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Vacuumed the carpeted floors today, swept and mopped the linoleum, scrubbed the toilet and cleaned the sink and shower, washed a load of laundry, tidied, did dishes, and got started on supper prep.

I hate housework. I hate having to find the balance between keeping the house liveable and pleasant, and actually living. On days that I clean, nothing else gets done. No reading to the kids, no playing outside, no writing … It’s not just that the housework itself takes up that much time (it does take up some time, but not that much – it is a small apartment, after all). It’s that doing housework drains me, exhausts me so much that I’ve no energy afterward for anything else. It’s a soul-numbing business for me.

I know it isn’t that way for everybody, and certainly I enjoy the fruits of my labor as much as anyone, but I have come to terms with the truth that housework will always be a necessity that brings no joy to my life. That doesn’t mean I won’t do it, or event that I’ll whine about doing it, but that I no longer feel guilt about hating it so much. It doesn’t make me a bad wife or mother! Not doing it would make me a bad wife and mother, but doing it while accepting that it’s crap … that just makes me human.

And on the bright side, my apartment is looking very pleasant and feeling very comfortable right now.

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