One Horrible Thought on an Otherwise Perfectly Lazy Sunday

Oh boy. I am more like my mother than I thought.  Two clues have set me all a-flutter today: (1) I dumped clean sheets on the bed and didn't bother to make it - why now when later is sure to arrive? (2) I just realized my Christmas lights are still up - and the garden furniture is still out. Crap. Why do these blasted moments of clarity creep up on a person so stealthily? I've avoided housework all day, and now that I've finally got the dust rag out, I have this little revelation to face. Poop on this Sunday.

Here's the thing.  My mother's house is a disaster.  And, while my place appears to be all perfection and shine, there are signs, my friend. Signs, I say! Big freaking signs that say You Have Not Escaped. In part, I know a visit to my parent's house requires careful navigation of last week's newspapers (which I sift through and read), never mind the impossible situation in the kitchen (beautifully renovated into complete dysfunction). To cook in my mother's kitchen is to risk injury when cupboard contents tumble forth; to dress a burger from my mother's condiment collection is just bad-assed risky behaviour. The old joke about making penicillin in the fridge ain't so far off in this offspring's case. Until this blog began, I thought I was better than all of this.

But alas, it's in me.  I have spent all of today begrudging the stale-dated leftovers in my stuffed fridge. I need to purge, but can't get off my butt to do it. I've even done my taxes to put off the task, for crying out loud.  How bad can it be to haul out the garbage can and dump? Funnily enough, I secretly toss things out of my mother's fridge when I visit, and I am ruthless at work. Office mates who leave long-expired yoghurt, fossilized pizza slices and fuzzy oranges in a shared fridge should simply know better. Didn't their mothers teach them the basics of cleanliness and mutual respect? So, here I sit, confused about the lessons I learned.

Clearly, I did not grow up in an ordered and meticulously kept household, so where did I get my tight-assed attitude about how a person ought to keep their personal space? The first, most obvious answer lies in a theory of opposites: when we live in one set of conditions, we aim to break out and create another, more enviable (envied?) environment. I wanted nothing more, as a young girl, than to invite my friends over after school without wondering if there would be a big green bag of garbage sitting in the kitchen. Would this be our greeting to snack time? Usually. Rarely did I invite anyone home.

As of today, I think it's time I dug deeper. What does my battle (the need for clean vs. the need to relax already) really mean? What was so bad about the mess? To be brutally honest with myself, I have to fess up on some things...take a hard look at why cooking and cleaning were far from priority 1. Check it out:

Instead of living in an ordered household, I got art and music.

Instead of having an empty waste basket, I wore hand-made costumes in the school play.

Instead of building a proper hope chest, I learned to fend for myself.

Instead of eating pancakes & syrup, I learned to tell time (another blog, another time).

Instead of learning to cook & clean like a good girl, I earned an education & an independent life.

Already, I am admittedly humbled. It's time I gave dear Mum a break and swallowed some of my stiffly guarded pride. What do I take from this little refelction, after all my self-righteous fist pumping? Take a load off, honey. Enjoy a Sunday, unburdened by agenda and expectations of getting things accomplished. Let the garbage fester and allow a little chaos into the mix of life. After all, has it hurt you any in the past?