If I had been as productive before I had a baby as I am now, I would have written five books by now. But for some reason, this level of multitasking requires a baby.
If you give me 15 minutes, I can clear a sink full of dishes, wash and sterilize six bottles, or empty my inbox. If you give me an hour, it turns out, I can clean my house.
This partly because I’m faster now that I feel the pressure of an impending diaper blowout or baby meltdown, and partly because my standards are lower. Like way, way lower.
A few weeks ago, Adam said to me, “I’m really enjoying how relaxed we’ve gotten about housekeeping stuff since the baby came.”
I whispered, “I feel like I’m dying.”
I’m considered a pretty relaxed housekeeper by family standards. But keep in mind that my dad has been known to stress-clean the shower with nostril-curdling amounts of bleach. In contrast, unlike my folks, I can go to sleep with a sink full of dirty dishes. But I never feel peaceful once I notice that piles of stuff are accumulating in the living room again.
And the piles accumulate. Mail on the table, shoes by the door, packages and shopping bags by the coat rack. It all builds up and builds up until I go insane and either clean it or report to Adam that my happiness is suspended until clutter goes away, and he starts tackling the piles.
This week, I attacked the situation myself and now I’m sitting here rocking the baby back to sleep after a night feeding and I feel like I might live. It makes things feel a lot more manageable, not seeing crap everywhere.