I Don’t Care If Your Kid Messes Up My Perfect House
By now, you may have guessed that I have a thing about clean houses. Mostly, that I love them, but I especially love MY clean house. The smell of Mrs. Meyer, vacuumed shark’s teeth, this awesome poop spray I keep in all the water closets to keep the potties smelling fresh even after a guest has disrespected my toilet…you get the picture.
Lets just say that a regular part of my cleaning routine involves vacuuming the couch and cushions. Yes sirree, I love a clean house. What I’m less jazzed about is the reaction this instills in other people; namely the idea that I would somehow be averse to someone-their children, mostly-coming over and jacking it all up.
Well, they aren’t wrong. For instance, once we had a party here and some asshole spilled soda all over my couch and some other asshole stuck gum under my table. That made me kind of mad. The thing is, neither of these assholes were children.
If they had been children, I probably would have been okay with it.
My love for my clean house doesn’t run so deeply that I can’t handle the idea of a child coming over and fucking it all up. For some reason, though, no one believes me about that. I’ll invite people over, and if they have really little kids or really rambunctious kids or kids that look just like that pigpen kid from Peanuts, it’s always the same conversation:
“Oh, I couldn’t come over. We’ll mess up your house.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
“No, really. My kids can destroy a room in under five seconds, trust me.”
“I mean, they will justÂ demolish everything you hold dear.”
And on, and on. Eventually I will weaken their resolve with promises of alcohol, and they will come over, and my house will be destroyed. And yes, I am really,Â really okay with it. Children should be allowed to be children, and I’ve never understood the people that are so attached to their things or so in love with their white upholstery that they flip their collective shit if some grape juice is spilled or a vase gets broken.
People are often surprised that I don’t even run a tight ship where my daughter is concerned. She’s expected to make her bed and do her chores and not smear her feces all over the house, but that’s about the extent of it. Her room is often messy. Her clothes get thrown around, there’s marker on the carpet. I’ll make her clean it up eventually, but in the meantime, I can’t expect her to enjoy the home that is also hers if everything has to be spotless. She doesn’t roll like I roll. She has to get her hands dirty.
Your kids will mess up my house, too. They will grind goldfish into the rug, splatter juice on the curtains, break a dish. This is why vacuums and steam cleaners and HomeGoods were invented. Everything I own is replaceable. If it isn’t, your child will never find it.
So come over. Have fun. I won’t project my anal-retentiveness onto you or your kid. If I do have to clean up, well, it’s a good thing I love to clean.
Now, if your husband sticks gum under my coffee table, I will find you, and I will destroy you.