:: Mrs. Clean ::

I've prided myself for years on being the girl who says, "Yeah. I don't cook. Or clean." In fact, right before Brian and I got married, his then-eight-year-old cousin, in complete seriousness, said, "You've got a long hard life in front of you, Brian," referring to my lacking domesticity.

We lived together for two and a half years before we did get married, splitting the domestic chores down the middle: I did the laundry and groceries, he did the cooking and dishes. Things like vacuuming, bathroom scrubbing, and stovetop scouring were done haphazardly and infrequently. We were both in graduate school and only cleaned house in bursts brought on by impending visitors. We often joked that we should have people over more often so that we'd clean up more.

So it's not like Brian didn't know what he was getting himself into, and it's not like he seemed all too concerned about either my non-cleaning disposition or the general state of disarray at our house.

When I got pregnant, it became extremely important to me that we clean up our acts, literally and figuratively. I organized the house like a madwoman, nesting like no one has ever nested before. But still I didn't start cleaning.

I honestly just really hate cleaning. So there.

And now that the baby's here? You'd probably think the house is disastrous -- dirty dishes piled, laundry strewn, baby gear spreading. And yet it's not. And not just because our house is on the market. I don't know what it is, but suddenly, doing housework feels satisfying. Last night, I even insisted on cleaning the kitchen before we watched a movie. Today, I sat down at the computer during one of Evan's naps and decided to get up and empty the dishwasher before vegging out.

Is it the hormones? The sweet smells of baby and formula mingling like bleach and ammonia and causing a noxious, Julie-warping gas?

Please don't tell my husband. He might want me to start cooking.