Welcome home

 I jokingly tell people that I am the world's worst housekeeper. I know I'm not because I have seen worse, much worse. It is a relative term, however, and it all depends on what you've become accustomed to I'm guessing. I use it to lower expectations and excuse myself from anyone who has come to call. I have known women that open their door saying '...oh! excuse the mess, please, I haven't cleaned yet!' only to witness white-glove level clean, everything sparkling like a diamond. Yeah, sure lady...haven't cleaned in days.

While I was a wife and mother it seemed I was always engaged in something related to housekeeping but it never rose to the level of the housekeeping I grew up with. My mother had a schedule and it had to be adhered to, no matter what else was going on. Dishes never sat in a sink waiting to be washed. As soon as you were done with them they were washed, dried, and put away. Every Saturday each room was cleaned, dusted, vacuumed, scrubbed, and polished. Sheets were changed every other week. Bathroom towels were swapped out each week. Each season prompted the washing of woodwork and walls (Spic & Span). Once a month she would 'Jubilee' the stove and refrigerator. I loved the smell of it. The wide board wooded floors of the family room and living room would get the rugs rolled back, beaten and vacuumed, and a wax polish before the Yuletide holidays. The linoleum floors were washed with the Saturday chores. Lastly, each Saturday cleaning would end with the aroma of Lavender, thanks to Hubbard's Germicide. The Lavender would fade, melding with the aromas of the evening meal, coffee, and cigarettes. Each of the four children in my family had something to do with the Saturday chores but in time it mostly fell on me and Mom. The boys weren't expected to do housework (it's the fifties and sixties anyway). My sister had a weekend job and couldn't be expected to do both. All she was expected to do was keep her room clean and keep up her grades in school. I inherited cleaning two bathrooms, doing the ironing, and preparing potatoes and milk for each supper (back then dry milk was more of a thing. My mom mixed dry milk and added it into the whole milk to cut costs). The major jobs like wall washing and floor polishing would involve anyone available. The point of all of this is, I was raised with a system. All I had to do was to keep it up and have four kids to help me.

As a single girl out in the world I tried to do the regimen but the world didn't run on my mom's schedule and it was fun to let things fall by the wayside, so I did. I kept my apartments clean enough, swept, washed and major areas kept up, but my personal areas suffered neglect. It was the kind of neglect that never would have been tolerated in my mother's home. The Saturday schedule that I'd seen as restrictive in my youth just faded into the mist with the great lost weekends of my twenties, week nights and Sunday afternoons would have to suffice and some things would just never get done. The dust bunnies under the bed grew large during my watch.

With the blessed events of birthing two beautiful children and being a wife to a demanding husband, I longed for the household schedule of my Mother's home. That all seemed so simple, like, " a place for everything and everything in its place " and  " a time for everything."  

In reality, there was no time for anything, but everything still had to be done. There was only time for what was absolutely necessary. It was about that time I took note of gift shops displaying beautifully painted wooden plaques touting verses such as "If you drop it, pick it up." They are called House Rules. I wanted to have some for me to post like it could help, but I never did. Saturday wasn't cleaning day, it was do overtime, make extra money, or do the flea market day, Sunday too. Weekdays were work days, kid days, school days, and laundry days....then back to Saturday. Like my overflowing bureau top, housework just had to get fit in anywhere it could.

I have walked into a house where everything was clean and neat. It instantly made me feel like a failure. As I passed by an overflowing litter box on my way up to tuck the kids into bed and read them a story that feeling was as cemented as the litter in poor kitty's box. (bless those who invented scoopable kitty litter!)

The kids grew and the marriage failed. I found myself alone again but the Saturday schedule never returned to me, although I tried. The routine I once viewed as restrictive seemed more welcome these days. I did try though but I was still engaged in gainful employment that called me essential, 24/7/365. Weekends were a luxury and only defined as two days off together. That childhood existence, lost forever.

The kids are adults now and have gone on to create their own homes. These days it is just me, the cats, a dog, and a boy I knew way back when we were both young and beautiful, and in teenage love. (thank you Facebook) The dust bunnies have legs now and every day is like Saturday when you're retired. I can't find Hubbard's Germicide. I don't think they make it anymore. My kitties have litter boxes that clean themselves and the roar of the vacuum cleaner just sounds so intrusive in the quiet spell of a languid afternoon. My bedroom bureau is still spilling over into the rest of the house. I have managed to accumulate treasures from the last generation, my own, and maybe even a few treasures from much earlier. Each surface is covered in memories and some dust. I have been reminded that we come from dust and return to dust, so with each layer of dust perhaps there are ghosts,  kinda creepy. 

I keep at it though. My food is good, dishes are clean. The furniture is comfortable and the dog can attest to that. The kitties share the spaces with her too. 

I used to have a car with built in GPS, a 2013 model. I traded it just four years ago and I miss it every day. I often knew exactly how to get to where I was going but I would use the GPS anyway for the car to speak to me. I used it most when heading home because when I would back into my driveway my car would lovingly say, "Welcome Home". It was a small thing but it warmed my heart and to the little girl in me that was constantly looking for where I would find my home, it was magick on wheels.

In the end, it's not really about the dust bunnies, it's about the love that goes into the home for the dog, the kitties, and the boy that I knew from way back when. (Thanks again Facebook.)