If my mother hated cleaning, she never admitted it to me. But she didn’t research or think much about cleaning techniques, like she did with other aspects of homemaking.
She was fussy about guests, who were never allowed in the kitchen; she had me for serving and clearing. I didn’t mind much, except when I didn’t get soup because it had boiled away–sometimes she calculated too carefully. She kept the living and dining rooms, along with the front entrance, exclusively for company (a luxury most of us Israelis can only dream of). The family used the side door; she often complained about their previous house, where you had to bring groceries in through the living room.
My own friends were welcome in the house and ate in the “breakfast room” off the kitchen, with the family.
By the time I was born she could have afforded hired help, and did occasionally, but she was too private a person to feel comfortable with someone else working in the house.
I wonder how much of an issue housekeeping was for her. Was the house really dirty, even before my mother developed a chronic illness when I was twelve? Was she ashamed of the house’s condition? If so, I wasn’t conscious of a problem and chalked up her foibles to anxiety regarding guests. Maybe there is a lesson here: If your own house isn’t so clean, chances are your kids don’t care and won’t remember.