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Last summer when I sliced my finger open, there was a period of a few weeks when I couldn't really get anything done around the house, at least not until the wound had healed up a bit. It was freeing, having the excuse to sit around and watch everything get messier and messier, but when it was all said and done and I was back to semi-normal, I picked up and cleaned and laundered like a mad woman until everything was back the way it was supposed to be. It was a bit eye-opening, the pleasure I get from having a neat house and I now consider it a necessity for my mental well-being. If you had asked me at the time, I would have been all "Whatevs, I'm easy breezy, baby!" Now, I am comfortable knowing that I can be a bit Type A about it all.

While I appreciate living in a relatively clean and put together house, I loathe cleaning and would like to do as little of it as possible. Since January, I've managed to cobble together a system that works for me:

Mondays: laundry and vacuuming/steam mopping. I've discovered that if I don't make my last load of laundry our bed sheets, then whatever is in the dryer last stays there for days, which leads to days-long avoidance, which leads to the feeling that I'm doing laundry day after day, even though I'm not. So I force myself to make our sheets the last load.
Tuesdays: baking bread for the week.
Wednesdays: nothing
Thursdays: dusting
Fridays: clean the bathroom

I generally do all of these things while Holly plays or helps, which is great because then while she's napping I can do other things, like stare at the backs of my eyelids. I couldn't have done this when Henry was her age because he really needed me to be his playmate, whereas Holly can entertain herself or wants to help. Also, I don't want her thinking the house gets clean via magic. You know, like Dave does. (I kid.)

Also, I pick up and clean the dishes right after every meal. Walking into a disaster of a kitchen first thing in the morning when I need to get Henry's lunch and snack together for school after I've slept in ten minutes longer than I should have (the sleeping in bit happens every day) makes me feel like I don't have my act together at all and sets a bad tone for the rest of the morning. I'm also obsessive about getting the toys put away after the kids are done playing with them. This is due, in part, to the fact that we don't have a playroom. We have toys secreted and not-so-secreted away in every room of the house, so we have to keep on top of it. I wouldn't mind having a separate room full of toys that I could just close the door on, but I've convinced myself that teaching them to put their stuff away also teaches them to respect it. Not that they do either, but gosh-darned if it doesn't make me feel better about our lack of space.

Could this post be more navel-gazing? I'm not sure why I even feel compelled to write this out, but I do. I think it's partly because lately I've been feeling like I've got a pretty nice rhythm going to our days which is great, because usually I feel like I'm floundering, trying to get everything done.