I don't know myself at all. Not one bit. Could somebody introduce us? I'm so elusive, so capricious.
This is a cruel discovery to be made in the middle of my life. I wish I had known it from the beginning. Not sure what I would have done with that knowledge....can be so indecisive.
It took all my precious children abandoning the home front for school and bigger adventures to wake me up in order to recognize the stranger in the mirror.
How do I not know myself? Let me count the ways.
1. I thought I wanted an immaculate house.
HA!
Turns out, no. No, I don't. Not nearly bad enough, anyway. I have more time now to pursue and maintain a well-organized and spotless home, but cleaning a house isn't fulfilling in the least. It doesn't bring joy, and, trust me, it never stays that way.
Don't get me wrong. I work hard around here. I do most of the menial jobs including taking out trash, but as my son Berto told me not long ago, "Get a life, Mom." He meant it kindly, but he most certainly did not mean that I should clean more. He was encouraging me to pursue other things entirely, because it already seems to my kids that all I do is clean, clear out and straighten up.
2. I thought I wanted peace and quiet.
Somebody rescue me....from ME!
Turns out that peace and quiet are unsuitable companions if one has a rebellious, disgruntled mind well-endowed with imagination. Peace has left the building. Quiet is a vicious, gnawing rat.
3. I thought I wanted to write a lot more.
Guess what? Shhhhhh. Come closer. Writing is work, too. And it requires you to wear your happy, industrious pants. Well, I blame peace and quiet for stealing my happy pants, so I was too petulant to write much. I barely wrote more this year at all when I think of all the opportunities I should have had if not for my bad temper.
Writing - writing anything as well as I can - gives me a high not unlike a mother feels after giving birth naturally. If I could have just pushed through, ordered my bad moods out of the way, I would have felt much better most of the time.
Will and I need to have a talk about teamwork.
But, hey, I'm writing now.
4. I thought all I wanted to do was stay home.
I have always been a homebody. I remember my sister Vinca visiting me just after I had my oldest daughter Ana. We only had one vehicle then, and if I didn't walk someplace pushing babies in a double stroller, home was sweet. Vinca asked me how I could stand it, but I had never minded.
Even while growing up, my older siblings were out working in the woods with my parents rolling grapevine wreaths, and I was home cleaning. Of course, home back then was on 98 acres of green, rolling land with woods and a creek, so it was greatly prized and smelled like honeysuckle and rich earth.
Home now is a great little place in the city with a fair backyard in which my family plays baseball and soccer games on weekends, but it is not enough anymore when my husband and children are away so much.
I am craving adventure for myself or at least new friends and more exercise. I feel left behind in a special cocoon I have made, and I want to struggle out of it. That means I have to abandon the fear that I will be spending too much money, time, or pleasure on myself. I have to convince myself that I am worth it.
But am I? Yes? Shesh, I sound like such a baby, already so blessed! Perhaps I'll just go and watch It's A Wonderful Life again.
5. I thought I wanted to pluck my eyebrows and dye my hair.
Okay, this one is trivial, but it shows I don't know my own mind even where it comes to my appearance.
I began to "shape" the eyebrows when I was thirty-five. Now, I'm approaching thirty-seven, and I don't want to anymore. My eyebrows are somewhat unruly, artfully imperfect, but I have decided that each hair is precious. And anyhow, I hate false eyelashes and fake nails, have never yet dyed my hair - though I was tempted not long ago to abandon my lovely chestnut color to go blonde - so why train naturally errant brows?
**************************
My children have just two weeks left of school, and now that I have finally realized how aloof I am, I have so little time to try and forge an acquaintance with me. Perhaps I should make a bucket list of sorts: 10 team-building activities Hillary wants to do with herself before her children get out of school. There's still time for adventure surely.
Next year, believe me, I am going to have a game plan. I'm not going to enter into blind solitude again. I'm going to learn to flamenco dance or take guitar lessons so I can play in local coffee shops. I'm going to get involved with some creative group of people, find my fellow crazies.
And I am - I truly am - going to write a lot more. This I know for sure about myself: it would do my heart good.
Showing posts with label clean houses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label clean houses. Show all posts
Thursday, May 12, 2016
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Humble Pie Housekeeping
There was a strange man by our mailbox when we got home one Sunday. He coolly sat there watching us pull into our driveway, his white sedan near where weeds were choking the landscaping rocks. The guy kind of looked like my husband Matthew, but my husband was golfing that afternoon.
