CLEANING my house is like brushing my teeth with chocolate spread. It starts off great but sooner or later something will fall out.
Returning home to what looks like a bombsite the chances are the fallout is going to me versus 'them' tonight.
I dodge toys, shoes and a skateboard as I make my way toward the kitchen. I am bound to find one of the little culprits in there. To my surprise I find it empty of human life but covered with the day's activities. With my detective's nose I see a spot of cake-making has taken place alongside one of Stepson's science experiment kits. Fantastic.
I find dishes stacked dangerously high, glasses of unfinished drinks and breadcrumbs covering every unit. Oh and a pretty smear of jam across the floor for good measure. Ergh…
A note stuck to the fridge catches my eye. Daddy has taken the messy people out to meet his Aunt for dinner. Nice work Hubster.
My blood boils.
I wouldn't mind if I hadn't spent the previous evening tidying, cleaning and abusing the kitchen with bleach. I hadn't managed to sit on the couch until gone eleven. Adding to my woes my nails were ruined too.
I had cautioned the clan before work this morning, surprising them with the knowledge that mopping up their mess is not my favourite pastime. They had seemed to acknowledge my words of warning but by the look of things their ears must have been on Mum Mute.
That's it. The worm has turned. No more Mrs Nice Mum. The Cleaning Claws are out.
Not only will I refuse to pick, wash or clean up a single thing for anyone else, I am gonna play the little rats at their own game.
Kicking off my shoes in the path of the front door. I start my mission to slob. My coat falls to the floor. I leave it. The contents on my handbag drops out over the couch. I ignore it. I drink my tea 'forgetting' the mug on the table. I leave the newspaper draped over the TV then helpfully drop the remote down the sofa. Hit them where it hurts, I chuckle.
Moving to the bathroom I use up the toilet roll and don't replace it. Using every last drop of bubble bath I run myself a soak. I now have enough bubbles in the tub to wash a rugby team.
Next, I strip off and dramatically toss all my clothes across the hallway, bathroom and even cheer as I ping my bra onto a door ... There's something quite liberating about not putting them all in the wash basket neatly. I could get used to this.
Diving into the soapy suds I splash around creating as many puddles as possible. Resting my head back I intend to indulge myself until my fingers turn to prunes.
Two minutes into my bathing antics I hear a rumble by the front door. The rats are back! I giggle to myself at the shock sounds coming from the hall.
Then I hear it; there is a voice I know well suggesting that I should really take more care where I leave my things.. Husband's Aunt has accompanied the family home for a cuppa. No!!! I can hear her gasps of horror at finding my bra hanging off one of the doors.
I sink under the bubbles and scream inside..
Who needs toothpaste when you can have chocolate spread?