In Britain, unless you’re a Royal, reside behind the glossy black door at 10 Downing Street or are a bona fide toff, a person who lives on your property and takes care of your home and family is the exception to the rule. Down South, it’s most definitely the rule. For the middle classes certainly. Help is on hand and readily available. Especially for families with children.
And so it has been rather a rude awakening for me to come face-to-floor with all the responsibilities of tending to hearth and home. And conquering this juggernaut for the most part, solo. Bless my lovely husband - he is willing and able to help. His work schedule, however, is such that he’s just so rarely at home physically that his enthusiasm for domesticity although greatly appreciated, doesn’t actually count.
Cleaning my own house is something not entirely unfamiliar. We only had domestic help for 4 years after our firstborn arrived. In the 9 years before then, in between fulltime work, going out to dinners at venues without plastic tablecloths or kiddies menus – such is the life of the un-children-ed ones - we’d surface clean during the week and then do a quick blitz on a Saturday morning. We lived in modest-sized flats. It was no hassle and we figured we’d rather have the extra money for leisure rather than pay for help. That all changed when the babies came and we moved into a large house. We then brought Flora into our family. And she took care of our children, cleaned, cooked and managed our home. Exactly what I do now. Except she whined less. Cried less. And generally coped a helluva lot better than I do. I thought of her recently when my daughter tipped over in the pram and the handlebar landed squarely on my infant son’s head as he sat helplessly in the car seat and they were both screaming in the street. I imagined her smiling….and probably laughing at me…from heaven.
You’ve got to hand it to the Brits, they’re a nation who know nothing of the Third World plight, but most of the mums I know all clean their own houses and take care of their children with little or no outside help. Cleaning and children – the great equalisers that bridge the gap no matter your country of birth or mother tongue.
And so in support of my fellow Saffas who may too have been awarded the dubiously phrased title of ‘domestic goddess’ (an oxymoron if there ever was), I’ve come up with a list of tips on how to deal with life with kids outside of SA, without the domestic support:
- Invest in loads of storage. Preferably with lids. I have a multitude of boxes (with lids) and cupboards and drawers. Did I say lids? In fact I have an entire wardrobe in my lounge. Filled to the brim with kids toys, puzzles and books. Rather than tidy a deluge of toys, I simply lump everything into aforementioned box, drawer or cupboard. No mess. No fuss.
- Do little often. To me cleaning is like what they recommend for eating. Little bits often is the way forward. Instead of waiting until my home is a proper pit, I do jobs here and there, every day.
- Laundry has to be done daily. Laundry can kill you if you let it. It’s a demon bastard dragon that once you slay, grows five more heads and keeps on coming, teeth bared. It will never die. For that reason, I usually do a load or two every day. Small light loads. Less to hang out to dry. Less to fold. Less to put away.
- The iron should be for emergencies only. As a general rule, I don’t touch the iron. Only when my husband has a big presentation and absolutely needs his collar and cuffs flat or if he does actually look as though he’s been roughed around by a group of yobs, will I resort to such drastic measures and fish out the iron. I try to shake out the wrinkles when his shirts are wet and then drape them so they don’t need to be ironed. Life is too short to iron. Irons are the devil’s work. The heat is a clue. Hell is hot.
- Buy lots of cleaning products. Psychologically if you have all the stuff, you’re most likely to use it.
- Adopt the ‘sight and smell test’ for clothes. Clothes do not need to be washed after each wear. Obviously we’re not talking undergarments and socks. Those are one-wear only. I’m not a tramp. Jerseys and jeans can be re-worn. Especially in winter. When everyone sweats less. Spot clean any toothpaste/yoghurt/*insert anything kids eat or touch here*.
- Get your kids to do things. My children make their own beds, dress themselves, bath themselves, feed themselves and tidy up their own mess. I’m working on them finding their own way to school. It’s complicated though.
- Try and get out of the house as much as possible. Avoid letting them wreck your own house by going to parks and entertainment centres. Let them wreck these instead.
- Absolutely crucial is finding a group of mummy friends who’re ‘home executives’ too. You need a support group. In between school pick-ups, you can natter over coffee while you hide away from the laundry piles at home and procrastinate cleaning the bogs.
In as much as I moan and whine, which is simply my charming nature, I do feel privileged to be at home and able to spend this time with my children. Seeing my son’s face light up the moment he spots me waiting for him outside his classroom after school. The excited chirruping about his day's adventures as we walk together to the car. The way my daughter squeals with delight and rushes into my arms to greet me after her time at nursery. How she’ll painstakingly describe each of her ballet moves after every lesson as we walk home. And god help me if I try to rush her. They are little for such a short time. We’ll never share these experiences again. I’ll never get this time back. It’s priceless. And when you weigh this up against sweeping the floors and dusting the mantelpieces, it's so worth it. Not sure about ironing, washing and bog cleaning though. I'm not sure all of the maternal riches and warm fuzzy mommy-moments in the world can save those. Well me for anyway. Better mothers and more qualified housewives may disagree. And good housekeeping to them.
 |
