Aimee Horton

When it’s grubby.


Ok, here’s the deal.  I have resigned myself to the fact that my house looks like Toys R Us has thrown up in it.  On a day-to-day basis I don’t notice the grubby doors, the finger marked walls, and even laugh at the rusk coated curtains in the living room.  I’ve got used to opening the front door using the words “Excuse the state of the house, I haven’t had chance to clean” because it’s true.  By the time Fats and Small are tucked up in bed I am plopping some ice and lime into my G&T and collapsing on the sofa deciding what take away to order because suddenly the “sweet chilli chicken stir fry” on my meal plan chalk board no longer looks appetising after a 20 minute discussion on what would happen if a car didn’t stop for the Lollipop Man.

That’s right, I still go through the motions, I still get excited and buy new cleaning products at the supermarket, I still plan my menus, I still make the bed every morning and put the washing through all day long, but something gets in the way of my motivation, what is it? Oh yes, that’s right. The children.

Since I’ve had the boys, I have developed different levels of cleaning.  There’s the cleaning for my best friend, as in, I don’t.  She sees my house for what it is, which is why she does my ironing after it landed on her while she was having a wee one day.  There’s the cleaning for my mother (all the rooms I know she’s going to go in, and all my laundry in my bedroom, but not that deep because to be honest the children are in the house doing a darn could job of spreading dust and stuff), and then there’s the cleaning for new people, full on blitz.

I wasn’t aware of this, until the other week when some friends on the play-date circuit were coming round, and my bff was around (ironing) to witness what she described as “The frantic clean”.

I wasn’t going to clean for them.  Not in a nasty way, just in an “argh I’m really busy, and they know I’m a slob” kind of way.  I even texted them and warned them, but then I went up to The Beasts bedroom to make his bed and put away some clothes and that’s when I clocked the carpet.

The carpets throughout the majority of the house were cream, they came with the house, and at the time we thought they were the perfect choice, you know, because even as a bit of a spiller, I could just take G&T in to the carpeted room and there would be no stains.

Oh the naivety of the pre-child couple.

I’ve always thought the carpets had kept quite well, even when we had the person come and clean them for Christmas, I didn’t think they were that bad.  I didn’t even hyperventilate when during Christmas festivities a spilt drink was cleaned up with a green napkin, turning my carpet green. IT’S OK! IT CAME OUT!

But then I went into The Beasts room, just a matter of hours before our friends turn up, and I look at his carpet and realise it’s repulsive.

After an audible squeak, I head into the Chunky Monkeys room and check his carpet out too.  I staggered back, I held onto the doorframe and came down the stairs, squeaking and whimpering as I checked out every carpeted room of the house.

They. Are. Vile.

They are also no longer cream.  They are SPOTTY.  The main colour being a cross between digestive and Weetabix, possibly due to a real life mix, followed by dots of grey due to the bloody Calpol stains dotted across.

Ok. I’m exaggerating a bit.

It’s not just Calpol.  It’s Piriton, Sudocrem, Vicks, Ibuprofen and Buttercup Syrup.


So there was nothing else I could do. I had to quickly induce a frantic  heavy banging hovering, bleach down the sink, mopping the floor clean.  I even considered the option of changing curtains and cushions in the lounge to draw attention away, but didn’t have time, darn school run, all to draw attention away from the stains.

That night, I was sitting on the sofa having a moan saying I’d never buy a carpet again, I’d rather go for wood flooring, then I could easily get a Wood Floor Adhesive from Buzz Wood Flooring.

I bet that even at midnight after sitting on a fat teething child to force some medicine into their  mouth (he even spits out the syringed stuff) I could easily wipe it clean. I also have a feeling even Weetabix wont get ground into it, muddy boots wont stain it, and the cat wont be able to bloody pull it up next to the front door when it wants to be let out.

Now I just have to work on Mr Aimee, as it would obviously mean a total redecoration wish me luck.

This is a sponsored post.

When one of your favourite tasks becomes the most demotivating.


I used to love cleaning.  I know I shouldn’t admit it, but I did.  It used to be so satisfying.  When I was working from home, I worked extra hours in the week so that Wednesday could be housework day.  I’d stick the washing in, I’d excitedly get my latest cleaning product I’d picked up in the supermarket and I’d stick my mp3 player on, open the windows and get cracking.   Even when I started working in an office that’s what Saturday mornings were about, my OH would go to the gym, do some paperwork, mow the lawn or even join in and clean the windows/front door and I’d grab the Dyson and get started.

