Lori Clinch

Are We There Yet?

Letting the house stay

grubby out of love

I've decided to let my home stay grubby out of love for my children.Some may think that's just an excuse, and most likely they are clean people. But I've noticed that I'm a much better person when I'm not stressing about a jelly smear on my walls or, heaven forbid, a cupboard full of un-alphabetized soup cans.

That is my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Let's just say, for instance, that a woman cleans and she scrubs for a day. Let's say that she tidies the bedrooms, shines the bathrooms, stashes the trash and places all of the junk in the junk drawers.

Then she walks back through for a brief inspection and finds things in satisfactory condition. Now let's just say that at this precise moment, this woman's children come home sporting all the things that children are famous for. They have basketballs, book bags, gym shoes, and enough germ-ridden garb to warrant an inspection by the Centers for Disease Control.

This woman is not happy to see her offspring. She's not tickled beyond belief and thrilled to the heavens. She doesn't meet her little dears at the curb - sporting a Dust Buster and a smile. No sir! This disinfectant-loving woman is throwing herself against the door to block their entry and praying for a shot of Lysol to make it all go away.

Call me crazy, but it's true.

Take last week, if you will, when my sister called to say that she was coming into town and would like to spend the night at our home. I hung up the phone and I broke into a dead run. I cleaned the nooks, scrubbed the crannies, and polished both the knicks and the knacks.

I sanitized until my back was aching, my hands were chaffed and my dogs were barking.

Shortly before my sister's scheduled arrival, I plopped my tired body down in the chair. I was fanning myself with a dust rag and blowing my bangs out of my face when I heard my little dears racing up the walk. Running and giggling, they opened the door, threw their backpacks at the couch, and faster than you can say "trash the premises," they removed their shoes and raced to the refrigerator for an after-school snack.

Had I had a dirty house, I would have welcomed them with joy. I would have asked them about their day, overlooked their debris and welcomed them as I kissed their heads and offered up a heartfelt "Mommy loves!"

Although I'd forewarned my children about our impending company and the possibility of a clean house, I was foolish to think that they would stop dead in their tracks and pay homage to the sparkling foyer.

Instead, they left their backpacks in the living room, thumbed their noses at the clean bathrooms, and shed their clothing all the way down the hall. I even caught one of them waltzing around the corner with an oversized bag of Marshmallow Mateys.

Who eats Marshmallow Mateys in a matey-free zone?

With my pointer finger extended and my anger intact, I lectured, "Pick up this" and "Put that away!" I then rounded things up with my proficient speech titled "The house is clean and I want to by-gum keep it that way!" and sent my little charges back outside to find something constructive to do, lest they be sentenced to an evening of chores.

I wasn't proud of my anger, yet it served me well, for I was once again alone in the house. I stood in the midst of my clean premises, and suddenly I wasn't too proud of the way I had behaved. So when I saw one of the boys creeping down the hall, I greeted him with a smile and said, "Hello, my little jewel." It wasn't until I saw the look of surprise on his face that I realized that he was covered - head to toe - with wet and soupy mud. Not the sort of mud that falls off in clumps, mind you, but the kind of mud that starts on a body and then drips and smears and spreads to everything that it passes.

"Hi, Mom," he said as he held up his hands. The imagination of children never fails to stagger me. For here in the midst of a clean and shining abode was this child covered head to toe in a mud pie, with a trail of mud behind him. All around him was the evidence, and yet he was smiling up at me as if we were long-lost companions on the brink of a heartfelt reunion.

I won't tell you exactly how I reacted, but I will tell you this: I'm a much better mother when the house is grubby.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.