The Lies my dirty house told me

Last week I had the most company over I have probably ever had in my life. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I never have people over, it's just that I've never had quite so many different visitors in the span of 7 days. I blame my husband who went out of town, and my absolute dislike of being alone. But in the midst of all the company, I also had a lot of freak out moments.

A little secret about my house: it's dirty about 86% of the time. Why? Oh there are lots of reasons why. I have 3 small children, I am out and about a lot, I have 3 small children, there aren't enough hours in the day to clean, I HAVE 3 SMALL CHILDREN.

Here's the thing, everyone that I invite to my home KNOWS the chaos that is my life. So why do I feel the need to immediately apologize to them that I didn't get to vaccuming, or that I didn't empty my dishwasher? It's because my dirty house is telling me lies:

"You're not a good enough housekeeper" says my pile of dirty dishes. "You aren't sanitary" says the little boy's toilet that I did just clean an hour ago, but now has dried pee all over it. The mounstrous basket of dirty clothes says"You are a laundry failure".  The fingerprints all over my sliding glass door tell me, "Clearly, being clean is not a priority for you."

"Quite frankly, you disgust me," says the long drip stains from an unknown origin on my walls. The stack of paper plates that I use to feed my kids each day whispers, "You don't have nice things, or maybe you're just lazy. Or maybe a little of both." The disgusting rice crispies that I can't seem to ever fully chisel off of my diningroom table secretly judge me and the dirty kitchen floor is rolling it's eyes at me because it knows I haven't mopped it in over a week. But the toys scattered all over my livingroom floor, hallway and at the foot of my bed greet me warmly; we're old friends now.

Probably the biggest misconception about being a stay-at-home mom, is that you will have all the time to keep your house in order, and spend time with your kids. You will have time to finish books, make beautiful art pieces, perhaps get a new hobby, or 5 because hey, you stay home all day and you will have plenty of time to fit it all in. I cannot tell you how many times when my husband has walked through the door and I have jumped up and felt the need to give him the list of things that I did today, and that the children subsequently spent the rest of the day "undoing". He doesn't even bat an eyelash. He's not phased. You know why? Because it's not him that is judging me. He's not holding me to a standard, or expecting perfection. But if I'm being honest I expect perfection.

It's me that wants the sparkling clean kitchen, and the laundry neatly folded in drawers. I want the baseboards wiped down and not a spec of dust anywhere in my home. I want the prestine carpets and the glorious china dishes to serve my guests with. But that's my hang up.

My mother once told me that she spent the better part of her life holding her house to a state of perfection that it almost never was. She wouldn't have anyone over unless her house held to the standard, and as a result, she never had anyone over.

So why do I let the dishes and the laundry and the dust bunnies judge me? Why is it that I feel so condemned by them? Because I let them guilt me. I let them make me feel bad for reading my son a book when he asked, or for teaching him a lesson in sharing, or answering a question that's been bothering him. I let them whisper mean things to me when I'm playing dress up with my daughter, or just holding her because she's had a hard day.

 

Sometimes I believe this guilt is exactly why there was a Mary and a Martha in the bible. Mary: great friend, follower and hostess. She sat with Jesus, talked with him and really listened to him. Martha: worried about the meal she was feeding him, if her table looked alright, if her house was presentable enough, if SHE was good enough. End result: Jesus and Mary were tight, Martha... well... Martha had a very nice house.

I couldn't say with certainty that if Jesus came over to my house, that I wouldn't apologize for this morning's cereal that was underneath the table, or for that sticky toddler residue that was all over the lightswitch in the bathroom, but I'd like to think that I would talk to him and really listen to him and possibly serve him store-bought pizza on paper plates and that he could really care less about it. Because, quite frankly, I'm no Martha.