation

I’m embarrassed to admit it but to anyone who knows me this isn’t, truly, much of an admission as it is widely known… I hate cleaning. Just to be clear I’m not speaking of personal hygiene, no, that I enjoy doing and proudly admit I shower each day, am fully grossed out if my hair isn’t washed every twenty four hours and can’t wait to brush my teeth when I pop out of bed in the morning. What I speak of is cleaning my house. It’s a good thing I am not a 1950’s housewife as I would certainly have met a tragic demise enabling my hardworking husband to replace me with a more diligent, meticulous, housewife.

My Grandmother is an impeccable housekeeper. I’m quite sure her house could pass a white glove test any day of the week. Until recently she was sure to vacuum every room in her house- everyday. I’ve never seen her sink full of dishes and her furniture is seemingly unable to attract dust. Yes, she dutifully attends to each surface in her home; it’s clearly a source of pride for her. My mother is the same way. She doesn’t share quite the same over the top, obsessive compulsive, cleaning style as my Grandmother but that is only to say that upon entering my parent’s home you may, on occasion, see dishes drying in a rack or a stack of mail that has yet to be dealt with. Yes my Mother’s home was always well kept. As children we were required to help vacuum, do dishes, dust and clean the bathrooms. More than once we joked with her that the reason she had four kids was to help with the cleaning.

What happened to me? I curse genetics and the fact that I was so callously passed over by the cleaning gene. Day after day I ignore the smudges on the sliding glass doors that run the length of our family room and the hard water stains that plague our shower enclosure. It simply doesn’t elicit an emotional, “need to act”, response in me. Dishes are kept piling up until there is a need for clean forks and even then I recruit my five year old to help me load the dishwasher. The cleaning task I’m most dedicated to is sweeping the hardwood floor. This I must do at least every other day but that’s mainly because I despise smashed Cheerio remnants sticking to my feet. Yes, fact is, cleaning is about 1,000th on my “To Do” list, maybe even farther down on the list than that.

I definitely subscribe to the C.I.S.E. school of cleaning. That is- Company Is Soon Expected. Yes, when DH and I expect to have people over we are good about cleaning. Dusting, sliding glass doors, mirrors, the works. Toilets even get special attention. The kitchen counters are cleared off, dishes washed and actually put away. Come party time our place is down right tidy, just don’t look in the closets or in our bedroom, our usual places for hiding clutter we don’t’ have time to adequately deal with. I will admit I enjoy having every surface clean and it makes me happy to stand back and look at the gloriousness that is a clean house but I can’t seem to get myself to want to do that every day, every week.

Yes, it’s true; the cleaning gene skipped my generation. For the sake of my children I hope they are blessed with this gene that so sadly bypassed me. So far, so good, on that front tonight LJ was the one who suggested we unload and reload the dishwasher. Even the 16th month old brought me some trash that had been sitting on my bed side table since last night so she too may be on the way to being able to keep a clean house one day. For me? I fear I’m a lost cause. Guests are always welcome at our place. Unannounced ones will be greeted with hugs and half hearted apologies for the state of the house. Expected guests will be given the same hugs as well as my smug satisfaction that, once again, I may have fooled them into thinking I’m a decent housekeeper.