To most of us it's actually OCD: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, not to my family; however...
Axl at age one. Let the messes commence...
The endless battle…
“Why do you always clean, Mommy?”
“Because your mom has OCD, Parker.”
“What’s OCD again, Daddy?”
“Ongoing Cleaning Disorder. She’ll never stop cleaning, Parker. Not as long as we live in this house with her.”
(Incidentally, my husband actually believes OCD is an acronym for Ongoing Cleaning Disorder. I just go with it.)
Having cleaning-OCD in a house with two toddlers is like a mute person having Tourettes: totally pointless and aggressively aggravating.
This is a hot topic in our home, my obsession with cleaning. I just can’t stop. I clean up toys as my children play with them, I clean my children’s faces as they eat, I clean the bathtub as my kids are bathing. It’s probably not technically “normal”, but it’s who I am. And believe me when I tell you, if I didn’t, this house would be deemed unsuitable for living. No one else is capable of the cleaning I do. I went to happy hour with the girls the other day, I was gone for three hours, when I came home my bathroom looked like the bathroom in the original SAW movie, sans the dead body in the middle of the floor. I don’t understand how the “things” that come out of my daughter can possibly do so. She’s barely three feet tall, her intestinal tract can’t be that big. It’s disturbing, frankly.
And my son totally gets the whole chewing food thing, but the swallowing thing is completely lost on him. If I don’t cut his food into the teensy tiniest pieces, the kid just spits out everything he’s been gnawing on, no matter the disgusting-factor. Have you ever tried to cut a grape into eighths? It ain’t easy. There’s almost nothing worse than curling up on the sofa to read a very educational book (or watch Sharknado), pull up the cozy blanket and find that already-been-chewed fruit snacks are littered throughout said cozy blanket and there’s not an unsticky spot to be found.
And I know my husband works really super-duper hard, but can you PAH-leeze, TRY to pay attention to where your toenails go flying when you cut them? I mean, seriously, how nasty can one family be? Is it just mine or are all families so gross? And it’s not like they don’t try-ish. They do. They’ll “clean” their rooms, “make” their beds. Much like they “brush” their teeth. It’s more of a for-show job. (My husband is excluded from these last two sentences. He never cleans our room or makes our bed; however, he’s pretty good about actually brushing his teeth. But don’t get me started on his flossing habits.)
I would actually like to take a moment and say, “You’re welcome, family.” You’re welcome for saving you from your own devastating contamination of nasty. You’re welcome for being the superhero that rescues you from germs and maggots and rabies and tetanus, mange and mad cow. The superhero called: MOM.
Now I say with the utmost sincerity and humility, “Go clean your room, so I can re-clean it as soon as you’re done”.