I wish, I really wish that this was a reference to the Irving Welsh book. If only, when do I ever get time to read these days? After Fatso made his appearance he let me know in no uncertain terms that reading was not an activity I could enjoy while he was around.

No, unfortunately this is a reference to real dirt–household dirt. The kind of dirt that may be cleaned away but soon reappears as if by magic. I know that I would never win an award for my housekeeping. I have a tendency to leave things lying about the place. Mum is allergic to clutter so maybe this is a reaction to that. Every so often I will have mad purges and throw things out that have been driving me mad. Trouble is, husband seems to be exactly like my mum, the worst kind of hoarder. As a child, after a cathartic purging session, things would reappear–removed from the bin by Mum as ‘useful items’ which shouldn’t be thrown away until their usefulness materialised. So I have now married a man who will not let me throw away anything, whether it be bits of string or nails–endless nails of all sizes get thrust into his tool box with great joy, but even more joy is to be had when the hoarding has indeed borne fruit and one item out of a thousand has proven to have a use. Husband however, is still mourning the loss of many items which were merrily thrown out as a result of several house moves, and my insistence. He finally admitted that perhaps keeping half a broom was taking things a tad too far.

Hoarding is one thing, you can usually find places to put things away out of site and at least pretend that you have an orderly home. But dirt is another thing entirely. It has a life of its own, sometimes-depending on the type of dirt-it quite literally breeds. I have now realised that being a stay at home mum means that I wake up each morning, despite having cleaned the day before, to yet more dirt. Dust I can manage and live with, only when the sun shines on it do I really go mad and start cleaning it all away. It’s the floors that are driving me mad. No matter how often they are mopped (I’ve given up doing on my hands and knees) they seem as bad or worse the next morning. And no, it’s not old dirt, it’s definitely different from the day before, but it’s amazing how it welds itself to the floor. I partly blame the idiot constructor (a man of course) who thought it would be a great idea to put matt, pocked tiles from the kitchen through the hall. It has to be the worst design decision ever made. The ones in the bathroom are shiny and smooth, and more importantly forgiving in that they don’t show the dirt so clearly, but rather dirt doesn’t seem to be able to weld to them in the same way.

In the summer, I could blame the construction taking place next door, but that was mainly dust, and in reality Ankara being where it is, is just a dusty city in summer and muddy the rest of the time. Except when the snow covers everything, but even then the roads after being cleared create back snow. Mud isn’t to bad and is dealt with through doormats, and taking your shoes off at the door. I’ve never been one for this wearing shoes in the house business, but that seems to be the only part of Turkish culture that I even remotely relate to.

So where does it all come from? In the kitchen the answer is easy, the kids. Fatso being so young it’s not surprising there is food all around his high chair, but even Smelly who should know better, is just as bad. In the living room it’s a combination of husband, children and the wood burning stove. Sometimes I think I should just give in and not care a toss, but I think that this stay at home mum thing is sending me a bit round the bend. Back when I was living in 182 I would go out for walks with the boys, or shopping, just escape from it. Minimise my time spent in the house and so dirt had less opportunity to appear or drive me mad. The floors there didn’t seem to ring out a chorus of ‘clean me’ as soon as one thing was dropped or daylight came through the window. Upstairs was carpeted but even so we laid the carpets here for winter and within a week they looked really mucky, even though Husband had made a special effort to wash them.

I’m going mad, I need to get out more. Each morning I seem to rage at the reappearance of yet more dirt and the need to get the mop out again. What makes the whole thing even worse is Fatso’s fascination with water, and so it becomes a great game of chase for him and a nightmare of keeping him out of the mop bucket for me. I’m usually the looser in this game and so end up having to remove all the clothes he has only worn for an hour, and put him in something dry. The game has developed a little on his part, from trying to eat the detergent bubbles to copying mummy and rubbing them on the floor. Sometimes it can be turned into a game that we both enjoy, the other day with a bucket of Dettol and  warm water many of his toys were thrown in for a long needed clean. A plastic sheet  on the floor and the game was enjoyed by all  with then end result being clean toys.

We have a busy day tomorrow, but unfortunately I know exactly what my first job will be.


About 5yearsmybrainhurtsalot

Once a stay at home mum in Ankara, now a working mum who makes regular lengthy trips to Mersin with my brood
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