Play house

When I was young, free and single, I sometimes used to babysit for my friends. Or their kids, rather.

For one family in particular, I used to love coming to babysit their kids. Whether it be their firstborn, in their tiny student flat - or later, babysitting all three lovely girls in their terraced house, not far from where we're currently living. (These kids now babysit mine. A win-win situation! Here they are, admiring our firstborn, New Year's Eve almost 8 years ago...)

When the kids were tucked away in bed (and I'd finished reading an entire book and singing all the lullabies I knew), I'd play house... I'd pretend it was my house, my kids, and - more often than not - my mess. I didn't really bother about the mess I left around my own place, but these nights I'd tidy as if my life depended on it. Fold clothes, clear away all toys, put all books back in their shelves, do the dishes, vacuum the floor... Needless to say, my friends didn't mind having me over!

The thing is, though, I'm still at it. Playing house, that is. Because if I tidy & clean around here (mainly after being urged by my sweet hubby, who's a much better housewife than I am - without becoming a housewoman, I hasten to add!) - I mean really bring the house to shine - I feel like I've done a great part in a play, or performed well in some avantgarde theatre.

I feel I may not be taking housekeeping seriously! To think I should be doing this, voluntarily, without even considering doing such unhousely things as blogging first, on a daily basis, worries me. A little. If I think about it... I play "let's wear blinders/blinkers* and not see the mess" rather better than "let's do the chores first and then, if time permits, do other, not quite so necessary business, like blogging", I'm afraid...

*British and American. As they say, two (more!) nations divided by a common language...