Skip to main content

Clean the house

Like many women, I have vacillating feelings about cleaning. On the one hand, I resent that through both forces beyond my control and more personal ones, I have ended up with the bulk of housework in our house. On the other, I can't deny that I love the feeling of waking up in a freshly cleaned house. It sets things for the week, or the day, or a morning (in our case) off on the right foot.

Recently, I have re-committed to cleaning house.  I have discovered that despite the patriarchy extracting labour for free, our family does benefit from the occasional freebie.

Last weekend, I woke up to stacks of dirty dishes, discarded snacks and wobbling piles of clothes and library books all over every surface.  I rolled up my sleeves, turned on the radio and worked steadily revealing surfaces again for the next few hours.

It wasn't spotless but there was room to breathe again, and as it turns out, play.

The next day it rained.  The kids started filling up every surface again with games and puzzles and books.  We ate again and then another time.

Sunday night I glanced around and sighed and thought briefly, what was the point of all that effort yesterday?  Just 36 hours later, and I was back to square 1.  But you know, cleaning is another word for creating space.  Clearing surfaces so the surfaces are useful again, however briefly.  We managed to keep busy and not fighting all weekend. Having an empty table renewed our excitement about puzzles, and not electronics, for a brief window of time. So yes patriarchy and the capitalist economy be damned, but that cleaning time was definitely priceless.

Comments

  1. and this new format? cool... and another result of cleaning house... space for change ...

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A 5 minute challenge

WifeMotherExpletive  extended an invitation I could not refuse: " Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking" on the word, Real . real is what I always strive to be.  in a hurry to be as real as possible, I've overlooked so much.  I have denied myself things that would have helped me understand things better.  real, but real for who? as I age, I want to be more real to me because I suspect that there will be many surprises. hard to believe that I will be surprised since I have lived with myself for 36 , going on 37 years, but I don't doubt it for one minute.  Honesty is where I falter.  I can achieve "real" (does it qualify as real if it is in quotation marks) but it may not be true.  In general, I want things to be tied up in a package and smooth even it is too jagged to fit.  I want this, I know that to be real, it cannot happen but I think true is what I need to really aim for.  I know some things are tru...

the words fell out

 Despite being an introvert, I do often process big life events (and many many small ones) out loud by verbally hashing out my thoughts with whoever will put up with me. But this morning when I woke up to the big red blotch on the U.S. map...all my /the words fell out.  They fell out unsaid, unformed. Got to work and probably , in another time, would have annoyed my co-workers, dominating the conversation with my verbal extrusions, but not today. I just mutely stared across at them and nodded. My dad came for lunch.  Normally, we relish a good political diatribe, especially when we feel sure of our perspective, but this time, all I could do was munch on fries and marvel at all the unarticulated thoughts that I was not even bothering to retrieve. The silence inside me was noticeable.  Social media was awash with reactions and I just looked away. I couldn't bear to read one word about it. I was not receptive to any reactions,  accusations, reflections,  words...

Bringing her back

 As the first anniversary finally passed, I exhaled.  The sadness still nibbled away at the edges, but not clawing deep into my chest like it had been with varying degrees of ferocity in the twelve months previously.  She died in early summer, so I plunged into ocean and lakes and ate fruit straight from the plant.  The grief became softer, the folk songs carried me along in the potato patch we planted in therapy. But then, I started to miss her.  The deep grief kept her so close and now as the pressure eased, so did her presence.  I held my breath and decided to be really sad this morning just to see her face.  To sit in her prescence.  My breath became jagged as I cried for her, for us.   This Taylor Swift cover  by Marc Maron broke me right open this morning.  Here's to staying broken open enough to keep your loved ones close. And then, I walked into her garden. The garden she envisionied, planted over and over and still pre...