How (Not) To Be a Domestic Goddess


There are some women who manage to keep their nails perfectly manicured at all times.
There are some women who look like they are followed around by a personal hair stylist.
There are some women who are always immaculately presented, no matter what the situation.
There are some women who are worthy of the title “Domestic Goddess”.

I am not one of those women.

Some of you may be surprised by that, but if you are, I shall take that as simple proof that we have never actually met. I can chip a manicure just by thinking about it. My hair “dances to the beat of its own drum”. I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards most of the time. I can cook, and well, but I suspect a Domestic Goddess would clear up afterwards too.

In reality, probably very few women live up to the title; a bit like the number of women who fit Mr Darcy’s idea of accomplished. For the rest of us, illusion is everything.

Unless you have kids of course, in which case illusion is pointless.

My house, even on its tidiest days, looks like it has been invaded – and it has. There are toys and books and paperwork and not enough cupboards, shelves, rooms or carpets to sweep it all under. When people visit, I do like to try and make a bit of an effort to tidy up. I like to try and suggest that we live in some sort of order. My son likes to remind people otherwise. When his grandparents visit, he takes delight in telling them we have just tidied up. Kids will always give the game away.

I’m not the only one. Some friends found this out quite publicly, some years ago. Having decided to attend a workshop one afternoon, they dropped their two young children off in the creche provided. On collecting them they were greeted with knowing smiles. One child had been spotted repeatedly poking a toy knife into a toy toaster, and on being asked what he was doing replied “this is how you get toast out”. Oh. Oops. The other child then picked up a toy iron and then asked “what’s this?”. Smirk.

Thankfully, no-one else was around for my biggest giveaway moment, which I will share with you now. My son was three and I was in the midst of a tidying up session ahead of an impending parental visit. I’d just got the hoover out to give the living room carpet a quick going over when my son looked at me and said “Why are you using Daddy’s hoover?”. Blush.

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One comment on “How (Not) To Be a Domestic Goddess

  1. Right with you – a ridy house is the sign of a board heart – and all that. I don’t even own an ironing board
    xxp

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