Too Clean, or Not too Clean?

I have been ruminating on this topic for a while: cleaning.  Just thinking about cleaning makes my adrenaline pump - I am ready to conquer whatever obstacles that are preventing my home from being a pristine, clean paradise.  My eyes become little laser beams - beaming in on any small thing that is out of place, my muscles twitch - ready to be toned by the power of the vacuum and the weight of several bottles of cleaning spray.  In short, I LOVE a clean house.  Its my secret neuroses.  When everything is put away, when my floors are free of debris and clutter, my counter tops bare, the computer desk clear of everything BUT the computer and printer, the toy room neatly organized, the bathroom sparkling, the kitchen sink shiny and empty, and the table cloth hanging evenly off all 4 sides of the table, I can relax.  I don't relax very often.  I need to change that.

At first I thought maybe I could just pray to win the lottery and then I could contract out for a cleaning service - riiiiight.  Reality check.

Next I thought maybe I could train my children to become super-cleaners.  Uh-huh.

Then I fantasized about just throwing out almost everything, giving our home a sanitized, hotel room-esque feeling.....equally unrealistic.

Then it occurred to me that perhaps what I needed to do was to create some more realistic expectations as far as what "clean" means and how to achieve an acceptable (not unrealistic) level of clean without turning into "grumpy mommy."  "Grumpy Mommy" is what my kids call me when I am harping on them to "tidy up a bit."  (An euphemism for "dramatically altar the messy state of the house.")  Apparently "Grumpy Mommy" makes too many appearances.

I decided to begin my endeavor to come to some realistic, yet  relaxation conducive, expectations with some soul searching.  Why is it so important to me to have my house resemble an operating room?  Is is truly necessary to mine or anyone else's well-being that when one walks into my home they feel like they need to scrub up first?   I mean I love it when I go visit a friend, or to my parents home (I still have younger siblings in grade school), or really any home, and it looks lived in.  Meaning, not like Mary-Poppins-on-Speed just flew in and worked her magic.  In other words not like mine would look if I was having company.  Why is it I can completely relax in someone else's house when it is NOT freakishly clean, yet, I can't do that in my own home.  Why is it that I'd prefer to be in the other person's house? Surely that's not healthy!

I think the answer lies in my secret insecurity: if my house is not perfect, maybe other people will think I am not a good mom.  Shallow, perhaps. but that is at the crux of it.  I have four children here on earth,  two I can't wait to meet in Heaven, and have therefore been pregnant 6 times.  Each pregnancy brings more and more unasked-for "advice."  Namely, "You should stop.  You have too many children, how can you possibly keep up?"  and "You're going to burn out with all those kids."  and my favorite, "the more children you have, the less likely you are to be a good mom to all of them."

After hearing these types of comments over and over again, perhaps I feel the need to prove them all wrong.  Maybe I am afraid that if someone catches me with a messy house, then I have some how failed - just as predicted by the big-mouthed, but well-meaning naysayers.  So I exhaust myself fighting a losing battle, more like June Cleaver on crack, desperately trying to "prove" I am a good mother by keeping my house as taintless and undefiled as is humanly impossible.  In doing so I actually end up more stressed out and much more of a "grumpy mommy."

Now, of course there is a rational part of me that knows better than to listen to ill-timed, and inaccurate advice.  But I suppose there is a little part of me that internalizes it, and is afraid.  This is the part of me that I need to get rid of.  Its time to be realistic, and not afraid of what others may think!

This epiphany of thought led me to thinking that perhaps I am not the only one who may feel like this.  Perhaps there are scores of other mothers out there who feel like they are constantly fighting an uphill - losing battle with their homes.  Sadly, our kids become the casualties.  Just because I am insecure because of my fear of being a failure, doesn't mean I have to make it a self fulfilling prophecy.  So I am blogging about my once secret neuroses - admitting my insecurity, and hoping that if one of you Mommies out there has similar thoughts, my soul searching might be of some assistance as you too struggle to come to terms with what is "too clean," and what is not "too clean."

