My household is a finely tuned, well-oil machine. You will never find teethers under the refrigerator, duplo blocks waiting to trip you on the kitchen floor, books carpeting the living room floor, mountains of (clean) laundry on the sofa, or teetering piles of kid drawings adorning various horizontal surfaces. I never contemplate shoving dirty pans into the oven. Or throwing everything in the dishwasher. Or shoveling the mounds of dirty laundry onto my bedroom floor, forming hurdles between the door and the baby’s changing area. Or beg the children to run around the house picking up books to stash in the library bin, or toss all the toys into the playpen. Or grab the towels off the bathroom floor and hurl them into the laundry room. Shutting all doors, of course. Ten minutes before the in-laws arrive for dinner. Never. Not me.