Toys that you have gathered neatly into boxes magically reappear all over the floor as if they had always been there.
Cupboards and drawers that had been carefully sorted, within hours are once again bulging with items crammed and dumped any-old-how.
I mean, it's not the actual doing of the housework that gets to me. In a way it's kind of satisfying, therapeutic even. Shiny sinks, smear-free walls, plumped pillows... ahhhh yes. Satisfying.
It even works up a sweat; I can vacuum and call it exercise (I read that somewhere).
But darn it, as soon as the ravening hordes return from their rampaging elsewhere, it's as if I never did a thing.
Kids burst in the door shedding coats and shoes, bags and random bits of paper. Cupboards bang open, cereal crumbs and milk puddles scatter across the once-shiny bench; the kitchen floor which only seconds ago was crumb free is now a place you don't want to walk barefooted. The telly goes on, the games and toys come out, discarded clothes litter every bedroom floor...
Then hubby walks in and wonders what on earth I have been doing all day... Am I ever going to get off the computer for long enough to tidy up the place???
What the heck, I might as well have just been blogging!