In order to regain some sanity and still be able to relax in my own home, I needed to come to some internal understandings.  First, I needed to really grasp the truth that I have 4 small children underfoot.  This means that more often than not, my house is going to be in upheaval.  I don't know who said it first but its true that "trying to keep a house clean while raising small children is like trying to shovel snow in the middle of a blizzard." But I realize that this doesn't mean I can just let everything go either.  I have to somehow strike a balance between realistic, and unrealistic - too clean, and not too clean.  It also means it is my responsibility to instill in my little mess-makers a non-neurotic sense of cleanliness and orderliness.

The compromise is still in flux, but we have made good headway.  I have tried to structure the kids' days so that there are two designated "clean up times."  If they pick up their messes in a timely manner (before the 10 minute timer rings) they get a piece of fruit as a snack.  Clean up times are announced by the ringing of an alarm that has been pre-set.  This prevents "Grumpy Mommy" from rearing her ugly head.  I try to keep the timers set for the same times every day.  If we are having company we do a "big clean up."  This usually involves some sort of bribery.  I have named several different types of "clean ups."  There is the candy-clean -up, the sticker-clean-up, the stamp-clean-up, and the favorite - the whipped-cream-clean-up.  The names denote the reward associated with a successful clean up attempt.  After cleaning up each room the kids are rewarded by receiving a sticker, stamp, small piece of candy, or a squirt of whipped cream in their mouths.  I save these for times when the house has gotten completely out of hand (like after I spent 3 days in bed with the flu and poor Daddy had to hold down the fort!  or when I was away for a weekend giving a pro-life talk) or for when we are having company that has either a) never been to our house before (b) been to our house, but not for a long time (long time meaning at least 3 months) or (c) is a member of the clergy (because a priest acts in the Person of Christ, the Head, here on earth.).    The most important part of this compromise is the context in which I approach the cleaning, and how I explain it to my children.

Why do we clean up?  Instead of my neurotic "I must clean so I can prove I'm a good mother" paradigm, I have tried to embrace, and impart to my kids the idea that cleaning is a way in which we respect the things we have, and the house we have.  'Keeping the house clean is a way we can show we are thankful.  It is a way we show respect to each other and to God, to Whom we are thankful for all He has given us. If we don't "take care of" our things, we must not really care about them, and we should give them to children who would be more thankful for them.  "Taking care of our things" includes putting them where they belong when we are done with them.  If we don't put them away and leave them out or on the floor, they could get broken or lost. '  Amazingly, the more I explained this to my kids, the more I began to subscribe to it as well!  What a more balanced understanding of cleanliness!

As for guests, I explained to my intrepid cleaners hoping for whipped cream, that we want people to feel welcome when they come to visit.  If the house is super messy, they may not feel like we want them to visit us.  It may be embarrassing to them to come into our home with it really unclean.  Instead, we want guests to feel like we prepared for them - that we were willing to sacrifice a little and do a little extra cleaning because we are happy to have them come to our home.  I continued to explain that just as we get our hearts "cleaned up" for Jesus, so He feels welcome in our hearts, we get our house clean to make our neighbors feel welcome - because we should try to see Jesus in everyone's heart - and so when we welcome our neighbors, we are also welcoming Christ.  The first time I explained this I was a little skeptical.  I was still fighting my insecure, paranoid, neurosis and although I knew what I was saying was true and right, I didn't feel it, and I was afraid my kids would be indifferent.  Boy was I ecstatic when my kids immediately warmed to the idea that we should welcome each person into our home as though he or she were Christ.  Recognizing the "Jesus in everyone's heart" was something my kids took immediate liking too.  That day they did their best "clean up" ever  - and were rewarded with an extra squirt of whipped cream.  (I couldn't help myself - they were so excited to "see Jesus" in everyone and to show Him that He was welcome that I was beside myself with pride in their innocent mastery of a crucial part of being a Christian that I just heaped on the whipped cream!)

