Before I became a mum I liked things to be tidy. “Just so”.

I’d make my bed as soon as I got out of it in the morning. There was rarely a film of dust covering the TV. I even cleaned the kitchen floor if the mood so took me.

It got worse when I was pregnant.

I embraced the “nesting period” with gusto. With a baby way past her due date and little else to do I scrubbed that kitchen floor until it shone. And then I hoovered. And dusted. And hoovered some more. My house was sparkling.

So it came as a bit of a surprise to find I didn’t really give a rat’s arse about cleaning once the baby arrived. I had far more important things to do, like master the art of getting my nipple in her mouth without squirting milk everywhere. And sleep. Sleep was very important.

But as I started to emerge from the haze of the newborn days, I thought I should probably try and get the house into some sort of order. I mean, I’m just sitting around on my bum all day doing nothing much else aren’t I? The least I can do is clean the floor. *Snort*

The thing is, my house is messy. Not to the point of destruction, but it’s far from sparkly. There are crayons on the carpet and flour on the floor. There’s evidence of a small ball of destruction inquisitive person in every room.

And I like it that way.

You can shove your sparkly kitchen floor. We’d rather make a mess and have some fun any day…

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