Cleaning Frenzy
Growing up, my brothers and I lived in constant trepidation over whether or not our mom was going to flip out about the house being messy. You'd think that would cause us to take some preventative measures, like maybe picking up our shit. Nah. We just kept our eyes open and ears tuned to signs that Mom was about to erupt, and then we'd disappear.
I know now that a lot of my mom's anxiety over the house being clean came from her own mother. Grandma Pam cared about appearances, about presentation. Every time my mother left the house as a kid, Grandma told her to "act like a lady." She had the perfect shoes to go with every outfit, with a handbag to match and the appropriate length coat. And the Grandma I knew was always on the move, bustling around the house straightening and organizing and wrapping presents with perfect corners.
While we played cards or read on the lounge chairs at the lake she'd be weeding or doing dishes or straightening the placemats we'd left askew and covered in crumbs.
"Take a break, Grandma," we'd tell her. "We can do that." And we would, eventually.
"That's all right, I'm almost done."
So my mother always felt the pressure to live up to her own mother's ideas about keeping a home and keeping yourself. When hosting, she's always felt she has to apologize for dinner before it's even on the table. She's always worried about whether what she's wearing looks nice or she's chosen the right clothes. Clutter grates on her nerves, and she's never understood why it didn't bother the three of us kids.
And it didn't bother me. Oh, I can get to a point where messiness irks me, but it's more about aesthetics than it is about keeping a clean house. I like to be in pretty, interesting, comfortable-feeling environments. I like natural light and green plants and colorful books on a table. If a paint color is harsh or there's noticeable dust on something, it bothers me and I can have a hard time relaxing, because the picture feels off. I don't like when things feel dirty, and sometimes I go on scrubbing frenzies because I just can't take the grime. But it takes awhile for me to get to that.
When it comes down to it, cleaning up clutter in particular just doesn't take up a priority space in my brain. There's no denying the satisfaction of a nicely straightened room, but most of the time I don't care enough. When I'm home by myself for days in a row, I end up with multiple drink glasses in rows on the table behind the couch, piles of shoes where I threw them off in the corner, bags I threw down on the floor. Michael usually comes home and straightens up after me, though in my better moments I try to get to it before he does. He's just fast. If it were left up to me, it'd be messy for four times as long.
A few weeks ago my sister-in-law and I were talking about this, and she brought up how messy my apartment was six years ago when she and my mom stopped by to help me pack. First of all, I didn't know they were coming. The fear of what other people think is usually enough to get me to clean. Second, it makes me think of that metaphor people bring up often when talking specifically about women and all the balls they try to juggle: your life is a stove with four burners. The first is your family, the second is your friends, the third is your health, and the fourth is work. In order to be successful, you have to turn off at least one burner, preferably two.
Maybe that's true, maybe it isn't. But I do think it's true that life is a balancing act. You can only do so much, and certain things have to give. Most of the time, one of the things I let "give" is cleaning, especially clutter. I think I'm okay with that. Looking back, will I care that my house was cluttered and messy? Or will I be grateful I spent an hour talking to my friend, instead, or that I finished a project that will give us the money to go see Les Mis?
Or maybe really I just need to be grateful that I have a husband who doesn't seem to mind picking up after me—and in fact doesn't really seem to mind that I make the messes in the first place. Just like I will try to not mind that I'm always the one who scrubs the toilets. His cleanliness doesn't always extend to scrubbing.
I know now that a lot of my mom's anxiety over the house being clean came from her own mother. Grandma Pam cared about appearances, about presentation. Every time my mother left the house as a kid, Grandma told her to "act like a lady." She had the perfect shoes to go with every outfit, with a handbag to match and the appropriate length coat. And the Grandma I knew was always on the move, bustling around the house straightening and organizing and wrapping presents with perfect corners.
While we played cards or read on the lounge chairs at the lake she'd be weeding or doing dishes or straightening the placemats we'd left askew and covered in crumbs.
"Take a break, Grandma," we'd tell her. "We can do that." And we would, eventually.
"That's all right, I'm almost done."
So my mother always felt the pressure to live up to her own mother's ideas about keeping a home and keeping yourself. When hosting, she's always felt she has to apologize for dinner before it's even on the table. She's always worried about whether what she's wearing looks nice or she's chosen the right clothes. Clutter grates on her nerves, and she's never understood why it didn't bother the three of us kids.
And it didn't bother me. Oh, I can get to a point where messiness irks me, but it's more about aesthetics than it is about keeping a clean house. I like to be in pretty, interesting, comfortable-feeling environments. I like natural light and green plants and colorful books on a table. If a paint color is harsh or there's noticeable dust on something, it bothers me and I can have a hard time relaxing, because the picture feels off. I don't like when things feel dirty, and sometimes I go on scrubbing frenzies because I just can't take the grime. But it takes awhile for me to get to that.
When it comes down to it, cleaning up clutter in particular just doesn't take up a priority space in my brain. There's no denying the satisfaction of a nicely straightened room, but most of the time I don't care enough. When I'm home by myself for days in a row, I end up with multiple drink glasses in rows on the table behind the couch, piles of shoes where I threw them off in the corner, bags I threw down on the floor. Michael usually comes home and straightens up after me, though in my better moments I try to get to it before he does. He's just fast. If it were left up to me, it'd be messy for four times as long.
A few weeks ago my sister-in-law and I were talking about this, and she brought up how messy my apartment was six years ago when she and my mom stopped by to help me pack. First of all, I didn't know they were coming. The fear of what other people think is usually enough to get me to clean. Second, it makes me think of that metaphor people bring up often when talking specifically about women and all the balls they try to juggle: your life is a stove with four burners. The first is your family, the second is your friends, the third is your health, and the fourth is work. In order to be successful, you have to turn off at least one burner, preferably two.
Maybe that's true, maybe it isn't. But I do think it's true that life is a balancing act. You can only do so much, and certain things have to give. Most of the time, one of the things I let "give" is cleaning, especially clutter. I think I'm okay with that. Looking back, will I care that my house was cluttered and messy? Or will I be grateful I spent an hour talking to my friend, instead, or that I finished a project that will give us the money to go see Les Mis?
Or maybe really I just need to be grateful that I have a husband who doesn't seem to mind picking up after me—and in fact doesn't really seem to mind that I make the messes in the first place. Just like I will try to not mind that I'm always the one who scrubs the toilets. His cleanliness doesn't always extend to scrubbing.