There are countless ways it was super cool being Mim's baby sister. In the interest of full disclosure, some parts remain a cross to bear. In the interest of getting PAST one still blocking my way, am giving a shout-out to the importance of having a neat, tidy, welcoming home.
That will seem like an utter no-brainer to almost everyone who reads this, but it is a constant struggle for me. Yes, it makes no sense. Who doesn't want to walk into a home that says, "Welcome!"? Not pristine - that would be the other end of unwelcoming - but cozy. I'd settle for a reasonable amount of what a friend of Mom's described as our "cultured clutter."
This resistance to basic housekeeping - which has strangely gotten worse & worse as I've made more & more progress in other areas - has only begun to make sense to me, since writing out my Mim memories. Of all the wow things she did, helping with the housework was never one of them. Not Mim, not my oldest brother, Peter. Helping around the house wasn't their thing.
And I am beginning to think - at age 63, typing this at a desk with heaps of stuff - that their declining to pitch in might have bothered me way more than the aggravation that registered at the time.
Siblings share a strange & amazing relationship. The television shows of my youth gave the idealized view of the Andersons & Cleavers & Nelsons. Not always in agreement, but they were all pulling together by the end of the episode. Reality is so much more layered, complex.
How well I remember the first time it hit me that not lifting a finger to help out wasn't the norm for most households. I would have been in my early 30s, Mim eight years older; Mom was on an extended visit to Australia, a friend of Mim's from Canada was staying with us at the Woodland Road house over Christmas break.
Being the straightest of straight shooters, she just flat-out asked Mim why she never helped with the dishes & practically fell off her chair laughing when Mim answered, in all seriousness, "I don't know where the dishes go."
That simple question shook me awake. For maybe the first time, I wondered too, "Yeah, why didn't Mim help?"
Mim answered the question with frank simplicity. Even now, I have nothing to refute it. "When I help with the dishes or vacuum the living room or do some dusting, Mom praises me. If I did it all the time, she wouldn't."
In most homes, not helping regularly around the house would draw rebukes, maybe even penalties. Not in ours. Mim was absolutely correct - because she so rarely helped out, when she did (on her terms, when it suited her), it garnered praise. Where was the motivation to change?
Hey, at least Mim did occasionally help with dishes & dusting. Peter was a total flub at housework. But he gloried in doing landscaping, yardwork. On his terms.
For several years, Peter did a wow job on the backyard here at Squirrel Haven. Then, we hit an impasse.
Peter wanted to dig up a scrubby-looking bush. Yes, it was scraggly & out of place, its seed dropped there by some passing bird. It had a rambly shape, didn't yield any beautiful blossoms. But the squirrels loved climbing that bush. It was their jungle gym. And John & I & Mom loved watching their antics. So, we said, "Thanks, but no. It provides too much fun & entertainment." To poor Peter, his landscaping wisdom was ignored. No more glorious backyard.
Which leads me to a mega shout-out to my nephew, Scott, for boldly going where no one had gone before. He mentioned to his auntie not being able to recall a time when my tables & counters were all free of clutter at the same time. Some might think that insufferably rude - I appreciated his honesty. It sticks with me. It's still a challenge, but the image of the clear surfaces his words put in my mind stays with me.
It matters to me, having a tidy, welcoming house. But getting down to brass tacks with housework remains a daunting challenge. As previously mentioned, seems the better I get in some areas of my life, the worse I get in that one.
It's just theory on my part, but it's probable my RESISTANCE to housekeeping basics is rooted in some seriously stupid stuff from eons past. Crosses I still foolishly bear that deserve to be dropped, chopped up & used as kindling.
Driving over to see a grannie client yesterday, someone on the car radio said, "Don't over-think your goals, especially ones that trigger fighting between various parts of my brain. Know what you want, know what you don't want. Do more of the things that get you closer to the first, do less/eliminate ones that draw out more of the second. Know what you want, work toward it." Yes, that seems simple stupid enough. Wait - changing that to simple brilliant!
Oh, the crosses my sibs could tell you they bear because of me! But it gives me such pleasure to say, "Gladys, it's time to send you packing. No room for any cross-eyed bears in my home. There are floors to be scrubbed, carpets to be vacuumed, shelves to be dusted & a house waiting to proudly welcome its owners every time we come in the door."
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