by 
Our house is a disaster.
The kids have been sick since Thursday night and Marty had to work all weekend. As a result, dishes are piled in the sink, tissues litter the coffee table, and the laundry is piling up (again). A ‘sick station’ is set up on the counter with the medications, drops, and clean tissues. (And there may or may not be a home-made medication chart to ensure proper dosing and administration).
Thankfully, I was able to get the remaining Christmas decorations taken down (since Lily kindly reminded me that it is no longer Christmas) in between wiping noses and starting DVDs; but a pile of new toys still sits in the middle of our living room.
Seriously, our house is a mess.
I’ve spent a good portion of Monday morning just trying to get the house back in order. Not clean, not organized, just livable. But as any mom knows, cleaning the house with children in it, is damn near impossible. I was becoming increasingly irritated but hoped that while two-thirds of our children slept, we would be able to get most of the house work done.
My husband had other plans. As I emptied the dishwasher and then loaded the dishwasher, he settled into the couch in his pajama pants, a snack, and cuddled Lillian on his lap.
I could have killed him.
I began slamming cupboards, unnecessarily clinging glasses, and stomping my feet as I tidied the kitchen. Being the observant husband that he is, he sweetly asked if anything was wrong.
Poor guy, he didn’t even see it coming.
It doesn’t matter what exactly was said, but it wasn’t pretty and it contained some of the worst words to use in a marriage, “I’m the only one” and “You never.” (Even as I said the words, I knew they weren’t true). After my rant, Marty looked down at Lily and politely said “Sorry kiddo, I’m going to go help Mommy clean.”
That’s all it took. No fighting, no yelling, no “you’re-being-ridiculous.”
Suddenly, I wasn’t mad at him anymore. I was mad at me. I have a difficult time sitting down and relaxing, especially when there is still so much to be done. But I knew in that instant, that if I continued to clean, I would continue to stew over the fact that he wasn’t cleaning. Honestly, even if he chipped in a little bit later, even if he mopped the floors, even if he folded all the laundry and scrubbed the bathrooms, I would probably still be upset over the 45 minutes he sat on the couch while I cleaned the kitchen.
Stupid, right?
I realized that it was me that I was really frustrated with. It’s me that is sometimes the problem. I realized that my husband doesn’t mind if the house (sometimes) resembles the rubble of a natural disaster and that I put the pressure on myself to keep the house clean (even though I fail miserably at it most of the time). No one was stopping me from curling up on the couch for an hour, except for me. And while my house would still be a disaster, my kids and husband wouldn’t notice the mess… but what they would notice is that Mommy wasn’t slamming cupboards or grumbling about the mess. That afternoon, I spent a glorious 75 minutes curled up on the couch, scouring Pinterest for meals I will probably never cook and crafts I will never make…and it did wonders for my mood. (Kind of like those rare trips to Target without a toddler posse in tow). I felt rejuvenated and ready to tackle Mt. Howmuchdirtylaundrycanfivepeoplemake, even though I knew it wouldn’t get done…. and that the uphill climb would continue to grow as the day filled with boogers and pinkeye progressed.
It’s a struggle, but as mom’s that are genetically programmed to put everyone else’s needs before our own, sometimes we just need to get out of our own way, realize that the house is going to be a mess for the next 18 years, and that sometimes an hour spent relaxing is more beneficial to ourselves, our husbands, and our children than an hour spent cleaning the kitchen.
Even if there still are smashed bananas on the kitchen floor.
