I am not a talented housekeeper.
I've finally figured it out and am in the process of accepting and forgiving myself. I have struggled all my life with this, it is an affliction. I've always loved the look of a place in which every little thing is neatly tucked away, where counters gleam and surfaces sparkle. Of fridges neatly ordered, diligently sorted, of tightly folded towel bundles, crisply sheeted beds, floors glossy like teenaged lips. I possess these things, however, on a very limited basis -- like distant family whom you miss dearly, they come around far too rarely and stay too little time.
I try. I really, really do. And for a very long time I have blamed myself for the fact that it just never stays together. I clean all day long it seems, and still, it tends to look like a disaster zone despite my best efforts. I have bitched and moaned, lamented and wailed. I have tried everything, all the while wondering what it was that I was doing wrong -- until the other day. Until the other day when I finally determined that, of all the things I am talented at (and I proudly admit there are many) I am not a talented domestic goddess. I do not possess that incredible gene which allows you to keep your fridge both stocked and organized, jars lined up like little soldiers, freezer stacked with efficiently labeled items awaiting my perusal at dinner time. Underneath my sink looks like a bomb went off, my pantry looks like pygmies have been rooting through it. And piles. There are always piles.
It's not that I don't spend many hours arranging and rearranging things in the great and unending hope that someday it will stay how I left it. So I have begun to make peace with the fact that I simply seem to suck at domesticity. It is making the whole thing much easier to bear - the same way you can be excused from understanding how your car works because you don't understand small machinery, or how the stock market works because you are not good with numbers - I can let go of the whole thing because I am just not good at it.
I envy people who are. It is a marvellous thing indeed to witness it - at my mother-in-law's home, for example. There cereal boxes are labeled with their opening dates, items with batteries list their dates in the bottoms, facecloths are rolled into little curled colonies of neatness. Me? Not so much. I fold things neatly (although one of Nahanni's favourite games is to undo them as quickly as I fold them) and put them into their designated spots but inevitably they wind up in a tangle. There is never enough something or other in the fridge or pantry, I constantly forget to buy milk or toilet paper or cream for coffee. I mean to take down the recycling, to scrub the baseboards, to recaulk the tub. I'm just not good at it.
Is that a valid excuse or a cop out? Is it akin to the people who frequent fast-food eateries for the majority of their meals and then say it's not their fault for being fat? I'm not entirely sure, but I will say this. I have heard so many mothers, my own included, say that they wish they wouldn't have spent so much time bothering to clean when their kids were little and for once, I am taking heed. It seems like good advice for someone like me who is indeed, domestically challenged. My house is relatively neat and relatively clean. It is cozy and lived in and there is a lot of love. Could you eat off my floors? Well, you could, but I wouldn't recommend it. We live here, we exist, we use things, we make messes and I figure the sooner I accept that the better it will all be. There's not going to be a day when there are no longer dishes to be put away or laundry to be done. And if there's something or another to feed Nahanni with I'm sure we can survive the few things that I always forget to pick up. Yes, there's cat hair on things, there are spots on the walls and dust on the shelves. But it's not my fault -- I'm domestically challenged.
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