Housework Avoidance The Working Mother’s Guide To Housekeeping: A 12-Step Program

When I think of my job, the one word that comes to mind is overwhelming. Not my paying job. That one, for the most part, is easy and fulfilling. Not only do I have the opportunity to get dressed up and put on makeup, but I get to sit behind a desk and talk to people who don’t yell at me. And I even get paid for it. It’s the other job, the more difficult job, that has me overwhelmed. The job where I have to juggle precarious human relationships, foster selfesteem and good citizenship while at the same time keep clothes clean and the pantry filled with nutritious food.

Don’t even talk to me about housekeeping. Lord knows for years I tried. I really did. I vacuumed, polished, waxed and shined until one day a very basic law of physics fell on me: No matter how much effort I put into keeping the house clean, it always gets dirty again.

On housecleaning day (the day that generally coincides with the day before a three-day weekend when company is expected) I feel like a cartoon character. You know, the one who is desperately racing ahead of a rapidly gaining avalanche. As I sweep through the house, the kids follow behind, enthusiastically replenishing the clutter. The saying “don’t look back” holds special meaning to me.

Aside from doing the minimum to keep the health department at bay, my standards of cleanliness have slipped in the past few years to a more reasonable, rational, despicable level. I am finally free of the drudgery of impeccable housekeeping. You can come into my home at anytime, day or night, and I will proudly let you past the entryway. For I am a good employee, an outstanding wife and mother. So what if I’m a lousy housekeeper?

If you’d like to experience the freedom of living, without shame, in a messy house, memorize the following steps and practice them daily:

1. I admitted I was powerless over housework and that my life had become uncleanable.

2. I came to believe that a power greater than myself (a 2-horsepower Hoover Mighty Max pushed around by my husband every couple of weeks) could help restore the house to cleanliness.

3. I made a decision to turn my will and my dust cloth over to the care of a professional housekeeper just as soon as I could afford one.

4. I made a searching and fearless inventory of my closets and threw half the contents away.

5. I admitted to my family that if they didn’t start helping, I had mapped out a secret and highly viable plan for leaving them.

6. I was entirely ready to let LimeAway remove those stubborn spots and stains from the shower tile, but felt that getting black lung disease from inhaling the subsequent fumes wasn’t worth the little pride I would derive from a sparkling shower.

7. I humbly asked 409 to remove the fingerprints from the walls, but the instructions on the bottle said that I had to scrub.

8. I made a list of all the cleaning chemicals I had dumped into the environment over the years and became willing to made amends by never cleaning again.

9. I made amends to my family for threatening to inflict bodily injury on them if they didn’t stop making messes and expecting me to clean them up.

10. I continued to take household inventory and when it became too cluttered, found a way to stuff everything in a corner and never look at it again.

11. I sought through rest and relaxation to improve my conscious contact with television talk shows.

12. Having had an awakening as a result of these steps, I work tirelessly to carry this message to others (“stop cleaning, you’re making me look bad”) and to practice the art of housework avoidance for as many consecutively running weeks as possible.

By following the above steps, my job (that is, my unpaying, domestic job) has become much easier. I’ve discovered that no matter how slovenly we live, nobody cares but me. And, since I no longer care, that leaves nobody. On those rare cleaning days, my family now demonstrates an uncharacteristic willingness to help. This show of support tells me they don’t actually want me to leave. Never mind that they found my map and know my route out of here.

Kate Erickson is a free-lance writer based in Fort Bragg, Calif.