Under the Rug

My mom is a pack rat; my dad is not. My mom has religiously saved everything with any significance to it--my baby book's binding fell apart long ago. My dad is a neat freak. I won't say he doesn't have a certain level of clutter that follows him, but he has fits of cleaning and throws away anything my mom hasn't hidden away. To this day, my mom is kind of a mess. She and my dad live in a modest 4-bedroom home. They occupy the master suite, my mom uses one of the rooms for her office, my dad uses one for his office and there is a room for guests (really, it's the Saint's bedroom, but he won't be back until August). My mom and dad have a cleaning lady that comes every other week. My mom is not someone who enjoys cleaning; my grandmother and I share the cleaning gene, but it skipped a generation. Since I had Jeremy, toys and books and baby equipment have slowly taken over some parts of their house. (If I don't say this and my mom ever reads this, she will be quick to point this out as a reason for the clutter.)

I have tried to help my mom get organized. There are blinds on the windows in her office. Clipped to many of the blinds are slips of paper containing important phone numbers, claim information and other flotsam. I spent an afternoon compiling all of the phone numbers onto one sheet of paper and clipping it to the linen display board she has. Within a matter of months, I noticed papers starting to reappear. She claims there is a method to her madness, that she can find anything she needs in the chaos. For the most part, I agree with her. There is growth, though; up until about 2 years ago, she had clothes in her walk-in closet (my dad has no space in it), the closet in her office and the closet in the Saint's bedroom. I dogged her for months about getting rid of some of her clothes. She would not say that the nagging worked, but she has downsized her wardrobe quite a bit. 

The contrast to this picture is that, growing up, when company came over the house was required to be spotless. I never, ever understood why. I was guilty of being messy, of leaving food wrappers lying around and generally being a slob (ask my college roommates). I got that there shouldn't be food left lying around and that we should wipe the counters down, but I never understood the frenzy with which she would clean the house. Entropy being what it was, it would stay clean for a while but slowly settle back into being slightly grimy and messy. 

Before I had kids, I employed this same frenzy to cleaning my house before guests arrived. My husband didn't understand it, either. I would literally stay up until all hours of the night before hosting a playgroup. I had to clear that never-ending pile of paperwork that sits perched precariously on top of my microwave. I couldn't let anyone see that there are five bags of bread, each with just one heel in it, sitting on top of my refrigerator. God forbid anyone would notice the grime baked onto the burners of my stove. I would clean until my back ached and my eyes were bleary with sleepiness. Even after having kids, I have been guilty of staying up way past when I should just to make sure the house is spotless for impending guests.

There is also a ritual that occurs at the beginning of play dates. I greet everyone and welcome them into my home. I preempt their questions; rather than let them notice the bits of wallpaper still stuck to the backsplash, I tell them about the hideous border that used to be there. I apologize for how beat up my couches are. I offer drinks, Diet Coke or water (the only things we ever have to drink at my house) and then apologize for not having more to offer. At lunchtime, I offer the other kids absolutely everything in my refrigerator. It's part of my lineage that would not allow someone to walk away from my house hungry. I apologize for the dog hair that coats every surface in my home, for the smell of the guinea pigs' cage, etc.

Unfortunately, when I employed this frenzy to cleaning, it was understandable that I didn't have people over all that often. I was having a conversation about this with a friend not too long ago. I confessed that I could care less what other people's houses look like. If I am going to spend time with them and their children, I am most likely bringing my children. That automatically means I will be leaving their house messier than when I arrived. If I am going to see a friend and watch a movie with her after her kids have gone to bed, I am going to plant my butt firmly in the most comfortable chair I can find. I am not going to inspect her bathroom to see if there are rings in the bowl. I will not be checking the expiration date on any food in her refrigerator.

I have also never had a mother (or anyone, really), do this to me. So I finally decided that I don't care what my house looks like. I am not a stay-at-home-housekeeper, I am a stay-at-home-mom. My first priority (and the first priority of all of my other SAHM friends) has to be the kids. Yes, I need to make sure there are no roaches, rodents, maggots, etc., living in my home. I do keep the kitchen (mostly) cleaned. About every other week, I attack the piles of paperwork perching precariously about the kitchen. They become like magpie nests, full of everything from junk mail to errant birthday/holiday cards to artwork from preschool. I carefully deconstruct the nests, throwing out what's not important, putting away what is, etc. I vacuum up crumbs and dog hair pretty regularly. The laundry gets done, although sometimes it takes two days to a week to be put away. Beyond that, I've stopped worrying. Sure, I still get in a tizzy from time to time. My computer has been acting wonky and I'm trying to get someone out to take a look at it. I started cleaning the office this evening, but I can guarantee that it won't be spotless by the time Mr. Computer Man comes to visit. 

I don't know why we all seem so obsessed with presenting the best version of our house and selves to one another. I have spoken with other mom friends who have confessed all sorts of things. I will admit that Doug, my youngest, doesn't get bathed as regularly as Bekah and Jeremy. There was even a day last summer when the kids needed a bath. We went to the splash pad after naps and the kids ran around, getting soaking wet. We changed them to go home and Brian asked me slyly, "does this count for baths?" I answered in the affirmative and yet this is the first public confession of that deed! We have all gone to the grocery store with our kids in various stages of dress, with mismatched socks, hair matted down with baby food, hair not brushed, our hair not done, teeth not brushed, etc.

I do my best to let my foibles shine through. So far, that's worked pretty well for me. People find me authentic and I think they are more at ease around me. My kids are good at clearing their dishes (at other people's houses more than ours) and cleaning up after themselves. I have also learned that people all have different definitions of "messy." Last week, I was at a girlfriend's house for a play date. We had met at a park and then headed over to her house. The three of us moms sat at her counter, eating lunch. She apologized for the huge mess. Sabrina and I looked at each other and then inspected her kitchen; we were not able to see the mess she saw. She pointed to two breakfast dishes, food still on them, sitting on her counter. I literally laughed out loud. I told her not to worry about it.