Happily for me, going through this explanation  a few times helped me to internalize it too.  It shifted my paradigm.  Cleaning my house shouldn't be for me.  My insecurity or need to prove myself is not the correct motivation for house cleaning.  Taking care of what we have, being thankful, and making others feel welcome, while seeing Christ in them - those are much healthier reasons to clean house.  And if my house doesn't look like a sterile hospital ward?  If our guests come and things aren't how I would have liked?  If the clean up alarm rings but its more important for me to pay attention to one of my kids, or meet a need that one of them has, it doesn't mean that I am not a good mother.  It doesn't mean that I failed.  It means that I did my best, but I have little children who need a non-Grumpy Mommy more than they need June Cleaver on crack.   It means that I have done what is most important for my kids - tried to give them a healthy understanding of cleanliness, and showed them that sometimes its OK not "too clean."

On the Trail of an 18-Month-Old

The birds are chirping, the coffee pot is gurgling, and my 3 oldest children are coloring and giggling quietly at the table.  Sigh.  Peace and tranquility. (imagine soft violin music playing in the background to complete the picture).  Gurgle gurgle, Chirp chirp, giggle giggle, FLUSH.  Huh?  The violin music screeches to a stop on a discordant note.  The birds scatter and fly away.  The coloring and giggling pauses.  FLUSH.  ZOOM! Who left the bathroom door open!! All of a sudden I am transported to reality and uber-focused.  I am on the trail of an 18-month-old, who from the sounds of it, broke into the bathroom to wreak havoc.  I imagine myself in khaki shorts, with a khaki photo vest, socks pulled up to my knees, binoculars around my neck, jungle-safari hat on my head.  Yes, sir, I am hot on the trail...

I approach the bathroom with trepidation.  There is the unmistakable sound of water running, and from the sounds of it, its coming from the sink and the bathtub.  I hear the sound of water being dumped and then another flush.  As I peak around the corner and into the bathroom, I see him.  There he is, all 2 and 1/2 feet of him.  A little pint-sized tornado.  Or in this case, hurricane - as water is splashed everywhere and overflowing out of the toilet.

Noah!!!!  (the irony of his name strikes me as my voice gets shrill...the first famous Noah had his own flood to deal with, and now mine seems to be trying to recreate the experience of his namesake in my bathroom).  He turns form the toilet and looks at me with his big gap-toothed grin.  "Bath!" He says happily.  "No bath!" I respond, "you don't take a bath in the potty!"  "Potty!" he parodies back at me and reaches for the handle to flush it again.  "No no!" I say sternly, as I slip-slide across the floor to grab my little pint-sized-perp.  I scoop him up, soaking my shirt as he gives me a soggy hug. "No no!" he tells himself and gives his hand a little whack.  Then he laughs and tries to smoosh my face with hands.  They.  Smell.  Awful.

I have given up on washing his hands.  I have resorted to cleaning his hands off with the Clorox Disinfectant Wipes - especially when he has been doing anything bathroom related.   I know, I know, it can't be good for his skin.  In my defense, he is the 4th child.  He is also the grossest.  I can guarantee you that whatever he has been into that requirers a Clorox Wipe is far worse for him than the heavy duty cleaning agents needed to clean off the grossness.  Still, since I try to not use many chemicals in the house (really Clorox wipes and Lysol are my only caveats)  I try to limit the clorox hand wiping...anyway I decide that this situation calls for one such wipe.  After he has been adequately disinfected I put him down and turn to tackle the bathroom.

