Scene #1 of a Spotless Existence
On the whole I’m neurotic. I like things to be a certain way, and I like things to be in their place. As you might imagine, this works out extremely well having a 2 yr. old and a 4 yr. old in the house. Woo-hoo for Mommy’s mental health.
I’m not the type to run around with a rag and bottle of Clorox disinfecting the life out of every nook and cranny, though I do generally know where the vacuum cleaner is kept. But order. Order. ORDER. I like things in order and when stuff gets messy, I get whacky. Largely, I’ve come to terms with this. I used to wonder if my need for organization was a character flaw. Should some sort of progressive therapy be explored to address an obviously deep-rooted emotional imbalance? Now I’m too old to care why I am the way I am, I just am. Just put your shoes by the garage door and don’t even think about casually tossing keys on the counter. I know, I sound like a peach to live with.
The thing is, this kind of hyper-organization is hyper. It takes work, which requires energy, which I don’t have. While I am slowly recovering from a dark pit in which I felt like my life was caving in in its complete unmanagibility, there are still many days when trying to find the time to brush my teeth feels like an insurmountable task. So there are many times when I simply can’t pursue the level of structure I desire. The dishes pile, the washing machine is buried under dirty towels, and my daughter’s princess dolls start battling it out in the playroom because they are cranky, covered with blocks and none of them can find their pink plastic shoes.
Scene #2–Please take note of the month-old pedi as it helps me feel more justified in my drama
When this chaos starts to reign, my edge starts to build. And then it builds some more. Last week, I was slamming around the house trying to make sense of things, moving so fast that I flung my foot against a door frame. Hard. And my toe broke. Badly, and it still hurts like heck. I wanted pity, so I took a picture, texted a picture to a sweet friend, and then realized only after looking at the picture I hadn’t “dealt with my toenail situation” in over a month. Give it up for having a handle on things.
Then one night, after company left, I decided it was time to address the toppling tower of cruddy pans in my sink. I bravely started in, only to be screaming in pain about 5 minutes later when I sliced my finger pretty deeply on a sharp knife that had carelessly been thrown in the sink. While I stood squeezing my thumb with paper towels, cursing myself out for now being physically unable to tackle the dish pile that night, I reached my breaking point.
When things get this crazy, I can’t think straight. I become ineffective, can’t get anything done, and long for coffee, wine, or a nap. Or all three. It’s not a good scene.
My need for order is extreme, but there is something to be said for taking time to safely navigate around corners in your household sans breaking bones and for putting the sharp knives away. And for clean underwear. Clean underwear is good too.
So I spent the next two days zeroing in on creating a little order in my home. I saw the bottom of the carpet in my living room (and I vacuumed it, for the record). I pitched crap from my fridge and finally reintroduced myself to the washing machine. And it felt like heaven.
I might be over the top with my organizational preferrences, but I admire myself for recognizing that I can’t appease my psychotic love of order all the time. Maybe in another lifetime, but not right now anyway. I also recognize that there may be some balance here that I am missing. A balance in which I don’t physically hurt myself with the chaos while appreciating the limitations of my life stage AND regularly having fresh panties that smell like “Mountain Rain'”.
Is this possible for me? God only knows this, but I’m off to take out the garbage. Because it stinks and that irritates me, but I may let the plastic dolls battle it out in the toy room a while longer because I never liked them to begin with.
Praying more balance = more time to appreciate the surprises in my laundry basket
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