Enter MOTHER.

To clean, or not to clean, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler all the whites to launder
And pinks with bows in girly fashion,
Or to take arms of dirty towels
And by sunlight dry them. To clean, to sweep--
Some more; and by to clean we mean to say
that all the fuzz and all the fallen socks
are clean too. 'Tis a constant pastime
Never to be finished-- to clean, to sweep--
To sweep, perchance vacuum, and high chairs rub;
For in that tray, food stuck like gum
That we have mushed from its natural form
Must give us pause-- what was it
That makes such orange stains.
For who will clean this tray and the floor around it,
Be oppressed by it, and man's dirty socks,
The pans of dinners served, old fruit's decay,
Newspapers left out, and the smell
That milk left in a sippy cup makes,
And see the horror when someone quickly takes
A sip? Who will mop kitchen floors,
Grunt and sweat (a weary wife),
In hopes that something will stay done,
Finds some undiscovered pile, from under which
Should reappear last month's phone bill,
And a graham cracker, and a truck, and
want to fly somewhere, anywhere else one could go?
And thus the housewife's resolution
To finish one more room is stopped
And a diaper is changed in that moment
In just this instant her plans go awry
And the day turns to chaos.--So mothers now,
gentle mothers,-- Women, in your houses,
to the mess surrender.