I used to be really good at cleaning. Like a little OCD. Dusting baseboards, sweeping, vacuuming, then mopping and sweeping again, hospital corners on the bed, spending crazy amounts of time attempting to fold that damn bottom sheet, etc. I would somehow spend all day cleaning my tiny 800 sq. ft. house.

Then I got a really fluffy dog (Sam) and I slacked off a tiny bit because I had less time and it was a losing battle. No matter what I did, the fur was everywhere. Then I got married and I slacked off even more because I didn’t want to feel like a house wifey maid. Then I had a kid and now my cleaning is this:

“Sam! Can you lick up this milk?”

“Sam! Do you like pureed peas?”

“Sam! Can you maybe swing your tail a little closer to the banister? It’s looking kind of dusty…”

I wear clothes out of the hamper and consider a rinsed dish reusable. My husband dusts with his bare hand. My son regularly licks the windows clean as he watches the cars drive by. Sam eats anything that falls on the floor. Everyone carries their own weight in this household.