Dear Family (a.k.a. The Mess Makers, The Dirty Sock Hoarders, The Agents Of Choas),

Dear Family (a.k.a. The Mess Makers, The Dirty Sock Hoarders, The Agents Of Choas),

After years of dedicated (and exhausting) service, I’m officially resigning from my role as Chief Cleaner of All Things, as well as the finder of lost objects, and the eternal defender from rodents, maggots, and cockroaches. Effective immediately, I am stepping down from my responsibilities of collecting manky dishes from bedrooms, guessing at the origins of sticky substances, and endlessly screaming, “The laundry basket is RIGHT THERE!”

I know i seem to nag, I know I seem a little unhinged at times, but let's be clear, this job was never one I applied for. There was no glamorous interview, no signing bonus, and certainly no benefits package. One day, I was a regular person with hobbies, interests, and a someone that brushed their hair regularly. The next, I found myself bestowed with the title of “the dedicated cleaner” and "the one that keeps shit running smoothly” Somehow, my superpower became knowing where every missing sock, keys, remote, and an added superpower of enhanced smell, one I believe was a curse living with teenage boys and a man child.

I love you all dearly. Really, I do. But I can’t do this anymore.

I’m officially retiring from spit mixed toothpaste off the sink. I’m refusing to scrape concrete weetabix from bowls that were “soaking” for three days. I’m breaking up with being a certified master engineer of the hoover and letting go of the picking up dirty clothes of the floor. Let's face it, I live with teenage boys, as you've grown, more habits and dirty crusted items have appeared in your rooms, I tried to keep a blind eye, but I'm done. I'm done enabling your habits.

This isn’t a rash decision. It’s one I’ve come to after a long, thoughtful process that included multiple breakdowns over the years, burnouts, no life or hobbies and no sex life. I've tried to tell you with direct speech, hints, not-so-subtle remarks, and the occasional drawer slam, but all to be ignored, and even told "Oh she must be on her period"- I nearly moved countries on that one! For years, I waited for that magical moment when someone else would notice the shithole you all seem to be ok with and say, “You sit down—I’ve got this.” this never came, instead I accidentally ended up pregnant again after one too many wines and started creating another mess maker. Along the way, the most help I've ever had came from the flies, at least they tried to eat some of the crap you left on the dishes, at least then I could momentarily pretend to be snow white with a little helper team.

I’ve tried every approach to fix the one sided regime, I've tried gentle nudges, sarcastic comments, not cleaning, add rewards, removing rewards and nothing worked. The mess just kept regenerating like villains in a disney movie.

But as of today, I am done, I'm reclaiming my time, energy, and what sanity may be left. I will no longer be your go-t0, or the glue in the family. I will sit in the lounge chair with a very large glass of cheap wine sipping away watching the chaos unfold, and I will laugh. From now on, you’ll learn that laundry doesn’t leap into the washing machine on its own volition. Floors don’t magically vacuum themselves. Clean dishes don’t just teleport to the cabinets clean.

Don’t panic—I’m not running away or abandoning you (yet). I’ll still be here. I’ll still cook (salads and foods you don't like until one of you decides to take over because they can't do anymore rabbit food).

I still care. But I’m done cleaning up messes that aren’t mine. This isn’t me being cruel—it’s me setting boundaries. I love you all, and I want us to share in this responsibility, not build an entire ecosystem of crap for me to manage.

One day you will thank me, and for my sons, I hope your future wives will thank me too, because right now, I worry the men you will become if you think it's ok to rely on a woman to cook and clean for you. To my husband, you are lovely, sweet and a great dad, but you're also a slob at times, you wonder why we don't have sex anymore, but I'm too exhausted to try. But I will reward you again when you pull your weight more and cook all your favourite meals when I have more energy again. I know you've agreed to do more and I love that you try, so for that, I will be there to explain that the dishwasher has a magic setting labeled “Start” and that the cleaning cupbaord is functional, not ornamental. and if you get stuck, Google is your best friend when it comes to cleaning mysteries like getting the orange spaghetti sauce out of the carpets.

I am passing the torch, my dear ones. Go forth and discover the satisfaction of a job well done. Find joy in clean counters and dust-free shelves—for those things don’t just happen on their own. And if you’re confused, worried, or wondering how to scrub a pot with a fraction of washing up liquid because it wasn't added to the grocery list on the fridge, know that I, too, was once like you, and I suffered in silence, it's ok if you do too.

With deep love, a thread of sanity left and an impending burnout.

Your former cleaner, Mum, Wife, CareTaker, Gardener, etc.