As I stood in the shower quickly working shampoo into my hair that I hadn’t washed in over three days I glimpsed streaks of soap sud residue marring my tile wall. I thought again how I really needed to clean the shower. I sure would like to try that vinegar solution I saw on Pinterest.
In the background, as water ran through my thick hair, I heard the baby begin to cry. Her nap was over, I cleaned myself briskly, and I knew in my heart I wouldn’t get to scrubbing my tile walls today. No matter how much I wanted to.
I guess that sounds peculiar to some, but for a closet clean-freak it was my sanctuary, my happy place. Cleanliness made everything seem okay with the world, and if my house was in order then I was good. Like how heroin was the drug of choice for some addicts, shiny countertops, freshly swept kitchen floors, and the way just-vacuumed carpet stood up erect gave me the ultimate high.
Yeah, I’m a weirdo.
It wasn’t that hard after my first baby. I was able to clean while she napped, and thereby kept a semblance of normalcy to my uncluttered life. But then the strangest thing happened. I discovered I loved that drooly, chubby baby way more than I loved a dust-free mantle, so I knew mothering was the tip-top job I wanted to do forever. Naturally I had more babies.
And that’s when it really got crazy. I was surrounded with such adorable cuteness I could hardly stand it. But they were so flipping messy I could hardly stand it. It’s like my life goal was to love them to the best of my ability, and their life goal was to make as many disasters as possible. Gone forever were the days of my perfectly alphabetized DVD collection. I looked at my sweet daughters’ faces and realized I was fine with that.
The problem for a woman addicted to order is that when confronted with a pile of old hair in the corner of the bathroom her right eye begins to twitch a little, and when dust lines the top of all the picture frames she feels unbalanced. So factor in a continuously overflowing sink and tiny little socks scattered everywhere, and it’s pretty anxiety inducing. I’m a closet clean-freak stuck in a frumpy, spit-up-covered mama body.
I’m a woman who desires things a certain way, and when accosted with the reality that things just aren’t in the cards for me in that regard, I’m left feeling kinda defeated. I’m left feeling a step behind, a dollar short, and last place in a race of my own design. It’s exhausting.
Then I find myself in the shower staring at soap residue streaked across the fixtures, and I hear myself praying to God to help me manage my time wisely. Help me get just enough done that I don’t internally combust, Lord.
I’m reminded that this is the season in which I find myself, and while it’s a messy, booger-stained season, it’s my season. And by golly, I love it; dust bunnies and all.
As I later buttoned my toddler’s coat she asked in her perfectly squeaky voice, “can we go play on the playground?” Although I had to disappoint her with a no, it occurred to me then how much I adored taking them to play. I wondered what I would do when they no longer wanted to play. I supposed I’d have more time to clean, and that was a sobering thought.
So for now I’ll enjoy the chaos as it comes, be it rings around the tub or stained sofa cushions. For I know God is stretching me, refining me, and making something lovely for His service via spilt milk and mounds of unfolded laundry. Plus, the playing part is so much fun.
Barbara Allen says
Bless you, Brie! Enjoy those little blessings!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you!