There's a defining moment for every mom. That instant, that millisecond that forever remains with us. That one thing that makes us question if we're really fit to be mothers. It might be the day the two-year old stair-steps up the vanity drawers, stands in her brother's sink, and downs half a bottle of Avengers mouthwash while singing her ABC's. Or, maybe, it's the day when the school calls for the second time in a month, "We looked in RJ and Gigi's backpacks, and they don't have lunches. They're not signed up for hot lunch. Can you bring them food?" Maybe it's the day your six-year old cuts his thumb on a razor blade trying to empty the trash because you forgot to tell him to dump the can, not to handpick each item from it.
For me, my defining moment wasn't one of those moments. I can shake those off, even give a half-hearted chuckle. My moment?
The day I realized my house is too filthy for me to have a housekeeper.
I hear you: "Oh, we have to pick-up before our housekeeper comes too. It's no big deal!" you shrug and smile unapologetically.
I'll tell you like I tell my students: parse the language. My house is too filthy for me to have a housekeeper. Not too messy. Not too many toys. Filth.
Fluff bunnies have reproduced like, well, rabbits. The cats have puked one too many times for me to pretend it just happened this morning while I was work. There are Cheerios in the couch; chocolate milk rings on the tables; and (I promise I'm not fibbing even a little bit) last week, the possum was licking my patio table by the glow of my kitchen light. Sand has overtaken my tile floors, and we don't live anywhere near the beach (Do kids manufacture the stuff? Is that where it really comes from?)
"I'm really sorry," I texted my housekeeper, "but we're just not at a place in our lives when we can make appropriate plans for you to come."
"K. Thx," came the immediate reply. Short, to the point, non-judgmental even. But I know she was judging. I heard it in her voice when she told me she didn't have time to get upstairs because there was "just a lot to do" downstairs. I saw it in her eyes when she asked me to buy more cleaning supplies (We keep our extras in the storm shelter, I swear. I really do own a bottle of Windex.).
Last week and the week before, I worked four out of five nights until past nine--either at my real job or my volunteer job with my kids' school. My house isn't a disaster. It isn't a wreck. It's not even a mess.
It is just plain filthy. And I fired the housekeeper out of personal shame.
Today, I gave Gigi a can of Lysol wipes and her brother free reign with the vacuum cleaner. They did pretty good work.
Next week, I'll work four out of five nights plus Saturday. On Sunday, we'll go to church and take naps.
There's a another defining moment for each of us mothers. That moment when we realize that what we do accomplish makes so much more of a difference than what we don't. Last week, when I should have been vacuuming, I worked on accreditation for the little Lutheran school that will help raise two contributing, caring adults. When I should have been hunting cat yak with foamy cleaner, I taught bankruptcy law to future colleagues who might someday represent the next emerging-from-insolvency Radio Shack (how is that place still operating?).
There are and will be so many defining moments of motherhood. My kids are still so young. My goal? To make the things I do accomplish define more than the things I don't.
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