Aug 31, 2020
Mondays are the toughest. All chores that were neglected over the weekend surmount and span into every space of my house, leaving no corner kempt. Snack wrappers, yogurt containers, coins, treasures, rocks, puff balls, stringing beads, crayons, bits of paper, old French fries, gobs of squished blueberry, and dirty single socks are what you’d notice at a glance on any given Monday. Having three little boys and a clean house seems like depending on a Christmas wishlist in July.
Growing up I worked in my family’s cleaning business. While a lot of those days past are now a blur, there’s a couple incidents that I remember vividly from one household. It was the house of a family that had many little children. We usually cleaned around the bustling kids who were always into one thing or another. One particular memory came just as I had wiped out and cleaned a bathroom sink. In walked a little boy with contented adventure in his eyes and with cheeks that hadn’t even lost their baby chubbiness. His belly was peeking out as he squeezed his lumpy upturned shirt obviously carrying some precious treasure. I was slipping out of the bathroom just as I saw him lean toward the freshly cleaned sink and turn out tumbling rocks of all shapes and sorts. He twisted the faucet to wash his fascinating finds as bits of grass, leaves, and dirt splattered. I began to wonder why this family even hired us.
The second incident came from the same household only this time it was a thirsty little girl I remember. I had finished cleaning the kitchen and was just mopping myself out, when I saw little hands opening up the refrigerator and confidently taking hold of a full jug of orange juice. I probably was debating on whether to step in to help as she skirted to the cabinet to grab a cup. I then watched her climb up on the counter and before I could assist, she poured the jug of juice into her little cup, all over the counter, and onto the freshly mopped floor. I honestly can’t remember whether I re-mopped the kitchen that day. But that was exactly when my young mind began to marvel at the furious dichotomy of clean houses and motherhood.
I don’t know how that precious mother of so many young children felt back then. She always seemed calm, but now as a mother myself, I intimately know the struggle and wonder how she managed.
It’s a season I am told. One day I will clean the house and it will stay uncluttered with no crumbs. One day I won’t have toys in every corner, squished food under the table after every meal, and dirty little hands and feet making marks. The early years of motherhood is such a precious time and yet such a struggle. The balance is a fine line between becoming a frustrated tyrant who screams at every muddy boot print and an “over-it” Mom who aimlessly bats a stink bug as she sits in the middle of a cluttered floor watching the roomba struggle with a half eaten cheese stick. I have been both of those moms. In fact, every other Monday I feel the pull from each extreme and tend to sit fixly in either of those roles. Finding that balance is a struggle and every day I have to choose. But instead of looking at the extremes and seeing failure, I realize insurmountable grace is needed. Grace for myself who is trying to do all things with a good attitude and many times falling short. Grace for the kids making the muddy prints, forgetting to clean up, and not washing their hands before dinner. Grace for the husband who comes home to a tired wife who starts a conversation by saying the goats and chickens haven’t been fed, the kids are hungry, and supper isn’t cooked. And the good news is that in the midst of my mad little world, God has all the grace I need. At any point, I can come to Him and know he loves me and accepts me, messy house and all.
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