I decide that this requires rubber boots and rubber gloves.  Cleaning up the amazingly disgusting and very soggy mess takes a bit of time, but when I deposited Noah in the kitchen with the other kids he happily tottered over to the table to observe the coloring.  I figured I had a few minutes to clean the only bathroom in the house, since its somewhat of a necessity to have it available for use (if we had more than one bathroom I would have totally locked the door and awaited my dear husband's arrival home before shamelessly flirting with him until he gallantly offered to clean it for me. Oh well.)  After cleaning I surveyed the newly disinfected and washed down bathroom.  Subconsciously patting myself on my back I decided to change my soggy clothes.  Wait a second...what is that sound?  It sounds like sand running through a sieve....oh no!  Noah!!!  Once again, I am hot on the trail of an 18 month old.

I follow the sound into the kitchen.  I glance hopefully at the kitchen table - 3 coloring children, no Noah.  I glance across the kitchen to the cabinets.  There he is.  I take a step closer, not really wanting to discover what is making the sound because its obviously coming from the little guy's direction.  Hmm...what is he sitting in.....I hear the sieve-like sound again and realize that its not sand being sifted, its sugar being dumped into my colander, and then being sifted through the holes onto the floor.  My happy little flood maker has turned into a prospector, mimicking the gold prospectors of the the west while using my 10 lb bag of sugar and my spaghetti colander.  How ingenious of him.  How sweet (literally) how completely messy!  He was sitting happily in a pile of sugar.  I clear my throat and he glances up at me, smiles wickedly, and lays down in the pile of sugar, opens his mouth and licks as much as can.  Noah!!!  He pops up and tries to outrun me, trailing sugar everywhere.  Noah, stop!  I plead.  He just smiles and tries to double his little 18 month old speed.  Now there is sugar in my living room, down my hallway, and in his bedroom.  Sigh.  Looks like vacuuming is in my very near future.

I manage to intercept my sugary little speed demon and haul him into the bathroom.  BATH!! He gleefully yells at me, grabbing my face with his grainy hands.  Yes, I answer, you managed to score a bath afterall.  It occurs to me that maybe this was his plan all along.  I deposit him in the tub and he turns on the water.  He is very adept at that.  I remove his clothes - still soggy from his previous bathroom escapades - and now covered in sugar.  Its amazing how well sugar sticks to wet clothing.  I glance down at my own still-soggy clothes.  Yep, it sticks very well.

Soon Noah is cleaned off, and I manage to at least change into dry, non-granulated clothing.  OK.  time to vacuum.  Its amazing how 10 lbs of sugar can quickly fill up a bagless Dyson.   I manage to suck up most of the sugar before it can be trailed anywhere else.  While I am vacuuming I become aware of the fact that Noah has ceased to be entertained by the vacuum and is now apparently on the prowl somewhere else.  I quickly put the vacuum away and strain my ears.  No unusual sounds.  Maybe he is reading, I think to myself optimistically.  I walk into the kitchen (which is also our homeschool classroom) and see that the coloring has been abandoned by the older children.  Of course they neglected to clean up the crayons and markers...markers???? Where did they get markers?? and why are there several marker tops scattered on the floor??  And is that a glue stick?! Then I hear it, a little voice humming.  And, once again, I am on the trail.

I look under the table and see him.  Covered in green and brown marker sort of like he was trying to turn himself into Swamp Thing.   As I observed the scene underneath the table I noticed that my miniature Swamp Thing was concentrating very hard on smearing something on his lips (well, at least the general region of his lips).  What is that?  Oh.  Its a glue stick.  He thinks its Chapstick - and he smearing it all over the lower part of his face.  Sigh.  I check on the older kids, who are playing happily outside, and then grab my sticky Swamp Thing.  After a quick assessment of his situation I decide that this mess doesn't require a Clorox Wipe, just a lot of warm water.   After using enough to remove the stickiness and the most obvious marker tattoos, I turn him loose once again so I can make lunch.

Making lunch was slightly less uneventful, as he only felt the need to empty the pots and pans from the oven drawer, scatter my tupperware around the kitchen and pull out all the tuna fish cans from the cabinet and hide them in obscure places around the house.  At least this particular bout of destruction didn't require a bath, vacuuming, or Clorox Wipes!

