So I have no clue if I fall into the realm of "normal" when it comes to germs and dirt. I think I am somewhere in the middle, although I have yet to ask many people to describe to me their exact tolerance of dirt in the house.
I don't allow shoes in the house, at least for the three of us. Part of this has to do with the fact that all of my floors are freakin' white, my friends. Yes, not just white, but freakin' white. White ceramic tile and "oatmeal" carpet. Oatmeal is as good as white to me. The other reason I don't like shoes in the house is because it gives me the heebie-jeebies thinking about what I have been stepping in all day, and the fact that I am bringing it into the house. I can't remember when, I think it was when Mr. Personality was about 6 months or so, that I contemplated all the crap we walk in with our shoes. I mean, literally crap. Urine, vomit, gasoline, oil, you name it and it is on the concrete of the parking lot. I went dizzy with disgust, and so only guests are allowed to wear shoes, although I get a little twitchy when they walk around.
I also will not allow us to sit on our furniture with clothes that we have worn out. Let's say we go to dinner and come home, well, before anyone's butt hits the couch, pants must be changed. I mean, Mr. Personality stands up on the seat of the booth that we are sitting in, and toddlers do it all the time. Thus, I am sitting in exactly what I described above, and the last thing I want to do is transfer it to my sofa. Again, this does not go for guests, of course. Unless I invent some kind of butt protector to hand out to people when they come over, I'm pretty much out of luck when that situation arises.
I keep things fairly clean, but things are cluttered in our small living space. I would have to say my biggest nemesis is dust. But I don't dust that often, so my priorities may be misplaced. I try to use a vinegar solution to clean most things, like our kitchen floor and Mr. Personality's bathroom. I have no sound proof that household chemicals are bad for him, but it makes me feel better, even if it may be misguided. I know some studies have been done that say too clean of an environment is not a good thing for children. I wouldn't call my house that clean, but I still don't like the thought of strange germs lying around where I can't see them.
When obsessing about these things, I always flash back to a passage in one of the James Herriot books (which are all wonderful, by the way). He was describing his visits to the house of the local knacker, and he was struck by the extreme healthiness of the knacker's children. They were perfect specimens with rosy cheeks and who were rarely sick. This amazed him, for they were constantly playing around dead and diseased animals, yet seemed to suffer absolutely no ill effects.
The phrase "God made dirt and dirt don't hurt" plays in my mind when Mr. Personality gets dirty. I think, heavens, children have been getting dirty since time began, and most are fine. But then I think about weird bacteria I don't know about, and I have to fight the urge to wash his hands off this instant before he touches his mouth or eyes.
Perhaps I just have too much time on my hands. Maybe I need to get a little dirt on them instead.