We’ve all done it. Seen it. Shied away from admitting it. Felt that tremendous sense of relief when we finally read or hear about someone else that’s done it too. Yup. I’m talking about angry cleaning. I tend towards angry-and-involved cleaning; as in involve everyone else in my cleaning and my muttering, but the author of the article is more focused on the inside of the head stuff. I pretty much agree wholeheartedly with most of it and I’m certifiable anyway so I’ll not go into detail about my own personal angry thoughts and concentrate instead on the overall experience –  the more physical, involved aspect of angry cleaning. 

The mama who wrote these angry thoughts down for our entertainment has either not destroyed her muff giving birth to more than a couple of smalls, or she has frankly not lost her shit over a layer of loo roll too many on the lounge carpet. As I read I couldn’t help but think she had maybe been a bit too liberal with the baskets and not liberal enough with the shouting. 

It’s amazing how many chores can (and do) get done when mama comes out of her gently, softly, understanding “please help mama today, it’s nice to be helpful and we all have our own jobs to do, it’s ok, take your time” nice mama mode and flips the switch way far out the other side into the slightly scary realms of “I can’t even walk across the hallway without getting random icky stuff stuck to my feet, eww! What’s that? Who even eats yoghurt in the bathroom!”

That actually happened by the way. That same day I picked up empty Yoghurt tubes from down the side of the toilet. And a crisp packet. And a juice box from the windowsill. Evidently someone knew theyd get peckish on the lav.

I started off today as I start off most Sundays. Chilled, pretty content, happy. No rushing, no having to get dressed or get anyone else dressed. It’s a positively lazy Sunday morning. Right up until I open the door and enter toddler boys room. He’s pooped and it’s all down his leg. It stinks. Imagine your worst nappy explosion. Now give it a run of ‘milkshake gives him the dire rear, he’s constipated, we need to do something’ and imagine the fallout. Literally. Im on it – get the bath run, him clean, job done, still chilled, content to just go with the flow for my lovely Sunday. 

As it’s Sunday, it tends towards being the main cleaning day in the house, so I did as I always do and gave the children some jobs to do. I had to help Pond somewhat as he was poorly and I had other stuff to think on and get sorted so I jollied along and continued my day… Until an hour or so later. Because the chores I’d given out were only half done. I’m not a monster mama. It takes me a while to get peeved if something isn’t done properly. I will ask a good four/five times before I start to ‘tell’. If I add “please”  with mama-tone that’s when you know. The switch is gonna go. It’s there, ready, taut on its string just waiting for the flip. I’m really quite patient but over an hour of asking someone to do the same thing again and again can really boil my swede. 

Swede boiled, switch flipped and along came lots of mama-tone and some very angry cleaning. Less thought, more action! The chores got finished. I threw out pretty much whatever I could find to throw out, moaned about pretty much everything I could find to moan about and grudgingly said thanks when the chores were completed. (Grudgingly enough to scramble eggs just the way everyone likes them). I was really quite annoyed. But you know what? That’s okay. I’m not ashamed to admit it. It’s been a difficult Sunday, although very productive and with the advent of wine and an afternoon watching Netflix it got a whole lot better. And cleaner. 

So, to all my mama-homebodies out there. Take heart. It doesn’t last forever. Or even a whole day. You’re not alone. Every time you clean angry know that you’re not alone.

My name is sixymama and today I lost my shit. Cheers.