My House is Just Fine, June

My new barometer for cleanliness and order in the home is "as long as there is no trash lying around it's fine." I am quoting a very sensible friend of mine who has an extraordinary gift for not giving a rip what anyone thinks of her. I covet this attitude. Since I have very little experience with this way of being in the world, I will throw little scenarios by her just to hear how a sane person would respond.

For example, I said, "You know, I don't know one mother who is comfortable with the state of her home. It's like we all think our homes should look exactly how our friends homes look when they are having a party. It's just impossible. I mean, if you are at home, it's just gonna be a mess. My husband calls me the hurricane."

Instead of giving me tips about organization or describing how her house was worse, she served up the aforementioned ideal.

I love this. House fine.

I have spent years making a mental house scorecard. Actually, it's more like a list of reasons why I suck as a homemaker. Of course, the homemaker's main function is to create a perfect environment for a family to enjoy their being. I will walk through my home on the lookout for any home detail that doesn't meet the "ready for an open house" standard. Each infraction is carefully logged in my brain.

The end result is that I feel totally overwhelmed, and, perform thusly. I don't do anything. I feel victimized by my own home. I have occasionally allowed this morbid reflection to escalate to the point that the only solution available to me is to move. But then you have to really clean. There is no escape to this insanity. It's an infinite loop of unkindness toward self.

If I am really gone mentally, I'll decide that this critical voice in my head sounds a remarkably lot like whomever. Whomever is anyone who might have made one critical comment to me that I have played over and over in my head until I have convinced myself that whomever never, ever said anything nice to me. Therefore, whomever is to blame for my low self-esteem. It's their fault I have messy home.

For the last two days, I scan my home and repeat the question, "Is there any trash laying around?" No? House fine.

It is rarely that simple. What is trash exactly? I have had to define trash as anything that belongs in the garbage, that is, something I won't need later.

Scattered library books are not trash unless they have been read or overdue.

Opened mail is not trash if I think I might need it later, but the envelopes from which the mail came, that's always trash.

Is a half drunk glass of water trash? Not if it is in the kitchen by the sink. I might use it to take a vitamin or something. If it is in the living room, well, that is disgusting.

I am puzzled over how to categorize the kid's "bug home." A bug home is a styrofoam cup filled with old, dead leaves and decorated with foam art and glitter. Evidently, this setup is the bug home is the insect equivalent of the Taj Mahal. Okay, it's not trash - my baby made it - but do I really want to encourage bugs to settle in and enjoy the view from the coffee table?

You'd think this new low standard I have set for my home would otherwise be easily met. Alas, just one hour ago, I sat down to write, gazed out my front window and noticed two mood rings in the shade of happy and relaxed. Then I realized they were two grapes, half eaten, and deposited by the kid. No, really. It wasn't me.

I used this discovery as a teachable moment. I told the kid to throw them out. I am so proud. I am teaching the kiddo the meaning of House fine.

There certainly are some kinks to this new way of taking the cleanliness temperature of my home, but so far the best thing is how quickly I can return to acceptable status. Grapes on the window sill? Throw them out. House fine. Junk mail on the table? Toss it. House fine.

I like this kinder, gentler way of relating to my home and my homemaker status. House fine. What a concept. Take that Mrs. Cleaver. There is a new homemaker in town, and her house is just fine.