As a kid, I was not naturally organized or orderly. I remember my mom telling me more than once: “I don’t want to see your house when you grow up and how messy it’s going to be!” (Well mom, you got your wish!).
Once I became a teenager, I craved order more. In the closet, my shoe boxes were neatly stacked and labeled for easy retrieval. I made my bed every day. This natural bend towards organization stayed with me. Once I got married, I became a diligent homemaker. I kept my house neat and tidy. I abhorred clutter.
After having a child, I had to lower my standards. At first, I was too tired to clean. When the baby became a toddler, it appeared pointless to put things away since they’d end up on the floor again within minutes. I straightened things out after she was in bed at night, thus using up what little was left of my energy and free time. Then I had a brilliant idea! I hired a teenage neighbor to come every day for one hour. She did a thorough house pick up and folded the laundry while we ate an early dinner. She washed the dishes before leaving. This allowed me to spend time with my husband rather than with the broom once my daughter was finally asleep. A great investment.
Alas, the teenager became too busy to continue working for us. Thankfully, my daughter got older and things became more manageable.
With renewed energy and great vigor, I started to keep house again. I read Marie Kondo’s “Life Changing Magic of Tidying up” and it did change my life. I gave away bags and bags of what “didn’t spark joy” and marveled at the empty shelf in my kitchen cupboard. Then I discovered the Fly Lady and reveled in the joy of a sparkling sink.
I was hooked. Addicted to tidiness. Resentful of clutter. My brain literally throbbed when I saw messes. I never went to bed without washing the dishes and cleaning my kitchen. I always folded clothes immediately after taking them out of the dryer.
Parenting was difficult work. I often felt incompetent as a mother but vacuuming, sweeping, wiping counters… that I could do. Easy peasy. There is a clear line between the before and after, a real sense of accomplishment when you’re done cleaning…
…but no peace. No peace for me nor for my family whom I constantly admonished for simply living and not being perfect. I had plenty of ways to justify my behavior: “I’m doing this for you guys!” “You need to learn this to become a functioning adult,” said the dysfunctional mom.
On the outside, all was spick and span. On the inside I was a mess.
My anxiety had become crippling. Depression was slowly but surely making a strong case that suicide was a valid solution to my problems. Thankfully I sought help, started medication and got all better.
Relaxed standards in my housekeeping were a very unexpected side effect of medication. Suddenly, I could fall asleep despite dirty plates piled up in the sink. I could see the stack of freshly laundered shirts and ignore it. I could step on my daughter’s underwear on the bathroom floor and smile.
As my brain is healing, my resilience to life has increased and so has my tolerance for disorder.
An anxious person sees everything as a problem, treats every situation as an emergency, sets a standard that is impossible to achieve. I would have literally died trying. A healthy person does her best and enjoys life.
If you came to my house right now– it’s 11.30 am on a Wednesday, you’d see the dishes that I washed last night sparkle in the rack waiting to be put away. Dirty bowls and measuring cups we used to bake a cake this morning are soaking in the sink. My daughter and husband are in the living room. There’s a jiu-jitsu mat on the floor and a Bob training dummy by my bookshelf. She is watching a movie. He is working on his phone.
If you needed to use the restroom, you could safely do so. My bathroom is “visitor ready” and got an extra deep scrubbing only a few days ago (not that we’ve had any visitor in the past 7 weeks. #SocialDistancing).
You’d find me writing this essay, sitting on my unmade bed across from an ironing table piled with shirts and a basket full of clean towels waiting to be folded. You’d see another pleasantly clean bathroom and get a peak at a hamper crammed with dirty laundry.
I wouldn’t apologize to you for any of it. I’d invite you to sit on the massage chair across from me or to make yourself comfortable on my bed while we chatted. I’d grab a snack and invite you to an impromptu picnic under the shade of our big tree in the yard.
You wouldn’t find a spotless house. What you would find is a happy family and a happy me.
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About the author Sarah Badat-Richardson
Wow, you made a lot of really good points in this essay! Such good food for thought!!!! I’m so glad that you wrote this. It’s like you said, uber-cleaning gives that sense of satisfaction that the ambivalence of parenthood doesn’t immediately always deliver, but it can be addictive and actually cause more problems than it solves in the long run. I really appreciate this essay.
I wrote a long comment but I’m not sure if it posted… Just in case, just wanted to say what a wise post this is!
Thanks Jessica. The relaxed approach is definitely free-ing. I don’t live in a pigsty but not in a museum either. Things get done but not frenetically.
That’s awesome. You really struck a good balance!!! Looks like my first comment was lost (I need to wait for it to post before closing the tab/page), but basically I was just reflecting on your reflections that a sense of accomplishment for the task can feel so good, and more of an immediate guaranteed feeling of good than with other things in life, even though the other pleasures in life that you mentioned are more gratifying in the long run. And how cleaning therefore kinda has an addictive quality to it, that has to be kept in moderation just like everything else that could become too addictive in life. Anyway, I really enjoyed this post and it gave me a lot of food for thought!