Lament of Suzy Notahomemaker

If you know me, you know that I detest cleaning house.

As an only child type A personality perfectionist, this surprises many. Combine that with the fact that I had to take over a chunk of the household duties in middle school (the Nana was a passenger in a bad car wreck back then, and while the problems did not rise immediately out of that incident, they continued to surprise and unfold as the years went on), and you would think I would have the chores down pat.

I was 12, I could feed dogs, start a fire in the wood burning fireplace, mow the yard. I did dishes, dusting, vacuuming, folded laundry, ironed. The only duty my mother reserved exclusively for herself was bathroom cleaning at that time, and well, frankly, I kept the bathroom tidy every time I went in there, hoping to ease her burden and delay the times she had to get down on her hands and knees and scrub a floor or a tub.

Before the accident, my father called her the compulsive cleaner. You know, from the old Saturday Night Live commercial. She is an only child type A personality perfectionist, too.

Afterwards her life consisted of not carrying purses, not wearing heels, and physical therapy. Oh, and not being able to walk, on occasion. And especially not vacuuming.

Let me clarify something: by doing the dishes, I mean actually washing the dishes. In the sink. And then drying.

Vacuuming consisted of using a hose/ nozzle (you young ones think Shop Vac, and you’ve got it) while dragging a heavy ass canister around behind you.

Folding laundry meant you had to go and get the freeze-dried towels off the line, and convince them to bend to your will, literary.

It sucked. I hate vacuuming, dusting and folding laundry. I hate dishes, with a passion (think: other people’s saliva! EW!). In fact, the only thing I can really tolerate now is cleaning the bathrooms. Funny.

That’s why I am thankful to have my husband, J.

At first I thought J was a bachelor slob who did not know the right way to fold a towel. Then I thought he was just trying to mess with my mind. I would clean something; he would make a mess. I would pick up the laundry; he would throw his socks on the floor.

In front of me. Daring me to pick them up and strangle him with them.

After years and years of marriage, he finally explained the whole thing to me: To him, a messy house is a blessing. It makes a house a home. The’ lived-in’ messes bring him comfort.

Toys everywhere mean that a child is engrossed in imaginative play. Dirty dishes in the sink represent a meal cooked and enjoyed by a family. Full laundry hampers mean a wife who has better things to do with her time. Unmade beds mean that sacred space is never too far away to jump in and curl up.

Within a ten minute conversation with my husband I learned something about him I never knew, all those years. With that ten minute conversation, I began to accept myself-- my abhorrence of cleaning and my obsessive qualities. My guilty feelings-- telling me that I was lazy-- started to melt away.

J made that happen. Isn’t it amazing when we just reach out and talk to one another?