After lunch I got a bit of a reprieve as the 18-month-old whirling dervish took his nap and I was able to do some school work with his siblings.  It seemed all too soon though that as I was explaining that "Lessing" is actually called "Subtracting" I heard the sounds of a one-baby-destruction-unit waking up.  "MAMA!!!!!! OUT!!!!!!!!"  Apparently he wants to get out of his crib.

After freeing him from the confines of the only apparatus that will keep him in one place I attempt to finish schooling the oldest two of my children.  I grab some toys and books and try to interest Noah in playing or reading.  For a while he takes the bait and I manage to read him a book while giving his brother a spelling test and explaining the proper use of "a" and "an" to his sister.

Soon, though, reading became boring and I had to release him to wreak havoc somewhere else.  This of course was soon accomplished.  As we were cleaning up from school I heard the unmistakable sound of baby giggling.  Hmmm.  That kind of giggling usually spells trouble.  Time to follow the trail of my 18-month-old.  I follow his happy sounds down the hallway.  I stand, senses alert, listening.  There it is again, and what is that softer, muffled sound?  Sort of like the sound a sponge makes when you wring it out...a BIG sponge.

I determine that the 18-month-old I am tracking has barricaded himself in the bedroom of his oldest 2 siblings.  I break through the barricade (OK not really, he had just closed the door, but it sounded more adventurous) and I find him on the top bunk of the bunk-bed running back and forth giggling.  But what was that squishing sound?  Upon closer inspection I discover that the squishing sound is actually the mattress - and it appears that a large amount of water has been dumped on it.  The sopping wet shirt that my son is now sporting leads me to believe that he is responsible for the dumping.  "Bath!"  he gleefully yells at me.  "Did you give yourself a bath?"  I ask.  "Uh-huh!"  he responds.  I decide to try to not concentrate on being annoyed that my oldest son's bed is now a giant sponge, and instead focus on how proud I should be that my 18 month old has mastered enough communication skills to forgo the appropriate verbal response of "yes" and instead employ the use of vernacular slang by saying "uh-huh" with the correct intonation.

I grab the little squirm and decide its time for a distraction.  "Who wants to dance!?"  I ask.  A chorus of "me me me" follows and even the little guy announces "MEH MEH"  (its as close as he can get to saying it).  So I put on some of their favorites songs.  We are all being silly and dancing around the living room when I notice that my 3 year old is missing.  All of a sudden he proudly appears, bottomless.  "I did it!" he screeches.  This announcement usually means that he has successfully used his little training potty.   I give him a big hug and two skittles as a reward.  It is then that I realize that my dancing destructo has once again gone missing.  I look at the 3 year old, "Did you remember to dump your potty?"  "Ummmmm" was the only answer I got before I took off on a sprint, hot on the trail of my 18-month-old who, instinct screamed at me, was at this very moment fishing in the training potty.  Darn!  I hate it when my instinct is right.

There he was, elbow deep in the plastic training potty that looks like a dog.  Fishing.  "Noah!"  I yell.  He looks at me.  "Potty."  he says very seriously.  "Yes I know, but we don't play in this potty either."  I run over and remove him from the nastiness.  Thankfully its just number one.  "Urine is sterile I try to calmly remind myself."  (its slightly disturbing to me how this has become somewhat of a personal mantra).  I dump the offending fluid and then head to the sink to clean off my adventuresome fisherman.

That done we finish our dance party with my still pantless 3 year old really breaking out the moves.  This must have inspired his younger brother because faster that I would have thought possible my 18 month old had stripped down and successfully removed his diaper, and was now parading proudly around the living room while "Dancing Queen" blared in the background.  He was really strutting his stuff - in all his chubby cuteness.  I decided that they could at least finish the playlist, then we'd re-clothe the youngest two boys.  Bad move, Mommy.