I was on to this guy - whatever he was trying to pull by resembling my husband. I told the kids, "Nobody move. Don't get out of the van until I see what he's about."
So we parked and didn't move until the man casually emerged from his vehicle, and my oldest son Berto cried, "It's Uncle Tim!"
Then the doors were pushed open, and the kids sprinted down the driveway. I had forgotten my husband said he might come by, and sirens whistled in my head as I desperately tried to think with a dumb smile on my face, WHAT DOES THE HOUSE LOOK LIKE?
Yes, what does the house look like? So many times in my life I've asked myself this sorry question. I've had my share of humble pie at the hands of unexpected visitors.
I mean, sure, when you're deadly ill, being rushed to the hospital, you can let the shame go reasonably well when your friends come to watch the kids in your smelly, disheveled home. After all, they can't judge you too harshly while your fate seems uncertain. And when the repair man comes for the AC unit, puts on his little booties so as not to mark your juice-smeared floor, and you realize you forgot to cover the duct tape that holds your couch together at the seam, you can trust you won't see him again...or you can logically explain that your couch hasn't reached its 15 years of mandatory service yet, and you're not cheap - really!- just frugal and resourceful. Then you can ask if he watches the Red Green show.
But when your brother-in-law walks into your littered home and sees St. Paddy's Day signs waving in the vented breeze, wishing him the luck of the Irish in late April, you have little option but to joke as you turbo-sweep and straighten the clutter about his feet, "Come back in July, and we'll have the Easter signs up!"
And he glibly responds with, "And by Christmas, Halloween!"
Worse is the exposure of your poor housekeeping methods at the hands of expected visitors. A dear friend comments every time she enters your door, "I'm so glad your home is cluttered like ours - stuff everywhere!", and you comfort yourself that you're a reality ambassador, spreading cheer and lowering expectations. Party guests innocently open the microwave, believing you maintain your appliances, and find what looks like a hideous laboratory from a horror film, so you try to show appropriate horror and blame it on the kids' experiments in blowing up spaghetti. Your father-in-law uses your master bath and is greeted by feminine unmentionables dangling from the doorknob (You're not overly proud of them; you just think they add that extra something to the décor.) and bits of mustache trimmings in the sink. Too late at night, you pull out the bed from the sleeper sofa to make it up for relatives, and they jump back with an, "Oh my gosh!" and then giggle and point at What Lies Beneath, awed by the magnitude of the decaying debris. You can grumble that you cleaned under there only a few weeks ago as you fetch the vacuum, but they won't believe you.
It's always something that you forgot to hide or clean. Humiliation is just a pair of thongs or a moldy, forgotten sippy cup away.
I used to be prouder of my home...before I had kids and lost a critical, maybe fatal, amount of sleep. I used to make huge, long lists, weeks before entertaining, that included such ridiculous items as these:
Mop floors
Dust ceiling fans and pictures
Polish table, chairs and hutch with olive oil/lemon juice
Mow lawn
Remove bras from bathroom doorknobs
Clear off entertainment center and book shelves
Now my list looks like this:
Try to sweep
Load dishwasher if possible
Hide laundry
Comb hair
Take a nap
Perhaps someday I'll get back to mopping floors with more than wet paper towels stuck to the bottoms of my feet, polishing furniture until I can see my haggard face in it and scrubbing bathrooms every Tuesday morning, but right now I'm tired, and sick of society telling me what the perfect house should look like. Houses come in all shapes and sizes, darnit, and different levels of disorder, decay and maltreatment by dwellers, and I'll take mine as it is, so lived in it's beautiful, with a slice of humble pie to stay.
This post was originally published on this blog in July 2013.
I was on to this guy - whatever he was trying to pull by resembling my husband. I told the kids, "Nobody move. Don't get out of the van until I see what he's about."
So we parked and didn't move until the man casually emerged from his vehicle, and my oldest son Berto cried, "It's Uncle Tim!"
Then the doors were pushed open, and the kids sprinted down the driveway. I had forgotten my husband said he might come by, and sirens whistled in my head as I desperately tried to think with a dumb smile on my face, WHAT DOES THE HOUSE LOOK LIKE?
Yes, what does the house look like? So many times in my life I've asked myself this sorry question. I've had my share of humble pie at the hands of unexpected visitors.
