Recently, I spent time with a mom friend of mine. Like me, she has two adorable babies. We get together frequently because our girls
play well together, and we have similar personalities, interests, and, most
importantly, senses of humor. Since her
youngest daughter has been born with some health concerns, her world has been
re-arranged into a series of surgeries, doctor visits, after-care, and
worry. She is a supremely strong mama,
and she is way stronger than she realizes.
On this visit she mentioned that she had a case of the “fuckits”. If you’ve never had a case of the fuckits –
it’s best cured with wine. Anyhow, her domestic upkeeping had gotten a bit
behind, and while I was over for a play date today, I just went to her kitchen,
and began doing dishes. There was no,
“What can I do to help?” I just
did. When faced with hard times, I’ve
learned that vague offers for help are usually met with, “I’m fine,
really.” When deep down, you’re
screaming for help but just can’t articulate your needs because sometimes,
there’s just so much on your plate, you don’t know what to start with.
I asked her if she had read The Five Love Languages. She hadn’t, so I said that this is my love
language. I do things. Acts of service. I enjoy doing dishes and cleaning. I get into a ‘zone’ and I really enjoy the
finished product. Papa B often works
nights and I usually spend the evening cleaning up the house. I feel that, as part of my stay-at-home mom
duties, keeping a clean house is part of my job description. This friend mentioned that my house is
intimidatingly clean. I never mean to
use my domestic inclinations to intimidate other mothers. I told her I realize that my way of running
my house is not for everyone, and some nights, I myself get a case of the fuckits
and I sit on my ass and play Candy Crush (or writing blog posts) until it’s
time to go to bed. I’m not ashamed to
have someone see my house when the littles have torn apart all the toys, bits
of leftover dinner riddle the dining room floor and table, or a certain little
someone has left piles of clothes and underpants all over the house. I just wanted her to know that I care about her, and I showed her in a way I knew how and by what looked available to me.
I certainly hope that my act of love was met with a sincere
appreciation of my act, and not as mocking that I can keep my house clean and
yours too. I read this article when I
came home from her house. It really
resonated with me.
Not to sound full of myself, but do I really intimidate
people with my put-togetherness? On more
than one occasion, I’ve had women comment to me about remarks their husbands
have made to them about me being on the ball or more sympathetic to the male
perspective of domestic situations. I am
who I am, and I don’t put on airs to impress people or put others down.
