If Cleanliness is Next to Godliness, What Will Get me to Purgatory?

I have never been one to obsess about things cleaning. Certainly I like things to be tidy, but I only blow the cleaning ship out of the water when I am angry and need something on which to focus my wrath. As such, I have gotten intensely good at whirlwind cleaning--the kind that crops up hour(s)before guests arrive. Since Henry's birth and subsequent mobility, some areas have slipped while others get more action.

I now pick up the living room approximately five times daily. This entails straightening pillows and throws, clearing the minefield, er, carpet, of small, feet stabbing toys, and putting the umbrellas, bats and swords back into their respective corners. Five times. And while this lets me maintain sanity in the living room, if I venture anywhere else, I figuratively strike myself blind. Out of necessity. The dining room table is a catchall of things we keep from the tiny human. Dishes are a little slower to make their way to the dishwasher and cupboards respectively. Sometimes, I just cannot bring myself to give a good damn about cooking food for myself so it's Triscuits and cheese for dinner. Again.

Also, virtually all my shirts since I turned 18 and began drinking coffee have sported drips of said coffee. These days, shirts and pants both bear the patina of yogurt and/or oatmeal. If I'm really lucky, peanut butter and strawberry jam make an appearance. More and more I consider dressing Henry and myself according to what he's eating. Or, the converse, only feeding him foods that "match."