Sunday, November 26, 2006
"DIRTY"
That was the comment on the parking stub when I retrieved my car from Texas Children's Hospital. Evidently the valets make notes for themselves to better distinguish one vehicle from another. And what was most noteworthy about my car was that it was Unclean.
DIRTY.
As if God himself had rendered judgment.
Never mind that I'd spent the last eight days tending to a pitifully sick child. No one cared to mention that the oil is changed regularly, the tires freshly balanced and the engine, she still purrs after nearly 100,000 miles. Nor did anyone remark on the emergency preparations so thorough that we could survive for several days if stranded (hypothetically, of course) in a blizzard or hurricane evacuation.
DIRTY.
It was true, of course. But I felt the same sting of shame as when my housekeeper remarked about my home, "I may be poor, but at least my house is clean." (Am I the only one who sees the irony in this? My housekeeper complaining about the condition of my house...you know, given that I pay her to clean the bloody place?!)
With two kids, two dogs and 4,000 square feet, I could spend every waking moment of the day maintaining my house to Mommy Dearest standards and torturing my kids into various neuroses in the process. But I choose otherwise. I choose puzzles and painting. I choose planting seeds and harvesting citrus from the backyard. I choose homemade waffles and meatballs and banana bread. I choose Go Fish and Goodnight, Moon.
After the kids are down for the night, the choices aren't any easier. Wash clothes or write Christmas cards? Restore order to the playroom or read a book? Sweep or sleep?
I think I'm making the right choices for my family and my sanity, but still. The dust and disorder that builds up in my house and car bugs me. Infuriates me. Makes me absolutely crazy. Because, you see, I'd love to have a house that gleams from light fixtures to baseboards. I'd love clean-enough-to-eat-off-of floors. I'd love windows that are utterly transparent. I'd love a place for everything and everything in its place.
But I have to choose.
Ann Richards famously said, "I didn't want my epitaph to read, 'She kept a clean house.'"
Neither do I. But I do so wish it were true.
DIRTY.
As if God himself had rendered judgment.
Never mind that I'd spent the last eight days tending to a pitifully sick child. No one cared to mention that the oil is changed regularly, the tires freshly balanced and the engine, she still purrs after nearly 100,000 miles. Nor did anyone remark on the emergency preparations so thorough that we could survive for several days if stranded (hypothetically, of course) in a blizzard or hurricane evacuation.
DIRTY.
It was true, of course. But I felt the same sting of shame as when my housekeeper remarked about my home, "I may be poor, but at least my house is clean." (Am I the only one who sees the irony in this? My housekeeper complaining about the condition of my house...you know, given that I pay her to clean the bloody place?!)
With two kids, two dogs and 4,000 square feet, I could spend every waking moment of the day maintaining my house to Mommy Dearest standards and torturing my kids into various neuroses in the process. But I choose otherwise. I choose puzzles and painting. I choose planting seeds and harvesting citrus from the backyard. I choose homemade waffles and meatballs and banana bread. I choose Go Fish and Goodnight, Moon.
After the kids are down for the night, the choices aren't any easier. Wash clothes or write Christmas cards? Restore order to the playroom or read a book? Sweep or sleep?
I think I'm making the right choices for my family and my sanity, but still. The dust and disorder that builds up in my house and car bugs me. Infuriates me. Makes me absolutely crazy. Because, you see, I'd love to have a house that gleams from light fixtures to baseboards. I'd love clean-enough-to-eat-off-of floors. I'd love windows that are utterly transparent. I'd love a place for everything and everything in its place.
But I have to choose.
Ann Richards famously said, "I didn't want my epitaph to read, 'She kept a clean house.'"
Neither do I. But I do so wish it were true.
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