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.

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