We moved into our new house about 6 years ago and it was the best thing ever.  Nobody had lived here before, totally brand spanking new, the kitchen gleamed, the en-suite sparkled and the lounge was bright, airy and fresh.  It was one of the most motivating parts of the week.

When I got pregnant with The Beast I embraced the nesting stage, getting stuck in cupboards, scrubbing floors, obsessively cleaning the shower the baby wouldn’t be stepping in for quite some time, and after I had him I tried to keep the house equally as immaculate.  I kept leather wipes next to the sofa to ensure that any reflux vomits were cleaned away, the bedding was washed on an almost daily basis and I’d sit in the lounge with my little bundle of joy in his beanbag glowing in the happiness that is having a new born.  Well, if you look back and forget the lack of sleep, the reflux, and the fact the little shit tinker didn’t sleep in the day and fed every hour for god knows how long.

Then he started to crawl.

A thing I was excited by, desperate for ages for him to be on the move I’d place objects of his desire in front of him, a toy, the TV remote control, a can of diet coke (perhaps a pair of scissors?!) to entice him forward.  Then one day he did, and he broke a lamp. This is when it all began to change.  Photo frames were frequently removed from the fireplace, stones from plant pots placed in my boots, toys hidden under the sofa, and as the cruising and walking began rusks ground into curtains, sticky fingers on the TV as they attempt to caress Iggle Piggle lovingly, and snotty nose marks stretching across the window and side of my sideboard.

Still I was arrogant though.  Following him around with my housekeepers box, flushable wipes kept in the toilets to counteract those little “slip ups” during potty training.  Then the Fat one started crawling, feeding himself, and together they have become a whirlwind of destruction.

Muddy footprints, tomatoes and potatoes removed from the vegetable rack, cups that ARE MEANT TO BE NON-SPILL lying on their sides slowly dribbling out puddles of water/juice/milk.  Biscuit crumbs, toy paint scratches in the bath (although these can be combated here!).  The beautiful tripp trapp high chair I bought to match the dining table has to be taken apart on a weekly basis and scrubbed within an inch of its life, oh – and the dining table has a plastic coated table cloth on it.   If you walk into the kitchen/dining/day room you’re in danger of standing on some soggy cereal, a launched bit of jam from toast and of tripping over the cutlery which doesn’t stick to the table as promised.

Just as you clean round, and move from room to room you discover another room.  Calpol which has been aggressively pushed away in the middle of the night is now firmly decorating the carpet gathering every bit of dust it can.  My bed, my lovely cream wrought iron bed with it’s nicely decorated under bed storage is no longer clutter free, its got single socks, dummies, cars, mega blocks, and jigsaw pieces.  The radiators are littered with clothes, vests, sheets, PE kits.

Basically my lovely immaculate house is an explosion.  And this is from somebody who still refuses to use paint, glitter or play dough.

Why am I suddenly blogging about this now?  I’ve just cleaned the middle floor of our house (lounge, master bedroom and en-suite, landing and nursery), I feel calm and satisfied as I think I’ve just wiped the last nose print off the window (HOW THE CHUFF DID HE GET UP THERE – HE MUST HAVE BEEN SITTING ON THE WINDOW SILL?!), I headed downstairs to make myself a rewarding cup of tea, congratulating myself on my tuning whilst singing Adele, I see the utility room door propped open by a laptop case (DH has forgotten to take it to work oops), the laundry is spilling out of the dryer as he’s obviously hunted for some socks, I walk into the kitchen and see crumbs littering the surface, an empty bowl, some sloshed milk and  used tea bag.  I trip over a “welly boot” and see some snot smeared on the sofa.  It’s never ending, especially as by the time I make it back to my lovely clean lounge, the Spiderman and his web will be back on the window and the bag of carefully put away mega blocks will be dragged across the landing and tipped out.

My favourite task is no longer motivating because it’s no end in sight, no reward.


When you discover a cleaning miracle!


It’s a cleaning miracle!

“Fed up of your kids toys damaging your bath? Think you’re going to have to buy a new bathroom suite once the kids are grown up and leave home? WELL THINK AGAIN – check out this amazing demonstration video to find a cheap, quick and easy solution”

p.s. It’s even more satisfying when you make the horrible children de-paint your bath while you watch.