I am convinced that my mother-in-law, whom I adore, has figured out the secret to life. She is the mother of 11. (Pause for hushed and reverential thoughts.) She lives out in the country, over 30 min. from the nearest grocery store. She has raised, pigs, sheep, horses, alfalfa. Her raspberry patch alone is bigger than my living room. I have seen her serve in the stake Young Women's presidency while her husband was bishop, etc. etc. (believe me there is more.) And in nine years I have only seen her stressed once. She gets up every morning, works as hard as she can at the things that matter most to her, and then she lets the rest go. And I mean she really lets go. There is no stressing, worrying or berating. I have never been in a house where there is more love. It is never immaculate, but who cares? The little messes are evidence of the price she pays to give her life to the things that matter most.
I was recently talking to a friend whose children are all grown. She said "Why did I kill myself all those years trying to maintain a clean home?" Now, striving for order and healthful cleanliness is awesome. Stressing and "killing yourself" and making your family miserable in pursuit of Martha Stewart-like perfection is not.
Okay, let's give this a shot. There is mold growing in my toilet ... breathe ... I did run a pre-school this morning and read to my children and study my scriptures. I am letting go of my stress. I will not let you use my bathroom, but I will let go of the stress. Okay, ditto to my dishes, my laundry, the chaos in the basement, the sticky spots on the floor ... oh, oh, despair is building. I'd better go snuggle my baby, lower my heart rate and then get to work on the most important things.
I just love your blogs, Beth! As mothers, it is hard to juggle all of those balls we continually have in the air. I know you have heard this poem before, but that last stanza is a favorite of mine:
ReplyDeleteMother, O' Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth.
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.
Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,
Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due,
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek - peekaboo.
The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew,
And out in the yard there's a hullabaloo.
But I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren't his eyes the most wonderful hue?
Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.
The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow,
But children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.
~ Ruth Hulbert Hamilton
I just posted that same poem on the BCF blog in the comments a few weeks ago! I love it!
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