Filed under: Storage & Cleaning, Cleaning
One writer hates cleaning so much that she's given up cleaning altogether. Here's why everyone deserves a housekeeper.I was walking through the hall of my apartment yesterday, carrying my 9-month-old baby Harper on my hip, when I noticed a tumbleweed of dog hair blow by my foot. I was about to lean down and brush it up with my fingers until I realized that tomorrow my housekeeper comes. I watched it tumble under the radiator, and instead of picking it up, I kissed Harper's button nose: "Let's go to the park."
Harper crawling on his play mat, while mama keeps up with the dishes in the kitchen -- and that's about all she does. Photo: Brooke Lea Foster
Here's my dirty -- and I mean dirty -- little secret: I hate cleaning. I hate cleaning so much that I typically let my apartment creep into borderline filth before I'll breakdown and pick up a broom or a mop or a dust rag. And yet if you came to my apartment, you'd find a very neat and tidy space where the dishes are always cleaned, Harper's toys always tucked into a toy box and towels neatly stacked in the linen closet. I make the bed every morning right after I wake up, and there are never clothes strewn around the bedroom floor. I'm obsessively neat. I just don't clean much.
If you were to look closely -- and I really hope that you don't -- you'd find some pretty unsavory sights: sheets that haven't been changed in 3 or 4 weeks, dust on the bookshelves, crumbs in the silverware drawer, a shower liner with a slick film of something gross in the bath, dust bunnies gathering under furniture, several pairs of kicked off socks at the bottom of my blankets in bed, small pieces of dog kibble that my mutt, Sadie, dropped out of his mouth near his dog bowl.
And I typically choose to ignore all of it until my sweet housekeeper, Roselle, arrives every other Tuesday. She cleans our one bedroom apartment for 4 hours, and I'm home the entire time, since Harper needs to take his morning nap while she's there. And it's humiliating; I cower in shame while she cleans.
Haven't you ever heard people say that they "clean for the cleaning lady"? Well, there's a reason. A cleaning lady knows all of your slovenly secrets, and as I've let on -- mine aren't pretty (but I bet they're fairly common). I'm actually so embarrassed to watch her clean up after us that I try to use Harper as a distraction. As she pulls the silverware out of the drawer and wipes out the holder, I'll hold him up and say: "Isn't he getting so big?" She'll nod and smile. When she scrubs the tub, I typically take Harper for a walk. I can't look her in the face after she comes out. I can imagine she wants to say: You could at least rinse it out a few times in the week that I'm gone.
Mop the floors? Nah, let's take Harper to the swings instead. Photo: Brooke Lea Foster
And here's the bad news: We just bought a house. When we leave our modest apartment in the city for a modest four square colonial in the suburbs, there are going to be so many more rooms to clean. Two bathrooms. Stairs. A dining room and foyer. As my husband and I poured over our new budget the other night, it became clear: A housekeeper may no longer be in the cards.
"Well then we can't buy the house," I told him.
This is the part where readers snicker, roll their eyes, call me a princess and stop reading. I know, it sounds absurd. But here's the reality: My husband hates cleaning. I hate cleaning. Our dog, Sadie, can't clean. And while Harper loves when I clean sweet potatoes off of his face -- trying desperately to eat the wet napkin as I wipe his chin -- he can't exactly dust the floors as he crawls (although that's kind of a genius idea). Plus, I work at home. When I'm not trying to entertain my baby, feed him or smarten him up with books, I'm on the computer writing or editing.
And don't I deserve something in return for all of my hard work? I'm not interested in fancy jewelry. I don't buy expensive clothes. And I don't even own a car. I'd rather invest my money somewhere I'll get a big return, and for me that means a housekeeper.
I told my husband all of this. I said that I'd take on more work (meaning extra freelance writing jobs) just to pay for a maid. "We should at least try to do it ourselves," he said.
Been there, done that. When we lived in a house in Washington, DC, we set aside every Saturday morning to cleaning. We made a handy list of all of the chores -- scrub tub and toilet, dust bookshelves, wipe down cabinets -- and divvied them up. We did it once and patted ourselves on the back.
And we never cleaned again. A month later, we hired Lena who charged us $100 to clean our whole house. I'd come home to the fresh lemony scent of Murphy's Oil Soap and gleaming hardwood floors and think: Best money I'll ever spend.
Some women try to do it all -- work themselves to the bone at the office and at home, find time for their husband, run the kids to activities and maybe find 15 minutes to soak in a bath. Or they're forced to.
I've got options: If I work a little harder each week, I can afford to pay for the cleaning lady myself. And that means freedom. Plus, I can save elsewhere. Harper and I can certainly miss a lunch with our mommy and baby friends once a week if we have to. I can pass on that Banana Republic sweater.
Harper doesn't mind when his mother takes him outside to avoid making eye contact with the cleaning lady. Photo: Brooke Lea Foster
Instead, I'll buy myself the greatest gift of all: time -- with myself, with Harper, with my husband. I'd rather live with less-than-pressed sheets and clumps of dog hair on the floor than take time away from the people and things that I love most to scrub a toilet. And while I do have to sweep everyday to make sure that Harper doesn't scoop anything -- like dog kibble -- into his mouth, I'm able to spend the rest of the day chasing him around the apartment on my hands and knees making him laugh.
Call me a spoiled brat, a prima donna, a lazy housewife. But I'm just spending my money wisely. For $80 every other week, I buy myself a piece of heaven: A clean house that I don't have to lift a finger for.