I blame genetics.

Coming from a long line of women who worshiped at the altar of all things domestic, it was no surprise that I too inherited the desire to live in a house with display home standards of cleanliness.

And while it is no crime to want that, the trouble that has bubbled to the surface is that I still have the same set of stringent pre-parenthood standards for myself. Plus there is the not so insignificant fact I am a control freak who is predisposed to despise disorganisation and mess.

It took a friend to bluntly point out the (dirty) truth, after one too many whinges on my part about the anxieties that arose trying to maintain an organised home. “You have 2 kids to care for; one of which is a tiny baby. You have a husband who works long hours. You really ought to cut yourself some slack!”

 

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