So I cleaned, whilst the kids ran round in their jammies and did errrrrm.......stuff. (What were they doing? I have no idea, to be honest: I was a woman whose focus was evidently on the job, not on the kids.)
Between lovely husband and I, we:
- Sorted and cleaned the column of drawers in the kitchen. Even the third one down.
- Cleaned out the appliance cupboard - the one that holds all the icky greasy plug in gadgets like popcorn makers and jaffle makers. And my collection of preserving jars. They are breeding.
- Cleaned out the under the sink cupboard. Seriously, how many packets of green scourers does one family really need? I also binned my collection of mouldy sink plugs. Shudder.
- Cleaned out the fridge. Totally. Every single shelf & drawer came out and got scrubbed. Icky
- Cleaned the windows, inside and out. Squashed fly corpse...be gone.
- Pulled the fridge out and cleaned behind it and under it. A job that I normally never ever bother doing as I have been usually guaranteed to move house soon enough anyway. I suspect that old ruse is no longer valid, now we are "settled". (This will not, however, ever impact my steadfast refusal to clean the oven.)
Does it make me very pathetic to admit that getting all of these very overdue jobs done made me really happy?
That we spent the rest of the day in loved up bliss, me and the fab five, for the sake of a clean kitchen?
It probably IS tragic of me, and likely a sign of some unearthed physiological issue. But I do not care.
I have a clean kitchen, and that rocks.
Tell me, is it just me? Or does finally getting awful jobs done make you feel happy? (Reassure me?)