Unbounded Domesticity

Recently I have become friendly with two fellow kinder mums.  Both are lovely, honest and genuine women.  There is absolutely no bullshit about either of them, and believe me, that is not easy to find at a Jewish day school kindergarten.  However, while I value my friendship with both of them, what has become abundantly clear is that compared to both of them I am completely and utterly inadequate in the home-making department.

Domestic Goddess is exactly that.  Her two daughters' snacks are always home made and it is absolutely nothing for her to whip up a dozen perfectly pink-iced mini donuts for a play date.  She cleans out her pantry and fridge once a week and I have never seen any dirt in her house - unless one of my children has dragged it in.  Entertaining guests with an array of dietary restrictions and allergies seems to not phase her one tiny bit as she creates artful gluten-free wraps bursting with yummy fillings.  This contrasts greatly with my handing over of a slightly bruised apple with an apologetic smile.  I could handle all this if Domestic Goddess did not actually work as well.  But she does.  Granted, not full-time in the traditional sense, but she is a manager at a large company who handles corporate phone-calls on her mobile with ease while breakfasting with Sunshine Cleaning and myself without dropping a speck of her bagel and skinny hot chocolate on her perfectly pressed suit.  Thanks to her flexible job she is able to work into the night, after she has tidied up the entire house, made tomorrow's lunches and put her daughters to bed.  Her husband has a busy job of his own and as such all domestic tasks fall firmly to her, and she does them.  Not only that, she seems to enjoy them. 

Sunshine Cleaning's house is startlingly clean.  Seriously.  It's so clean it's blinding.  And she has kids.  Two boys.  Twins.  She also works.  She also maintains a vibrant social life, always going out with friends to dinner, having throngs of guests over, kids over to play with her kids - all with this amazing smile on her face.  When I first met her I assumed she must be medicated, but once again I have discovered, that she enjoys doing all these things.  She enjoys getting down on the floor and playing pretend with a hoard of four year-olds, she enjoys cutting up fruit and presenting it in a way Donna Hay would be jealous of, she enjoys being a mother and wife and everything that goes with it.  Apparently she also really enjoys vacuuming.

Both of these women have pantries that look like some sort of Tupperware Mecca. 

Tupperware Mecca

My pantry on the other hand looks like the 'before' shot - half open pasta packets, flour bags closed with random clothes pegs, and of course an assortment of highly processed snacks for hubby to throw into lunchboxes in the morning, because if he were to rely on me to do it, our children would end up going to school with half a bottle of flat diet coke.  There is also always onion and garlic skins around.  I don't know why and I don't know how.  I have learnt to keep my pantry door firmly shut when Domestic Goddess and Sunshine Cleaning visit.

I would love to be like these two women, who live in homes where the beds being made is a rule, rather than the exception.  And there are some days when I come close to being somewhat like them, when I manage to throw out that piece of mouldy cheddar that's been lurking at the back of the fridge.  But I'm pretty sure I'm not smiling about it.  And I'm very sure I'm not enjoying it.

Perhaps this is less about my inadequacies, my inabilities and more about what I choose to expend my energy on.  I suppose I could stay up till midnight vacuuming and cleaning out all those bits of onion and garlic skin, but the reality is, I would far rather be watching a DVD with hubby in my less than meticulous bedroom.  Sure, it feels great when I know the house is sparkling clean, but with three kids and two parents working full time and just trying to make things work, that particular pleasure is a rarity.  So, I'll take advantage of the joys that happen more often - my three-year old daughter sneaking into bed with me at 6am for an early morning cuddle, my ten-year old son kicking my arse at 'Just Dance 2' and my seven-year old telling me I'm the best mum in the world because for a special treat I let him have a chocolate-chip cookie and that half a bottle of flat diet coke for breakfast.