Throwing in the dust cloth

I quit the cleaning job.

I feel awful. I feel like a quitter. I guess I am a quitter.

I feel relieved, in a way, because I did not enjoy it and I felt my brain beginning to atrophy. And yet. Did I do the right thing? Time will tell.

I didn't think through the initial decision; I see that now. I didn't even make it through the first week of school before I slipped into panic mode and began making arrangements to jump into this job. When will I actually live the "trust God" theory that I regularly recommend to others? Why do I even believe for a moment that I am in charge and can change things? Why can I never wait?

I didn't think through the sheer labor involved in deep-cleaning for hours at a time. I did not think through my blood sugar issues in the morning. I did not imagine that I would be required to carry heavy supplies up and down stairs, nor did it occur to me that people who pay for cleaning services sometimes have giant mansions. I never considered how the immensity and extravagance of those homes would gall me. I did not entertain the thought that I might not be good at cleaning. I forgot that instead of having my sweet boy interrupting my thoughts and making me long at times for privacy, my dearest little guy would now be gone all day, every day, and that my loner tendencies might be exacerbated by even more time spent alone or around people who are trying to ignore me.

I just did not think hard or long enough about this decision.

The part-owner who's been trying to train me was not amused when I shared the news. I don't blame him. I'm sure this happens a lot, and I caught him at a bad time, and while I was trying to end the situation before it became even more complicated and clients started to know me well, there really is no good time to bow out and leave people in the lurch.

So, he can be cranky with me and I will bow my head and bite my tongue because, frankly, he probably has the right.

What am I supposed to be doing? I just don't know. I do feel pretty certain, though, that cleaning is not what I'm supposed to be doing. The deciding factor was Gramma Sally's apartment.

One of the places I tidied last week was absolutely charming. When I stepped in the door, it felt as if I'd stepped into an embrace. Walls were filled with artwork, beautiful stuff, warm colors and nature everywhere. Rich-colored pottery sat on shelves, cozy and comfortable furniture beckoned, simply pretty curtains adorned every window, and beyond the sliding doors was the most inviting little porch I've seen outside of a magazine. Photos filled every flat surface, and a knitting basket adorned a chest at the bottom of her bed. (I knew it was a woman's home as soon as I entered. It just reeked of woman.) It was not a fancy place, it was not luxurious in any way—it was wonderful and homey to the extreme.

As I went about my work, I did some light dusting in the office. Sally (not her real name) had left some letters and envelopes out; I glanced at one of the papers, then was curious enough to examine some of the paintings on the walls. Sure enough, the name was a match; Gramma Sally was the artist of nearly all the framed pieces.

And I stood for a moment and pondered: here is this woman, talented and crafty, and she has made all these beautiful things and surrounded herself with them. Why am I here, cleaning her home, admiring her craftiness, instead of trying to create my own? Is this really what I am to do? Is this really the area in which I excel?

The answer was a resounding no. Couple that with the mantra that had been swimming 'round my head all morning ("Clean your own damned house") and you can probably see why I was having a hard time with this career move. Everything about it felt wrong. It's not using my strengths; it's keeping me from performing tasks that I do relatively well. Ultimately, I may not be engaged in even remotely artistic or creative work; still, I had to admit as I stood there that I possess many other strengths that lay cast aside while I struggled to do this job instead.

So, there it is. I'm unemployed again, but hopefully a tad wiser. I really need to stop worrying and rushing. I'm not supposed to worry; doing so implies that I don't think God has it under control. Rushing isn't very smart, either, because it gets you into positions that compromise your integrity and makes you do things that you know are not cool. For example, quitting a job after a couple of weeks. That's not cool. It's been a learning experience, and I'm a better cleaner because of it (in theory, at least) but I've thrown a wrench into the works for those hard-working people who own that business. That was not my intention. When I rush in like a fool (hence the phrase), there will be consequences.

I really hope I get some direction from God soon. I feel rather adrift. Sailing is okay, but it's more comfortable for me when I can glimpse the next island on the horizon. Right now? No islands in sight. Floating. Floating. I know He will hold me up, but I'm still going to scan for that island.

Early Mother's Day present

Being the only anal-retentive, borderline-OCD person living in my home, and sharing that home with two less compulsive types, I’ve found pretty much all basic daily home maintenance to be quite challenging. Add to that the fact that our house is tiny, and you get the picture: I’m doing a lot of nagging about tidying up. Daily. Several times a day, sometimes.

