In which I discuss domestic issues.

In the past couple of weeks I’ve had a realization. An epiphany, if you will.

When Brett was working full-time and I was working part-time, I suffered from a great deal of guilt. I never felt like the house was clean enough, or like I was really working quite hard enough at it. Brett told me several times he’d be a much better househusband — that he’d have no problem keeping the place spotless.

Well.

This is Brett’s eighth week home. And while he has spent at least two weeks of that time logging and remodelling, that leaves four weeks — four weeks — during which he could have been doing housework.

He did some. He’s good at doing dishes; they never sit more than four days before he does them. *smirk* And he started taking the garbage out when I got home from work one night and informed him that the house smelled like trash. And he’s done quite a bit of laundry, even if he can’t seem to get it folded and/or put away. And he swept the stairs once.

But over all? The house is kind of a mess. There is random clutter everywhere, the livingroom’s been dusted once in two months, the furnace room (which fills up quite rapidly this time of year with ash and sawdust due to the woodstove) has been swept maybe twice and I did it once myself, and I don’t think the blankets and pillows from the couch have been washed at all. The counters are grubby, the shower hasn’t been cleaned, the sheets haven’t been changed, and there are shoes spread out all over the house.

None of this bothers me, per se. I don’t really give a shit if the house is clean or not, now that it’s not my job.

I’m just sayin’: the shit was way cleaner when I was home two days a week.