At least, it became much bigger after our housekeeper’s contract ended and I did not wish for a new one. Meaning, to my husband’s standards, I have to clean every day, with an exception of Friday which I attempt to claim as my free day. (Like, it’s so possible with kids.)
By cleaning, I mean the whole nine yards. Vacuum, mop, dust, dishes, ironing, washing, polishing, desinfecting, littering, cooking, putting kids to sleep, shouting at kids not to play with this and that and being ignored right away, and so on.
It can become exhausting if Mr. Pickles doesn’t grant me a good night sleep – luckily, alhamdulilah, this is more rare of occurrence nowadays than it used to be. So yes, on occasion I’ll crawl out of the bed feeling like a roadkill, not really so joyous over the ordeal upon me; mostly though I am fine and re-adapted quickly.
It’s just Mr. Pickles, who does the whole thing complicated, really. Either he screams his lungs out being restricted to my room only, making my sisters in law message my husband at work why the hell is that toddler crying so much and whether is he being eaten alive by our three cats, or he wrecks havoc all over the house. In the latter case he’s happy, that is true; me less however. It’s like cleaning with a tornado behind my back; I turn and see whatever has been done, has been undone. And worse, rather often. He also took a great liking in plugs, trash cans, cat litter boxes, Dettol bottles, vacuum cleaner wrong ends and other child unfriendly but awfully fun things. What’s child friendly is gruesomely boring, he says.