Making Type A a good thing

“What do you think about heading for the beach this weekend?” he asks, basking in the glow of possible adventure.

It's summer, after all, and summer is for travel. It's for sun. And swimming, and barbecues and camping. So why is it when my husband makes this grand overture, why am I not swayed by its glamour, but rather, overcome with dread?

Maybe it's the four-foot high pile of laundry and stinky bathrooms staring at me. Maybe it's the unmopped, unvacuumed floors, sticky from juice and covered in dusty footprints, stretching out endlessly before me. Maybe it's the knowledge that if I go, this is what I will return to: a cluttered, dusty, hot mess waiting to usher in my new week. Now with flies!

I can't stand it.

I love adventure. I love getting out of town, seeing the world, even if that world is just the little town one stop over. But I hate, HATE written loudly and proudly in all capital letters, mess. Disorganization. Slobbery.

No, I’m neither a neat freak nor a particularly clean person. I am not Type A, unless A stands for Awesome. Or Asleep.

Rather, I have this need to have things organized before I head out of town. And before I start my new work week. And looking around my house, I am suddenly very Type A: AGGRAVATED.

And the answer, dear reader, to your wisely-unasked question is I DON'T KNOW HOW I ENDED UP WITH SEVEN KIDS!! It's not like we're hyper breeders or planned on having an overloud, overlarge family. Which I love having and I’m not complaining…

…but my gawd they are slobs. And I hear you—I really do: One gets the behavior one tolerates. Thus, I should not tolerate such slobbery. To which I say: Even I am sick of my own constant nagging.

Enter daughter number two, listening to her iPod while texting a friend. “Would you be sure to vacuum today?” I ask with some trepidation.

“I just vacuumed like four days ago,” she says, thumbs typing furiously. I look at the stale popcorn on the floor—the popcorn the dog just stepped over.

“Ok. Well it’s time again,” I say. What kind of lazy dog doesn’t eat popcorn? It’s RIGHT THERE. I pause. What kind of lazy household depends on the dog to clean their floors? Apparently our household.

Frustrated, I head upstairs. Not a single bed made. The tween walks past me and over some discarded wrappers that decorate the floor around his feet. “Would you pick up that trash, please?” I ask.

The tween looks at me like I’m crazy. “What trash?”

I want to scream.

Back downstairs I see the six-year-old has built a fort in the front room. And furnished it with Barbies and Legos. In the kitchen, the garbage bin is overflowing. The sink is full of dishes. And in the family room, I see the cat has just thrown up. On the carpet.

My eye begins to twitch. I have morphed into Type AwR: Apoplectic with Rage. My husband sees my frenzied state, and carefully guides me out of the house, shutting the door behind me. I hear clatter. His voice shakes the closed front door. Moments later he reappears with two glasses of wine.

He kisses my cheek, handing me a glass. We walk. I decompress. He holds my hand.

Upon our return an hour later, the house is magically presentable. The floor vacuumed and swept and de-vomited; the laundry in early stages of folding; the fort has disappeared. The TV has even been turned off. He hugs me from behind and kisses me.

“So, the beach this weekend?” he asks again, hopefully.

I’m starting to feel Type A, for Appreciated. And that perhaps his Type A, for Adventure, might actually be a good idea.