Put the baby, the toddler?, to bed early tonight. Handsome Husband is out changing tires in the dark of the night after coming home for some warm taco soup. And me? I am at home, sitting on the couch with Kitty Kitty in my lap, surrounded by two-days worth of mess.
Yesterday was a 'dump-and-leave' kind of day and today was a, "I don't have time to clean up, nor entertain Alaska' kind of day. Which means she entertained herself by emptying the dishwasher, pulling out fabric scraps, getting into my makeup bag and examining everything in it and then bringing it to me. I never understand. The house can be completely picked up and perfect, and then one day can make it look like I haven't cleaned in two weeks.
But I am here. Present. Listening to Jack Johnson.
Handsome Husband made the comment of how much damage Alaska can do to a clean room the other day. And you know what? It wasn't even that bad. It could be picked up in 10 minutes I think I have been forever scarred by having three younger brothers. Where a room could easily take a hour to pick up, much less vacuum and dust and organize. There was always a room somewhere that had a complete carpet of cars and trucks and plastic dinosaurs. And later, legos. Those legos. They never stayed in the room they were supposed to, either. I was always vacuuming up small pieces and would hear a chugga-chunk-click and they were sucked up. My heart stopping each time, willing the vacuum to keep working because I didn't have time to fish something out that couldn't be suctioned into the 'forever goneness' of the vaccum bag. My mom had to repeat often, "If it's big enough to see, it's big enough to pick up" But those legos. Sometimes I never even saw them, just heard their clattering death.
My most memorable cleaning experience, besides spending hours on my hands and knees tossing dinosaurs, legos, blocks, cars and trucks, action figures and stuffed animals into separate plastic baskets is cleaning my own room with my mom. Once. That's all it took for me to never let that happen again. Moms throw stuff away. Sometimes important things.
We were having company that summer and because my room was the biggest, I would be evicted and set up on the floor downstairs somewhere. Things weren't especially bad - except the one corner. There was a corner that the ceiling slanted sharply over, and it wasn't really big enough for anything. Except to shove everything. I mean everything. All of my school work that they send with you on the last day before summer vacation. The pencils and crayons and pencil shavings tumbling out of my pencil case. Clothes that I didn't feel like hanging up or shoving into drawers. Toys. Stuff. Paper. It was a wreck and took two days to clean out. And my mom was there for all of it with a big, black garbage bag. It was bad enough that I never shoved stuff in that corner again.
I think I have just always been a cleaner and an organizer. When I was little I remember how much I loved to clean the bathroom with a wet wash cloth and a bar of soap. That was pure joy to me. Plus I got to play in the water. And organizing the junk drawer was a favorite of mine. I loved cleaning windows. Cleaning and I have gotten along for quite a many years. Don't get me wrong, though, those hours spent picking up boy toys were not my own doing. That was Saturday chores. And in highschool I was too busy and resented any mess that I had to clean up that wasn't my own. Which is why my main chore became the bathroom and vacuuming the stairs and upstairs hall. I didn't think it fair that I should have to pick up after the boys or do any other house chores because I was hardly home, and when I was, I was in my bedroom, the bathroom, or eating dinner. I used the bathroom the most, so I was ok cleaning that. And I did have to walk upstairs and down the hall to get to my room, so that was a decent chore as well. Anything else met a, "But I didn't make it!" when asked to clean something.
I quickly learned that the best gift to give a mother is a clean house and it was often that my mom would leave for a few hours and come back to a clean kitchen. Sometimes if she were to be gone all day and I was babysitting the boys I could convince them to help out and clean up the living room before they put on a movie or played a video game while I did everything else.
Some people eat or exercise when they feel themselves spin out of control. I clean. My self-induced therapy. And on a hard day, you can count on me going through clothes, a closet, toys, anything. And the more I can donate to goodwill, the better I feel. Which means we don't have a lot of 'extras' laying around. If it doesn't get used, worn, played with, it's gone. I try really hard to keep my hands off of Steven's stuff, but I have been known to get rid of clothes and books without asking for fear that they stick around.
It's a better coping strategy than most, I'll give it that. But it's weird recognizing that in yourself and knowing that when the house is a little messy it means that you are happy and content with life as is. And realizing when the floors are spotless and all the dishes in the dishwasher that something is not lined up. Not always. But most of the time. And I never even knew it. I thought maybe I was always cleaning because our house is so "cozy" small. But after writing all this out, I do believe it is because it is something that I can control when there are so many other factors that I feel like I cannot.
While I sit here, surrounded by a mess that is telling of two busy, productive days, I count my blessings for the messes that I am able to let go. At least for today.
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