Slowly mouth the word "vacuum" and people think you're swearing

My dad took off for the Great White North and asked me to check on the Grand Dame and her daughter during his 10-day leave. Mom's expecting a visit from her best high school girlfriend on Monday, thus the impetus for a frantic phone call.

"Queen, can you come over and vacuum the house? Lord knows I can't do it; my bones are too brittle." She's got the osteo.

I was just over there on Friday and offered to vacuum, but she'd said the house was fine. Two days later, the place had suddenly become filthy. I wondered if Grandma had thrown a kegger on Saturday night.

Sigh. I grabbed my keys and pulled the minivan onto the main road, mouthing "vacuum" at every aggressive driver who passed me.

As expected, the carpet looked fine. I could still see the groves cut into the carpet from its last vacuuming, but knew there was no point in arguing. Turning the behemoth on, I started working the acres of thick white carpet, ignoring the twinge in my lower back. I'd pulled a muscle early that morning while out yanking weeds in my garden, but I knew the pain I felt didn't hold a candle to the possibility of my mother snapping her tibia or losing a toe bone in a freak suctioning accident.

"You don't have to vacuum my closet," I heard my mother yell from the back of the 3,000 sq. ft. house. Thank God! The only time I ever vacuum my closets is in the rare instance that I do a spring cleaning, which is about once every ten years.

"That carpet don't need cleaning," Grandma shouted from the comfort of her recliner. "It's just fine like it is." I nodded, but kept on going.

The truth is, my mother is a clean-a-holic. Despite four children and a full-time job, she obsessively cleaned the house from the moment she got home until she dropped into bed at 10 every night. She set the bar so high, I knew I'd never be able to match her housekeeping zeal. Before I had kids, I didn't even try. SO and I co-existed with a relatively relaxed set of rules: 1) If it bothers you, then you clean it; and 2) Wash your own damn clothes.

It worked pretty well. Then, we reproduced.

LegoGuy came along, and everything changed. Sleep deprivation combined with a rather long recovery period due to a difficult birth. (The kid was just a little too big, and the stitches a little too numerous.) After about six weeks, I snapped out of a fog and realized I was wading ankle deep in clutter. My mother would never have been able to live like this. She'd have it whipped into order in no time. Why couldn't I get a grip? I sank into a deep depression.

My doctor said I was suffering from Supermom Syndrome.

"What matters is bonding with your baby. Give yourself time to heal. Everything else will fall into place. Eventually." He patted my shoulder.

I didn't trust it to all fall into place without some kind of effort on my part. My organizational skills kicked in and I came up with a weekly schedule, with all the chores broken down into manageable chunks on a day-by day basis. We still use this system today.

And I only vacuum once a week. Even if it doesn't need it.