About half-way through the next song my cute little streaker disappeared into the toy room.  I figured he'd reappear shortly since he liked the song that was playing.  It was then that a somewhat offensive odor wafted in from the toy room.  Oh no.  "Noah?"  I called, hoping that my nose was confused.   He toddled around the corner.  "Potty.  Bath."  He announced.  I squeezed my eyes shut. "Why do you need a bath?"  "Uh-oh.  Potty."  he declared showing me his foot, which was smeared with a suspicious brown substance.  "Ohhhhh." I groaned.  "You went potty?"  I asked, already knowing the answer.  He nodded very emphatically then pointed to the cabinet where the skittles are kept.  "This."  he said.  He went potty, now he wanted a reward.  "No, Noah.  You're getting a bath - again."  Not even Clorox wipes would do this justice - he needed the full force of the bathtub and the spray nozzle.   He seemed thrilled to be in the bathtub yet again.

After cleaning and disinfecting my little toy-room-defecator I tackled that smelly mess he left behind - which covered three full room since he managed to trail his yuckiness into the kitchen and living room.  THAT required Clorox Wipes.  Eventually that chore was complete and I realized that it was approaching dinner.  As I headed into the kitchen I discovered that while I was cleaning the latest mess Noah was hard at work making another.  This one involved dried pasta.  There it was all over the floor.  There he sat, calmly sorting it into my measuring cups and then re-dumping.  Since he was so content sitting amidst his latest mess I decided to ignore it for the time being and make dinner.

After dinner the older 3 did their 'after dinner chores' helping me clean the kitchen while I vacuumed yet again.  I could be a Dyson infomercial.   Once the vacuuming was done it was time for the kiddos to get ready for bed.  But the day wouldn't be complete without having to track down the trail of my 18-month-old one more time.  As the older ones were brushing their teeth and washing their faces I became aware of the fact that the youngest male of the family had vacated the bathroom and gone missing.  This spelled trouble.  I mentally put on my safari hat, once more.  I had tracking to do.

As I glanced at the floor I noticed a strange smudge on it.  I got down on my knee to take a closer look.  It smelled minty.  Toothpaste.  And just like that, I had my trail.  I followed random minty smudges down the hall and into the bedroom that  my two youngest boys share.  There he was.  A pint-sized  dental hygienist squirting toothpaste into his bed.  "Noah!"  I said, proud of myself for sounding calm and in control.  "No toothpaste!"  "Tooth!"  he looked at me and demonstrated his tube squeezing prowess.  He seemed proud.  "You're very strong" I said, but we don't squeeze toothpaste into our beds."  I patiently explained, silently wondering why I was bothering to explain this to the same kid who needed two separate baths today alone.

I scooped him up, wrestled the toothpaste away from him, and set about cleaning up the minty freshness in his bed.   I got lucky that he was so mad at me taking away the toothpaste that he through a tantrum which kept him writhing on the floor screaming while I cleaned his bed.  At least I knew where he was!

Eventually all was clean, albeit mint-fragranced.  I gathered the little man into my arms.  "Time for night-night," I told him, myself weary from a day of tracking this little dust devil of a child.  He stuck his fingers in his mouth put his arm around my neck, and snuggled on my shoulder.  Just like that the day's escapades melted away.  I was snuggling with my growing-up-too-fast baby boy.  I forgot about the messes, the vacuuming, the multiple baths, and the Clorox Wipes.  I smelled his extremely clean head and nuzzled his chubby cheek.  Moments like this make donning my mental safari hat worth it.

When my husband came home from his night class I was sitting calmly on the couch reading.  The house was clean, (and very vacuumed).  The kitchen was in order, and the children were all tucked in.
"How was your day?"  my husband asked me.

" Have you ever been on a safari?" I responded.

"Huh?  What?" he looked at me quizzically.

"Oh, nothing," I responded, "It was pretty normal."  I smiled to myself.

"Wow, the rug looks like you just vacuumed...the kids must have been good today if you got extra cleaning done."

If he only knew...