I mean, sure, when you're deadly ill, being rushed to the hospital, you can let the shame go reasonably well when your friends come to watch the kids in your smelly, disheveled home. After all, they can't judge you too harshly while your fate seems uncertain. And when the repair man comes for the AC unit, puts on his little booties so as not to mark your juice-smeared floor, and you realize you forgot to cover the duct tape that holds your couch together at the seam, you can trust you won't see him again...or you can logically explain that your couch hasn't reached its 15 years of mandatory service yet, and you're not cheap - really!- just frugal and resourceful. Then you can ask if he watches the Red Green show.
But when your brother-in-law walks into your littered home and sees St. Paddy's Day signs waving in the vented breeze, wishing him the luck of the Irish in late April, you have little option but to joke as you turbo-sweep and straighten the clutter about his feet, "Come back in July, and we'll have the Easter signs up!"
And he glibly responds with, "And by Christmas, Halloween!"
Worse is the exposure of your poor housekeeping methods at the hands of expected visitors. A dear friend comments every time she enters your door, "I'm so glad your home is cluttered like ours - stuff everywhere!", and you comfort yourself that you're a reality ambassador, spreading cheer and lowering expectations. Party guests innocently open the microwave, believing you maintain your appliances, and find what looks like a hideous laboratory from a horror film, so you try to show appropriate horror and blame it on the kids' experiments in blowing up spaghetti. Your father-in-law uses your master bath and is greeted by feminine unmentionables dangling from the doorknob (You're not overly proud of them; you just think they add that extra something to the décor.) and bits of mustache trimmings in the sink. Too late at night, you pull out the bed from the sleeper sofa to make it up for relatives, and they jump back with an, "Oh my gosh!" and then giggle and point at What Lies Beneath, awed by the magnitude of the decaying debris. You can grumble that you cleaned under there only a few weeks ago as you fetch the vacuum, but they won't believe you.
It's always something that you forgot to hide or clean. Humiliation is just a pair of thongs or a moldy, forgotten sippy cup away.
I used to be prouder of my home...before I had kids and lost a critical, maybe fatal, amount of sleep. I used to make huge, long lists, weeks before entertaining, that included such ridiculous items as these:
Mop floors
Dust ceiling fans and pictures
Polish table, chairs and hutch with olive oil/lemon juice
Mow lawn
Remove bras from bathroom doorknobs
Clear off entertainment center and book shelves
Now my list looks like this:
Try to sweep
Load dishwasher if possible
Hide laundry
Comb hair
Take a nap
Perhaps someday I'll get back to mopping floors with more than wet paper towels stuck to the bottoms of my feet, polishing furniture until I can see my haggard face in it and scrubbing bathrooms every Tuesday morning, but right now I'm tired, and sick of society telling me what the perfect house should look like. Houses come in all shapes and sizes, darnit, and different levels of disorder, decay and maltreatment by dwellers, and I'll take mine as it is, so lived in it's beautiful, with a slice of humble pie to stay.
This post was originally published on this blog in July 2013.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Nowhere (wo)man
Inert.
Yep, that's how I feel, doc.
Why, exactly?
I don't know. A whole lot of reasons! My house is never clean. I hate running errands, so if I don't go somewhere straight after dropping the kids at school, it's a no go. There is always so much to do at home. And I'm trying - repeat, trying - to be a writer, but I don't even feel like writing anymore. AT ALL. Not since Christmas, really. Oh, and I read too much.
Read too much? Interesting. Not sure I've heard that before.
Well, you should have. It can really derail a person's life, their goals and so on.
How, exactly?
What is it with you and that word exactly? I mean is anything in life exactly anything? It's all one great muddle, puddle, fuddle, duddle....wait, that's Dr. Seuss. I think I need to lie down; I'm getting confused.
That's why I have the couch. But let's get back to that reading thing. You don't feel you're improving your mind? Are you reading celebrity gossip magazines, pulp fiction or steamy romances?
Oh, brother! No way. I'm reading G.K. Chesterton, and no offense, but the guy rambles some, you know? Brilliant but you have to be kind of dogged to follow him around sometimes. And a book of Josemaria Escriva's homilies, always beautiful. And I read a book written by a blogging friend, Jennie, who I really admire - great memoir! And my dad's awesome book A Storm Upon the Plain. And a few, very few, posts by bloggers I like....you know, come to think of it, everyone I know is writing 'cept me. Oh, brother.
