This week I will let a strange man into my house when my husband isn't home. I will greet him with heaps upon heaps of kisses and shouts of delight because he will be bearing gifts of mops and sponges and environmentally-friendly cleaning supplies. He is coming over to CLEAN MY HOUSE.

A few weeks ago, an old friend blasted an invitation to all of her Facebook contacts: her green cleaning service was in need of some fresh houses for training purposes. Was anyone interested in housecleaning at a wildly discounted rate? I just happened to spot this message when I was using Phillip's computer and it took me all of .002 seconds to draft a reply. It went something like, "YES PLEASE. HOW ABOUT THIS AFTERNOON?"

 

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No, I didn’t go into labor on Labor Day -- although that would have been downright adorable of me -- but I did spend the day laboring with Dan and the kids. We spent the whole weekend working our butts off and now that we have no butts, we are ready to plunge full-force into the school year.

I’m fairly sure the kids are excited to get out of this house of slave labor and back to school where they can spend more time eating snacks and playing with their friends.

 

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This past weekend we tackled our semi-annual massive cleaning of the kids’ rooms. (And let me just pause to take this opportunity to invite the UN Weapons Inspectors to stop by my house at their convenience, because I may have found the weapons of mass destruction.)

It’s not pretty.

Once the closets were reorganized, the top of the dresser cleared, the Legos regrouped after being flung to the farthest reaches of our house, it was time to tackle the under-bed area, otherwise known as the End Of the Universe.

Hubs and I glanced at each other, and I gave him my best Jack Bauer hand signals: “I’m going in. You got me covered?”

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Saturday morning, I woke up to a phone call saying, “I cannot believe what happened to your house! Are you mad?” No one likes to wake up to a call like that. In a panic, I raced to the front door to see what happened. Imagining the worst, I flung open the door to see every part of my house and front yard engulfed in a glorious white covering of toilet paper. If it was stationary, it was covered. Read More

I won’t notice the schmutz you just rubbed on the shoulder of my best dress if you won’t notice how long it’s taken me to wash your blankie.

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