When I was a young our house was cleaned every stinking Saturday. I remember every Saturday of my childhood and know I scrubbed the upstairs floors and cleaned the bathroom every stinking Saturday.
Of course I grew up and eventually appreciated the value of organization over chaos. My daughters and I cleaned every Saturday morning. We could be done by noon and free to enjoy anything else planned for the day.
We may have finished so quickly because the girls’ rooms were bypassed, except for vacuuming. One time, while we were on vacation, our house was robbed. The girls’ piggy banks were smashed on their bedroom floors. The police remarked on the ransacking of their rooms. Except for piggy bank shards on the floor, that’s how they left them.
Cleaning this house has never come to the top of any list. No excuses, but as if Mom, Jan and I were cleaned out. We had Mark in the beginning, and he is a neat freak, so we could rely on him to sweep any particle up from any floor, and find an inconspicuous place for things he didn’t like to see. But he went off into the world to become a citizen and left us to dust bunnies of several cats and dogs.
We engaged cleaning people. Some good, some not. My friend Carol told me one is always looking for the next cleaning person. She does know; she has twice the house and so many collections her cleaning ladies spend a day. We had cleaning ladies, too, right up to the time we decided we needed kids
I call them Child Help, Grandma’s Sole Proprietorship. They do a fine job. Their rooms are never included in the schedule and the grown-ups take care of their rooms, so the job can’t be that onerous. Some weeks we give it a lick and a promise and some weeks we do a real job.
But, one thing and another, we have done nothing except keep the kitchen clean for several weeks. And tomorrow is the big family Memorial Day picnic, before Hazel and Tony go home. As soon as my proprietary cleaners come home from school we will tuck in and get it done. We could be done before supper.
There may be pictures of grandchildren scrubbing floors on hands and knees. Nothing makes my seventy year old knees feel better.