To further complicate matters, with all the changes in our family's home, work, schedules, and income timetables, this past year has truly been an experience much like walking on sand dunes. Stepping, finding footing, then sliding awkwardly, stumbling. Making your way up a sand dune is quite a trial; the dune doesn’t look so high, nor does it look very steep, but don’t be fooled—it is both. Because climbing a sand dune is so difficult, a small gesture during that time means a lot. A proffered hand, a smile, a tiny sip of water. After all, little things mean so much more to you when you’re struggling.

So...ever-looming messes and housework, plus the sand dune kind of year we’ve had, results in a cranky Mel who incessantly chatters about picking up, putting away, where-does-this-belong? My boys, both big and little, are quite weary of me. They don't understand why I can't spend my days tripping over Legos and Matchbox cars, garden books and utensils, giant muddy boots and teeny soccer cleats.

The other morning, I was haranguing my son about the importance of clearing the floors, and telling him with some annoyance that I'd be vacuuming the living room while he was at preschool that day. I needed for him to clear the floor completely and make certain he'd left no tiny Lego pieces for the vacuum to eat. I had to remind him several times, as he got distracted quite easily from his pick-up tasks. When he begged to leave some of the creations he'd built on top of the Lego box, I reminded him that I needed everything up off the floor and that his many Lego creations wouldn't all fit on the box top. At that point we were hurrying to get out the door, and I recalled that his shoes were in the basement, so I grabbed our coats and we hurried downstairs to don footgear and climb into the car through the garage.

I abandoned my rant on clear floors. I drove the boy to preschool feeling sorry for myself, wondering why the entire world regarded mothers as invisible, benevolent forces to cook, shop, stock, do laundry, write lists, and vacuum. I wondered how quickly the universe would fall if mothers ceased to save the day, if they all chose to work for recognition instead of the martyr's pay of unappreciative consumption of services.

When I got home after dropping off my son, I scurried into the house, had another cuppa, and pulled the vacuum cleaner out of the closet where it lives. I plugged it in. I prepared to vacuum. And then, I saw it.

Perched in one of the living room chairs sat my son's Lego bin; piled high atop the bin's lid were all his carefully crafted little creatures. He'd balanced them all painstakingly before placing the bin in the chair. Or, perhaps he'd placed the container lid and then arranged the creations on top. It didn't matter, the details—what mattered is that he'd listened. He had heard me. He had not tuned me out, but had instead gone out of his way, in a hurried moment, to do just as I'd asked. Even though he thinks I clean too much. Even though he is oh-so-tired of my incessant whining about tidiness. He'd put the stuff where I wanted him to, even though he did not want to nor did he think it a worthy cause.

I almost wept, seeing that Lego collection placed with such care, up high.

Call me what you will, but that precise placement of Legos gave me a happy hiccup in a testy, PMS day. That small gesture was a gift from my child. Not only had he heard me, not only had he done what I'd asked, he had done it in spite of the fact that he thinks I'm silly. Now that, my friends, is true sacrifice. That box of Legos set so carefully on a chair means more than you know.

Identifying with Martha

I'll be honest: there are many heavy things on my heart lately. Missing time with my son, missing the predictability of life that I enjoyed for so long, feeling sad for all the children who are hurt or killed in the world every day, sad for the people who want children desperately and have none, sad for every person who suffers pain and ill health regularly, sad for everyone who's lost someone they love. I just don't feel sufficiently stable to tackle any of those sullen subjects right now. I might not be ready for a long time. So, I'm selecting a more simple subject.

Since I started working—nay, since my husband has been home more—I've had an increasingly hard time keeping up with the house. This is partly because it's a tiny house, which in theory should make the task easier but instead makes it even more difficult. It's also partly because three people make more mess than two. And when that third person has an entirely different set of cleanliness standards, the result will almost certainly be a swift shift in the home's state of repair. Add to that truth the fact that I'm now gone for hours and hours several days each week, and the other two family members are home unsupervised... I'm sure you can guess that the condition of the house is becoming noticeably askew.

I'm trying to let my standards drop a bit. Again. I've been doing that since I got married. The standards dipped more steeply when a baby turned toddler turned preschooler joined us. But now? All of us at home? Or, worse yet, them home without me? I'm losing the war, people. Losing it. As a result, I'm losing more than the war; I'm losing my sanity a bit. Because I suspect that, if tested, I'd qualify for a whole lot of lovely alphabetical letters that label me a certain restless, frenetic type who loves to busy herself with tidying tasks—but these days, my tidying is for naught. I just can't keep up. And not only does no one else care as much as is do, they really, truly do not even notice the horror. It fazes them not one bit.

