We’ve lived in this house for almost four years; moved in two months before our second was born. In fact, the past two times I’ve moved I’ve been seven months pregnant. When I was pregnant with our third, several of our friends asked us if we’d be moving. Uh, no way, not again! But the question was a valid one. This is a small house. The messes are large. The dirt is abundant. Some days I feel like the clutter is endangering our very well-being. But no, we would not be moving.
When we moved in it was summer. The truck was unloaded, and we immediately went on vacation, and then we unpacked. We tried our best to get ready for the new baby (assembled the crib that she NEVER used, for instance). And that left little time and energy for any personal touches around here.
So today. Today I hung curtains. Finally. And I might even hang some more. I realized this spring one of the main reasons for my near-constant crabbiness is that I feel like I never really moved in here. I feel like I’m living in a house where someone else arranged the furniture but didn’t hang anything on the walls. A house where my only real contribution has been the arrangement of the countertop appliances in the kitchen (aka my room). And the clarity of not being pregnant and not having to tend to the two older ones every waking minute hit me a few months ago. Hey, this is MY HOUSE. I can hang some art and photos up on the walls. I can put curtains up. I can throw stuff out if I don’t want it around (well, if no one else is watching). I can fix the broken toilet paper dispenser (theoretically). But that’s just it. I can do all these things because I do live here. But I don’t necessarily like to do them. Nor am I very good at it.
Fortunately, my mom came for a weekend, looked at our “artwork” and hung it up. It took her, oh, about 15 minutes. She then laid out all of the curtains that had been taking up too much space in one of our too-few closets, curtains she had given me over the years. She looked at the curtains, walked around the house, and made me a list of what to hang where, what kind of hardware I would need, etc. Thanks, Mom! Phew. I’m finally working on it!
It’s silly that I can’t do such simple things by myself. I don’t have an eye for it. Spatial relations and I don’t mix. And yet, as the woman of the house I am expected to add the “homey” (as my partner commented on the curtains) touches. Today I also put some lilacs in three vases and scattered them about downstairs. If the house didn’t smell like the mulligatawny soup that’s cooking in the Crock Pot right now, I’m sure it would be fragrant with lilacs. But just the fact of having fresh flowers to look at is so ADULT.
I spend so much of my time stepping over toys. Changing peed-on clothes. Filling sippy cups. Wiping down EVERYTHING. Why did it take a veritable AHA moment and nearly four years for me to realize that parts of the house can be mine. Even just a window. The top of ONE surface. I could clean this house daily. The undoing of my work takes minutes. The floor is grimy. Every tabletop is covered in art projects and newspapers and junk mail. Toys have leapt from the bins that I was so happy to acquire, thinking they’d solve the messes. Ha. But if I have a few things to look at on the walls. Flowers in sight. And an idea for what I might do next (fix the TP thingy; change the shower curtain?) I find I feel a little more human and a little less momster.
Read More in home, housework, Jen Writes, three kids, unpaid work