But I did think about it first.
I asked myself what I always ask myself: "Is there one single person in the entire world that I hope never reads this?" (If the answer is yes, I don't post it. That's my rule.)
And although I could think of some people that might not agree (sigh), or who might think less of me (ouch), it wasn't enough to stop me from posting it.
So I posted it.
Please don't mistake that for a complaint. We have no real complaints. It's just facts.
My parents raised me right, I assure you. I was taught to cook and clean and make my bed every day and budget and grocery shop, as well as go to school, learn, work, be ambitious.
And play the piano.
But if they're honest, my parents will also tell you that my bedroom was a constant source of angst. Heck, my very-tidy college roommate could tell you that. I don't like cleaning. Never have. It doesn't come naturally.
But I know it's part of adult-ing. So although I definitely never came close to my sister's Stellar Level of Amazing Homemaking, The Boy and I did all right.
Most of the time.
With enough notice.
*gasp* This Is My Confession.
*hangs head in shame*
I've menu-planned a month ahead. I've canned (because my aforementioned sister taught me) - tomatoes, peaches, plum preserves, salsa, pickled beets, assorted jams. I've baked my own bread. I've taken a half day to drive out of town to a butcher, to get the best quality meat, in bulk, at the best prices, to put in my freezer for the next few months. I've shopped the flyer sales. I've cooked double portions, and had casseroles in the freezer. I've grown my own vegetables and dried my own herbs. I've made my own stock.
And it's all great.
And it All. Takes. Time.
Serious Time, my friends, and nobody tells you that part.
I like people (mostly). And I like our home. And I really like my Mom's chocolate chip cookie recipe. I'm quite happy to have people, in our home, eating those cookies. But not if I have to race home first, and scrub the house down before they arrive, and then act like it always looks like this, like it's nothing.
"Oh - the fridge is gleaming?
I wouldn't notice, it's always that way.
I just use my grandmother's recipe of vinegar and baking soda
to scrub it down once a week,
with a cloth I wove myself
out of cotton from my garden."
[insert eye roll]
No disrespect to my grandmothers. I've honoured them before. They were freaking amazing, hard-working, miracle-accomplishing women, hands-down. But they lived a different kind of life than I do.
And that's ok, right? I don't have to explain how much our world has changed in the last 100 years?
And we women - well, not all of us, but some of us, me too, probably - we *mean* to be helpful with our "it's easy if you just" advice. And sometimes we're helpful. But sometimes we're not.
Sometimes there aren't enough time-saving tips in the world to make me want to spend a couple of hours polishing silver. No matter how shiny it looks at the end.
Seriously. One of you looked at me over a coffee cup a year ago, and said, "What, are you CRAZY?!" And I love you for saying that. And I love another of you that gave me the name and number of the person who cleans your home. And I love another of you that opened up a whole new world to me of weekly recipes and portioned ingredients, delivered right to my door. And I love another of you to whom I confessed this secret, and who looked right back at me and said, "I've had help for years."
*resisting the deep urge to defend myself*
And that's all absolutely true.
End of post.