I start to become a tad bitter. Now, realistically, I can't expect a 4-year-old to notice this sort of thing (although thankfully, he does notice sometimes. There is hope.) So, really, I'm mostly amazed at my husband's ability to tune out. Why doesn't he notice? How can he not see? Can't he smell the cat litter? (Yes, but only if he's very close to it. Women have more delicate olfactory senses.) Can't he feel his feet sticking to the kitchen floor? (No.) Does he not see the color of the toilet bowl? (Apparently not.) How can he not be aware that the sink is stacked full of dishes, which could be loaded into the dishwasher if someone were kind enough to relieve it of all the clean dishes therein? (They're clean?!)

And I don't like the fact that we neatniks are labeled nags if we speak up and draw attention to the dilapidation surrounding us. I've tried to explain to my husband that I literally am physically uneasy when surrounded by stacks of stuff. Clutter makes me feel short of breath. My explanation falls on deaf ears. "It doesn't matter." I've been told that so many times, by so many people. Or, worse yet, "It'll just get messed up again. What's the point?"

Then I think of Mary and Martha in the Bible. You're probably familiar with the story: Mary and Martha, sisters, hanging out with Jesus at Martha's house. Mary is sitting, absorbing every word He speaks, and Martha is puttering about readying the house, perhaps working on the meal, simply trying to make things nice. Because it's Jesus in her house, which is sort of a bit deal. (The scene is described in Luke 10, and again in the book of John.) I'm sure there were many preparations to be made—it seems like every home that hosted Jesus was overrun with guests, unexpected visitors, etc., so I'm sure there was much to do.

And yet, there sits Mary. Not helping. Not setting the table. Not slicing fruit or checking the wine and oil supplies. And I have to confess, people, that most of the time I feel a lot more like Martha. I wonder why people aren't noticing the need for hands. I mean, this is Jesus! It's a huge deal to host Jesus! HUGE! There's Mary, like a lump. An honoring, adoring, worshipful lump, but still... Yet when Martha tries to engage Jesus and get some sympathy, she hits a brick wall; Jesus sides with Mary and makes it clear she is in the right. I'll bet that hurt. Martha wanted everything to be perfect and wonderful for Jesus, and He brushed it off. He made it clear that He was the more important matter, not the preparations. Not the meal. Not the condition of the house.

And that is true. Very true. I know it's true.

At the same time, God created me to be a freak about tidiness. He created Martha to be concerned and busy and wanting everything to be just right. He created us, and He also created lazy—I mean, worshipful Mary.

So, where do I draw the line? Where do I let things slide and not worry? Do I wait until the house is so messy that I'm feeling my psychologically induced lung capacity reduction? Do I go acquire some kind of medication that allows me to never be short of breath but also changes me into someone else just so I don't annoy others with my obsessive tidiness? When does one acknowledge one's weirdness, and when does one call it a problem?

I'll keep working on not worrying about the tidiness of the house, because honestly, if even Jesus didn't care about the state of the the place, then I know I don't need to worry about impressing anyone. It truly does not matter to the Creator; therefore, it does not matter. But what if I'm the one to hate it? What if it makes me really unhappy? What is that worth? Should I change who I am, even if I'm not being that way to impress others? Should I call it an issue and try to be different, or should I embrace my inner neatnik and acknowledge, instead, her usefulness and purpose in a cluttered world of too much crap?

This is, obviously, not my biggest concern in the world this evening. Yet it is a concern.

Stream of consciousness

(Note: I know that when I began this blog, I promised it would not be a “rant” journal. Please forgive me when I occasionally stray into that realm. Today’s post might fall into that category.)

So, I finally plowed through a giant history of Lewis and Clark (the long book I mentioned a few posts back) and it was quite informative. I learned, for example, that some Native American tribes did not treat their elders with respect; some of them actually left the oldsters behind with a day’s rations and well wishes for their trip to the afterlife. This is not the admirable picture that had been painted for me in school… And I also learned that often, tribesmen would offer up their wives for the visiting white men’s entertainment, as a means of trying to lay hold of the white men’s power, or something like that. (Stephen Ambrose explained it much better than I.) Anyway, all the time those men were traipsing across the country, bravely hunting and camping and building boats and foraging and that sort of thing, they also were often living it up with the Indians’ wives. End result? Many of them, most of them even, suffered from VD which they’d contracted from Indian women. (Which, oddly enough, Lewis treated with mercury…but that’s fodder for another post.)

Again, this is not the picture that was painted for me in history class.

