Cooking really doesn't bother me. I'm convinced enough of the importance of my spending some time actively engaged with the kids every day that I usually do it despite not liking it (evil enough for you?). But cleaning is barely on my radar screen. My husband hassles me about this regularly, and it's really mean, like teasing the girl with buck teeth about having buck teeth. I'm torn between my guilt and my conviction that as long as we don't have rats and owls and jackals it's really not that bad.
Here's what only I can appreciate: it's not as bad as it was. So there are still breakfast crumbs all over the table, but I cleared the counter! The bathtub ledge is hairy but what do you think happened to all those globs of toothpaste in the sink, huh? The office is a disaster but I hung up all the coats in the entryway and got the shoes out of sight. Anyone who was here an hour ago would think this place looked great now.
I would really love to have a beautiful house such that I didn't panic every time I see someone walking up the porch steps unexpectedly. The kids are a legitimate impediment to this, especially the baby. If I'm not carrying him around, I'm feeding him or bouncing him (that last one is how I get my blog on); I usually use his nap times to do stuff with the other kids. Then there's the task of just maintaining the baseline: everyone being fed, dressed, and groomed takes up a good chunk of my non-baby-holding time. But the pervasive problem is that I am totally unable to de-clutter. I just don't know what to do with stuff. I do my best and then have to settle for putting the rest into neat stacks, when I get to it at all. Entropy kicks in within minutes and the place is a mess again. I am a worm and no mom.