It is not hard to imagine life with a maid.
There would always be a fresh and tidy roll of toilet paper hung on the dispenser, a clean dish waiting in the kitchen with food magically appearing on it at the first sign of a growling stomach, and clean laundry that smells like sunshine hanging in the closets, just waiting to be worn. The sheets would be washed and ironed once a week, with perfect creases on the corners that wouldn’t poke your cheek while you slept. No matter where you left your underwear, stinky socks, or stained clothes, someone else would pick them up while wearing rubber gloves to avoid the smell and germs.
Even better, the cookie crumbs and bits of chips left on the floor would be vacuumed daily, and there would be no cobwebs or dust bunnies in sight. The ceiling fans would sparkle with light instead of dust, the blinds would remain white forever, and every few days, the whole house would take on the smell of fresh air as the sheers and draperies were washed and rehung while still wet. No, having a maid is not something hard to imagine, especially for the millions of children and husbands worldwide who live with one—her name is mom!
No offense to the many men out there who tackle household chores with wild abandon, but there comes a point in most women’s lives when they stand on the brink of insanity, holding filth from carefree family members who really seem to think that rubbish magically takes care of itself. There she is, hair in a ponytail, wearing dingy sweatpants so the bleach and cleaners won’t ruin good clothes, without makeup and pre-shower, having cleaned the entire house before 10 AM, only to realize that no one else seems to notice or care about the hard work she just finished. In fact, they are all lollygagging as if they already have a maid employed who lives for the sheer pleasure of picking up after them.
Dad and the kids can hear her coming a mile away as they sit in front of the TV, eating goodies that she cooked, and they know what’s coming. The all-too-familiar speech that includes five little words her very own mother used to say: “I am not a maid!” Moreover, as soon as she says it for the 500th time, she realizes with acute disappointment that she is really turning into her mother. Then come tears, stomping, quiet resentment, and the agonizing realization that she is on a lonely quest to maintain order among disorderly rats.
The thing is, why does no one else see it? How can the other people in the same home not feel embarrassed by leaving the toilet unflushed (no matter what they did), spittle in the sink, and hairs in the razor? What if the stories are true about leaving your toothbrush on the sink while a toilet is being flushed? How can they not feel ashamed for having a room that is overflowing with junk, where every square inch of the carpet is covered in clutter, and where finding any clothes—let alone clean clothes—is impossible? Then they want to bring friends into that mess! Why is it that everyone else can relax after dinner, not worried about the dishes in the sink that will make it impossible to fix breakfast the next morning or the fact that the trash truck is coming in the morning and there are still two bags not out by the road? Does anyone realize what will happen to those festering trash bags if they have to hang around for another week? There might be diapers in there! No, I am not a maid!
Even more startling, how can everyone else just ignore, overlook, disregard, or shun the millions of little things that need to be done every day in the name of morality and cleanliness? Is no one else worried about germs or the ring around the toilet? Apparently not, because there she is again with a mop, swabbing up the spilled soda on the linoleum of life that someone obviously spilled but just didn’t seem to notice (how convenient)! There she is, one hour after making the beds, cleaning the windows and blinds because it’s Saturday, forced to steam clean part of the carpet because a careless child brought ketchup into the living room and Dad blotted it up with a sock rather than actually trying to remove the stain. Just imagine where the sock is now! As much as she would love hardwood floors throughout, she realizes with disappointment that they would mean twice as much sweeping and mopping.
Why in the world is there a load of 12 wet towels to do every single day? Doesn’t anyone believe in recycling? All that towel did was dry a little clean hair. Is it really so bad to use it again rather than wadding it up in a ball and throwing it in the hamper for it to mold and stink up the other clothes? Are jeans really dirty after wearing them once? How hard is it to hang up a shirt that has been ironed instead of throwing it in the bottom of the closet? Has anyone stopped to think how much time it takes to match socks, clean up the medicine cabinet, restock the Q-tips, shampoo, and soap—not to mention the food in the cupboard and fridge (which needs to be cleaned, by the way)? Is there anyone else in the same house who does as much for so little, for so few who don’t appreciate it?
AND NO, it has nothing to do with being Type A or OCD; it has to do with being respectful, considerate, and following through on the age-old adage your mama taught you when you were a kid: Pick up after yourself, for God’s sake! Leaving IT there—whatever IT is—means that you harshly and selfishly assume someone else is going to do IT for you. Just because she does IT doesn’t mean she is happy about it!
What about unrolling socks before you put them in the wash? How many people want to stick their hands in other people’s dirty socks or pull dirty underwear out of jeans in the hopes of turning them white again? What about closing doors when you open them, putting lids back on things before sticking them in the fridge, putting clean dishes away rather than just using them straight from the dishwasher, and taking off your shoes before entering a home with dog doo-doo on your feet? Does anyone else notice the scum on the TV screen, the Matchbox car wheels rolling around the floor, or the gum stuck under the table? Anyone? Didn’t think so!
Is making a bed or putting dirty clothes in a hamper really that hard? Is it so difficult to throw things away in the trash rather than stuff them under the couch cushions until the 3rd of each month when the maid will lift each cushion to see what lies beneath? If you have a tissue in your pocket full of boogers and slime, does it really have to stay there through the wash cycle? Come on, people! Maids aren’t free, and the cost of the one in your home right now is her sanity and self-respect! No woman wants to be her mother, and no woman wants to be caught holding a toilet plunger or broom, red-faced and angry, shouting “I am not a maid!” with a sort of frenzied anger that makes others think she is about to lose her mind. How degrading is that? Give her a break, give her a hand, give her a paycheck, and by all means, do your part!
Life with a maid wouldn’t be hard to imagine, but even so, I would never leave to a maid what a family leaves to a mom. Even the maid deserves more respect than that!