One particularly striking image that Ambrose shared was of a Pacific Northwestern tribe; because of the warm but wet climate and their reliance on canoes for transport (is it possible to climb into and out of one without getting at least a little bit wet?), these folks simply went without clothes from the waist down. I suppose it must have been a losing battle to keep such duds dry and clean, and they probably gave up after a few days of waddling around in heavy, sodden pants and skirts. The downside was that Lewis was able by simple visual examination to determine which tribe members had VD and approximately what stage of the disease they were in.

Nice.

And this got me thinking about how nasty diseases have always been part of any culture where “modern” man has trod (the Europeans were likely the initial carriers of the infections, which they happily passed to Native Americans) and how many people of every culture will philander if given opportunities—especially when those opportunities are encouraged by other people who are around.

And that, for some reason, got me thinking about how people can be hiding all sorts of secrets inside about their bodies, but can still be quite obsessed about their cleanliness. This seems to be especially true for Americans. They have less than admirable sexual habits, if the stats are to be believed—even the kids are misbehaving more—and to top that off, most of them eat like pigs, greasy nasty processed stuff that does not do a human body good… but by golly, they’ll never miss a shower in the morning. I don’t get it. Why are Americans so worried about smelling like a living being instead of a bar of soap? Or worse yet, a bottle of cologne? And why aren’t they more worried about their insides?

And that thought, for an even more obscure reason that eludes me, reminded me of women who choose to squat in public bathrooms, and then leave their drippings on the seat for the next hapless restroom visitor. Why? Now, some toilet seats are scary, nasty things, I know—I can see why you would choose not to sit on bare porcelain. But most toilets are pretty harmless. Lay down some TP, or use one of those fancy paper seat covers, or whatever, but don’t fret: well-respected doctors all over the world have explained that nasty diseases don’t live on toilet seats. They can’t. Unless, perhaps, people leave wetness on the seat and give the nasties a good place to hang on and breed. So, I hope that if there are any squatters out there reading this, they’re also responsible enough to do a quick wipe-clean when they’re finished.

And where can you pick up nasties? Where do they actually thrive? In warm, wet places—like the public jacuzzis at that fancy club or expensive hotel. Now THAT scene is a hotbed of nasty microscopic activity.

Since that is such a nice, happy thought, I think I’ll end this post.

Cleanliness is next to something

Today’s theme is clean.

First, let me tout a product that I’ve just discovered and love. (I know, I’m a Mel-come-lately, so you probably have one already, but just in case…) It’s the amazing and delightful Clorox Bleach Pen. Forget its wonderful bleaching capabilities on white clothing, and skip directly to Go—Go Clean Your Bathroom, of course!

(Let me say up front that, while this item worked great for me, I have white tile and a white tub in my bathroom—my using bleach was not a risk. I think it would work fine on any tile and/or porcelain glazed finish, but if you have brilliant colors in your crapper, check the fine print on the pen before you go crazy.)

Once colorfast safety has been confirmed, have at it, brothers and sisters!!! This is awesome stuff! It’s a slightly runny, gel-like substance, and because the pen has both fat and skinny tips, you can hit even tough little places like yucky grout lines. Or, rub the thick end on some tough stains in the area around the drain, or on foul brown places surrounding the faucet. It works best if you let it sit for a few minutes before washing the area. Suffice it to say that this wand is the best; lauding it further would only reveal the horrible state of my bathroom before said pen was discovered. (In fairness, I've also heard that those Mr. Clean Magic Erasers are very cool, too—but I don't know how they stand up in the tub-and-tile realm.) I would give these bleach pens away to everyone I know as Christmas gifts, except I don’t want to insult anyone with the not-so-subtle implication that their home is less than clean already.

Now for the other clean-related topic: why does my child fear the washing machine? He doesn’t fear the appliance itself, only the freshness it wreaks on his fuzzy toys and blankets. I’ve tried a few times recently to wash his malodorous twin teddies, his favorite spitty blue thermal blanket, his little floppy elephant that has dried booger on its toe… but the moment I get any of those items near the laundry basket, the child objects. In the past few days, he’s really become paranoid; as soon as he sees me picking up one of his favorites, he calls me on it: “Mama, where blanket go? Where you take Ellie?”

I did manage to covertly sneak the most contaminated teddy into the laundry last week—after the boy had fallen asleep for his nap. All went well, and the sanitized bear was back in his bed when he awoke; he never had a clue. I couldn’t get hold of them both, sadly—he was clutching one tightly, and I knew I’d never pull it out of his grasp without waking him.

So, what’s with his love of sullied, tainted soft toys? Is it the familiar stench of them? The well-known, well-loved crusty places? The fact that his favorite toys are never quite dry? Bleaahhh.

Hope he grows out of this; I'd hate to have to involve Hazmat several times a year, but...