Sometime last summer I had the following conversation with my brother:
Me: What are you up to today?
Nice Brother: Well, it's Sunday....
Me: Um, Okaaay....
Nice Brother: I'm cleaning.
[He was nice enough not to say "duh", but it was implied. And then with a little shock....]
Nice Brother: Wait, aren't you guys?
And that's when it occurred to me just how far I've come from my tidy upbringing.
Because that's what we did almost every Sunday afternoon growing up. Saturday was for grocery shopping and errands and maybe some fun, but Sunday was for vacuuming and scrubbing and generous swipes with lemon-scented Pledge.
I can't say when I fell out of the habit, but I think it was about the time we moved into this house. There were just so many weekend projects that we couldn't keep up with it all and spend two hours on Sunday afternoon cleaning. And then the Kid came along. And then Sweet Husband started working more Saturdays, leaving Sunday as our big family day. And then....well, I think I just let it go with out even making a conscious decision to.
Now we do more like once every 3 weeks, with spot cleans for the bathroom and kitchen in between. And when company's coming, 'cause that's just good manners.
It's not perfect, but no one's died, so.
Despite my housecleaning apostasy, however, we still do a big, whole-house scrub down every fall, just to get the summer dirt washed away before we're all cooped-in together all winter. Bless-the-day-I-met-him-a-thousand-times, Sweet Husband did the lion's share of the really grubby work this time around, while I flitted around dabbing a dust cloth in our cobwebby corners in between naps.
And then we decided we're going to hire a cleaning lady for at least a little stretch after the baby is born. Because newborn + preschooler.
And also because, even though family walks and breakfast with friends will always win for our weekend free time, there's something comfortable way down in my chest that happens when I can go to sleep knowing my dresser has been dusted.