A New Perspective on Housework

It’s Sunday. My husband took all three of the boys to church this morning and I stayed home because I’ve been having sleep trouble, pink eye trouble, and well, I just want to be in my own home alone sometimes. I’m sitting in a chair in the corner of my living room and looking out at where we live.

I see throw pillows all over the floor. My kids are convinced they belong there. There is a load of clean laundry waiting to be folded. There’s another load in the dryer. There’s another full basket waiting to be put away. My four-year-old’s favorite sporty Under Armor outfit is draped over the crooked couch cushion – he begged, as he does every Sunday, to wear it to church, but we’ve decided he can handle two hours a week in khaki shorts and a polo.

From my living room corner I spot a baseball glove, a nerf gun, a favorite stuffed froggy, a basketball, two basketball goals, empty water cups, a baby bouncer that we had lent out, which was just returned last night, socks, baseball hats, an iPad, a camera, lots of books, mail, trash, and approximately six toys like THIS that we acquired somewhere.

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None of these things are where they belong.

Then there’s the things I can’t see from the living room corner. Like a gazillion Nerf gun darts that are hiding in unsuspecting corners and are as much a part of my home décor as the pictures on the wall (or the pictures that have been knocked off the wall by said Nerf darts). Like unmade beds. Like messy bathrooms and piles of mail, paper, etc. Like this crusty burnt stuff that ends up on my stove anytime I use it.

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There’s a garage that needs to be organized. Toys that need to be put away. From church there were  three more art projects on one of my counter-tops and they will all be hungry for lunch. Meals are yet to be planned. Grocery lists (and trips) are yet to be made. Realistic to do lists are yet to be tackled. Then there’s the idealistic, “If I had time (or energy)” to do lists, which haven’t been touched in months.

I don’t know what it is about Sunday, but it is the day I’m the most overwhelmed. (I’m hesitant to admit this because anyone could point their finger at my life — my in-town family support or the fact that at this moment I am in my house alone thanks to my helpful husband — and tell me that I have no right to be overwhelmed. But, I’ll be honest anyway and tell you that I am.) There is work that needs to be done. Being at home IS work. Being a mom is work. It is unending, repetitive work. It has to be done, and it is never over. And I’m so tempted to resent it. I am tempted to give into bitterness, to overwhelmed feelings. Sometimes I give in and I actually do resent it, even though it is exactly the life I wanted.

But then I think about these faces.

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Photo Credit: Erika Knox Photography

I think about their hearts. I forget about how much they need me and think about how much they really love me. I feel a twinge of guilt for getting resentful. And I want to see things differently.

When I see that my six-year-old nailed his artwork to the wall in his room with a toy hammer (and where did he get that nail?), I want to see a happy, confident boy who is so proud that he just did a grown up thing — and not the random paper in the middle of the wall.

I want to see that the grime on the stove means bellies were fed. The pillows on the floor means forts were made. The basketball in the corner means games were played. Books were read. Bodies were clothed. Teeth were brushed. Feet were warmed. Thirst was quenched. Imaginations were used. Love was felt. Life was lived. I want to see it like this.

I don’t want to prioritize the house over the people who live in the house. It’s their house too, after all.  This is where they LIVE.  This is where they belly laugh.  This is where we wipe away tears. This is where we pencil their height on the wall, where they are turning from boys into young men.

This isn’t easy for me, but it’s a reminder that the work of caring for a family and making a home for them is worth it, really, actually worth it, even if it doesn’t always feel like it. The work means that I have people to love — to tangibly love — not just to say that I love.

This work. Those darts. The laundry. That grime on the stove. It’s here because THEY are here. And I wouldn’t change it for the world.

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