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.
Today he completely ignored the “Under Maintenance” mode of one of the bathrooms and with a great pleasure undulated one of the shampoos all over the floor with his own, and very soaked by than, pajamas. Too bad they were still on him. He rejoiced as he had to take a bath in the middle of the day; finally he got to play in water legally and be warm as well.
No need to fret though, as even if he got rather cold playing on the tiled floor with sneakily acquired shampoo bottle, I could just sit him next to the french window at the balcony or in worse case right on the balcony – he’ll be barbecued in no time. Been close to 50 degrees Celsius in shade for three days already. Everything gets hot and dry out there, really. I’ve forgotten a chicken on the window (I’ve put it to defrost there in the morning), had it cooked by 1 pm.
So the only real “free” time I get is usually after 8 pm; sometimes later. Than I really just want a cup of hot coffee (yes, in this weather), some food, and relax. Past weeks it’s been at Guild Wars 2, and recently managed to finish my legendary weapon in there -yay, what an achievement to have pretty purple pixels. But yeah, I like that game and swap it with WoW on occasion. Read a book sometimes, if I get the time and mood – makes me really sleepy recently. Soon I will add to that crocheting of the old baby blanket, to upgrade it on bigger version, just need to get the money for it first; Fishermen’s Wool is rather expensive thread to work with. But feels perfect, yes.
We’ve also upgraded from two Maine Coon cats to two Maine Coon cats and one street cat. Probably Persian or a mix of it, nondescript age. We didn’t adopt her, don’t get me wrong. She simply moved in during one hot day. She hates our two guys and keeps on slapping them around and abusing them in all possible manners and the two bimbos let her do it. I do even think Hummer is in secret love with her, because there’s no other explanation why would he persistently keep on coming close to her, sniffing her and attempting to cuddle, while she slaps him away. With a great deal of hissing, humming and other weird sound making. Men, I’ll never understand them.