But this year it has gotten ridiculous. I am nagging everyone to wake up, then nagging them to get the chores done (one chore per person- come on!), nagging them to pick up after themselves. It is pitiful. So I decided to go on a housework strike. No more nagging. No more cleaning. No more stressing over the unmade beds or toothpaste in the sink. Dear husband laughed that he would take a dirty house over a stressed out campaign to get things under control, any day. So I granted his wish. Funny that the things you do, that no one notices, are VERY noticeable when you don't do them.
Day 1: clothes building up on the bathroom floor, dishes piling up in the sink, crumby stuff on the carpet. I'm doing fine. Just cleaned my room and a corner on the patio where I could drink my morning coffee in peace.
Day 2: Can't see the bathroom floor, but you can smell that it is a bathroom. Dishes have been loaded into the dishwasher by angelic child who wants Mom to be happy. Laundry washed by considerate husband (who doesn't get why towels should not be washed with dark clothes). Linty clothes in dryer for 48 hours. If I am going to keep this up, it will have to be with my eyes closed. Took a LONG nap on the sofa and spent the rest of the afternoon in cyberspace.
Day 3: The kitchen floor is crunchy and the sink is full. I think I saw ants beginning to crawl across the floor. UGH! Bathroom door must be kept closed due to the "aroma." The kitchen angel bailed on me because no one else was stepping up to the plate. She did, however, wash her own clothes. College freshman points out that my passive aggressive tactics will backfire because NOBODY else cares if the house is clean or not. Dear Husband says he thought I was only joking. Didn't expect me to follow through. I hide out in my clean room with a good book.
How about an Aggressive- Passive technique??? Is there such a thing? I unload the dryer onto Angel Child's bed. Everyone laughs. I scoop up the wet towels from bathroom floor, along with a couple of ants that were hiding in the folds to dump on middle child's bed. Eyebrows are raised. I pick up the breakfast bowls that are half filled with Cheerios, and the pot lined with chili from lunch. As I head toward Miss Psychology's bed, there is an uproar. Within minutes the dishes are being washed, the laundry is being folded, and the bathroom disinfected.
My floor is no longer crunchy.
Mama is happy.