Because of this lot.
It doesn’t matter what I do, it never seems to make any difference whatsover.
Housework, that is.
And it’s so embarrassing.
I hate it.
I hate the fact that there isn’t a place for everything and everything in its place.
It frustrates me that all I seem to do is pick up and put away and pick up and put away and… (repeat until infinity), and nothing ever looks any different.
It’s embarrassing and I feel, quite honestly, a terrible failure. Everyone else’s home always looks so tidy and then I look at mine.
And I’ll admit, when you people paste photos of your children on Facebook, I look at the background to see if any of you come even close to the wreck that is my home.
Rest assured, you don’t.
Short of duck taping the kids to walls (I’m joking – honest), throwing every toy out (I sometimes joke about this and sometimes actually quite mean it), and banning them from doing anything at all ever again, I am pretty much coming to terms with the fact that I’ll always have the kind of house which makes me cringe when an unexpected visitor comes to the door.
It’s a mess.
All the time, it seems.
And this means mess.
So if you come around and see the toys piled up and threads and flour and fabric and art stuff everywhere it’s probably because of things like this…
And that is my excuse.