Growing up my brothers and I trashed the house like most normal kids — spilling drinks, tracking mud, and breaking things. Our poor mother was left cleaning like a lunatic while my father shook his head exclaiming, “We can’t have nothing nice!” Well folks, karma has finally come back to bite me in the ass in the form of my daughter.

My chip off the ol’ block is a tornado of destruction, a whirlwind of chaos, a hurricane of devasatation…in other words she’s a full-blown toddler. Every day the house looks like an angry drunken bear has barreled through pillaging for honey and whatever else bears eat. There are potholders and whisks in the middle of the living room, clean clothes strewn down the hallway, and even tampons (unused of course) stashed under the couch all thanks to my daughter’s greedy little mitts. If it’s one of those days when I can’t keep up behind her, I’m afraid the hubby will come home and think we’ve been burgled.

I have grand (delusional) visions of living in an immaculate house close to the beach. My dream home, if you will. Every room ripped from the pages of a designer magazine. So clean and sparkling that when you walk through it seems as if no-one actually lives there. Yeah, I know it will never happen. Or if it does we’ll be too old and rickety to enjoy it.

What is that saying? Be careful what you wish for? Someday I’ll have those beautiful fancy rooms and someday I’ll be sad that they’re so clean and empty. No tiny socks next to the TV or BBQ tongs on the bed. What will I do with myself?

For now I’m keeping my inner-Martha locked up and enjoying a new definition of clean.