Yesterday morning I woke up energized and determined to get our downstairs rec room clean. It was, to be honest, beyond cluttered. The entire downstairs was dirty and in complete disarray. I flashed to scenes on "Hoarders" every time I entered into this part of the house. Because of the dirt and disorder, we have avoided spending there.
After my morning coffee, I donned my tiara (which I always wear when I clean) and entered the disaster area armed with a box of trash bags and a bottle of cleaner. I quickly became overwhelmed and had a difficult time getting started. I finally opted to start in one corner and work my way outwards.
Before I knew it, I had filled 10 trash bags with garbage and junk. It became cathartic throwing things out, and I was actually starting to have fun. Robby was a great little helper, eagerly pointing out more trash and organizing his toys.
After five hours and numerous trips up and down the stairs, I was starting to lose my enthusiasm. I was tired, my back was twinging and my stump was sore. I also knew that I was in the homestretch and that I needed to keep going. I ate an ice cream sandwich, checked Facebook and went back to work.
At about hour seven into my project, I began to think about how far I've come since my amputation. For the first several years following the surgery, we hired a cleaning lady to come once a week. I was convinced that I was not able to clean because it was more difficult on a prosthetic. More importantly, I had Scott convinced of the same, so he never objected.
After Robby was born and I began to stay at home, we reduced the cleaning service to twice a month. I reasoned that I was able to keep up with the light housework but that the heavy scrubbing etc. was still too difficult with an amputation. As I began to become healthier and to lose weight, I realized that my cleaning ability was not impacted by my prosthetic but only my attitude. We ended the cleaning service.
As I was pushing a queen size bed, I began to rue my own independence. I easily could have kept up the facade of "I can't do this" and I would have saved myself a lot of work today. I have discovered that I can do it; I just don't like to! I've already proven that my amputation isn't an obstacle when it comes to scrubbing. It would be nearly impossible to un-ring that bell and convince Scott of the necessity of hiring a cleaning service.
Scott developed a system years ago which he religiously refers to when dividing household jobs. Basically, he attempts to classify a chore as either an "ovary job" or a "penis job." He has been unsuccessful fully implementing his plan because I have noticed an inordinate amount of jobs under the "ovary" category while the "penis" responsibilities are limited.
I worked for nearly nine hours cleaning, scrubbing, moving, organizing and sorting out the junk. The downstairs is now a room we want to use. I filled over 25 trash bags and piled them by the door. Since Scott classifies cleaning as an "ovary" job, then taking out the trash surely falls under the realm of a "penis" job!