Well, why aren't you writing?
Huh.
Do you know why you're not writing?
Well, let's see, because the little leprechaun in my head is dancing on all the wrong buttons? No, no. I'm sorry. That's a joke.
So?
Uh, well...I guess because I'm tired. And because my house is really a mess. And the Olympics are on. That's not a good one, but it's true. But, hey, the only thing I watch usually is kids' programming on PBS with my little guy.
You know, I think I would just give up this whole writing thing and try, just try, for once in my child-blessed life to have a clean - I mean a spotlessly clean - abode. My whole life would be easier. I stink at blogging, anyway. Let's face it. I can write, but I fail at every other aspect of the game - design, social media, marketing, building community. But if I didn't give a dang about being a writer now, abandoned ship, theoretically I'd have more time with my kids, playing games and such, and I'd spend a heck of a lot more time in battle with the insane clutter and stickiness and dustiness and gunkiness of my house. I really believe, doctor, that there are people out there doing it all and still looking pretty! I mean how are they doing it? Giving up on sleep? Ignoring their kids? Hiring a housekeeper? I'm doing none of it well myself, and I look like 10 years my senior!! It drives me batty knowing other people are breezing along with some magic formula!
Pauses, and then face falls.
I just realized I haven't been writing for a good while, and my house still looks like a junkyard. Damn. Do you see what I mean about this inertia business? I'm getting nowhere, man!
Let's meet again tomorrow to work out your own special magic formula.
Oh, brother!
Yep, that's how I feel, doc.
Why, exactly?
I don't know. A whole lot of reasons! My house is never clean. I hate running errands, so if I don't go somewhere straight after dropping the kids at school, it's a no go. There is always so much to do at home. And I'm trying - repeat, trying - to be a writer, but I don't even feel like writing anymore. AT ALL. Not since Christmas, really. Oh, and I read too much.
Read too much? Interesting. Not sure I've heard that before.
Well, you should have. It can really derail a person's life, their goals and so on.
How, exactly?
What is it with you and that word exactly? I mean is anything in life exactly anything? It's all one great muddle, puddle, fuddle, duddle....wait, that's Dr. Seuss. I think I need to lie down; I'm getting confused.
That's why I have the couch. But let's get back to that reading thing. You don't feel you're improving your mind? Are you reading celebrity gossip magazines, pulp fiction or steamy romances?
Oh, brother! No way. I'm reading G.K. Chesterton, and no offense, but the guy rambles some, you know? Brilliant but you have to be kind of dogged to follow him around sometimes. And a book of Josemaria Escriva's homilies, always beautiful. And I read a book written by a blogging friend, Jennie, who I really admire - great memoir! And my dad's awesome book A Storm Upon the Plain. And a few, very few, posts by bloggers I like....you know, come to think of it, everyone I know is writing 'cept me. Oh, brother.
Well, why aren't you writing?
Huh.
Do you know why you're not writing?
Well, let's see, because the little leprechaun in my head is dancing on all the wrong buttons? No, no. I'm sorry. That's a joke.
So?
Uh, well...I guess because I'm tired. And because my house is really a mess. And the Olympics are on. That's not a good one, but it's true. But, hey, the only thing I watch usually is kids' programming on PBS with my little guy.
You know, I think I would just give up this whole writing thing and try, just try, for once in my child-blessed life to have a clean - I mean a spotlessly clean - abode. My whole life would be easier. I stink at blogging, anyway. Let's face it. I can write, but I fail at every other aspect of the game - design, social media, marketing, building community. But if I didn't give a dang about being a writer now, abandoned ship, theoretically I'd have more time with my kids, playing games and such, and I'd spend a heck of a lot more time in battle with the insane clutter and stickiness and dustiness and gunkiness of my house. I really believe, doctor, that there are people out there doing it all and still looking pretty! I mean how are they doing it? Giving up on sleep? Ignoring their kids? Hiring a housekeeper? I'm doing none of it well myself, and I look like 10 years my senior!! It drives me batty knowing other people are breezing along with some magic formula!
Pauses, and then face falls.
I just realized I haven't been writing for a good while, and my house still looks like a junkyard. Damn. Do you see what I mean about this inertia business? I'm getting nowhere, man!
Let's meet again tomorrow to work out your own special magic formula.
Oh, brother!
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