Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

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Cinderella Mom

If you think Jesus would have come into your home that day and not issued a strong rebuke to the head of household, you are mistaken.

These words of condemnation have been haunting me for days now. They aren’t all that different than the soundtrack I play in my head on an almost-daily basis. It’s the one that berates me for reading a book instead of washing dishes or tsk-tsks my decision to take the kids out of the house to do something fun instead of staying in the house to clean it. It’s what drives me to give my husband a list of all the things I accomplished during the day or reasons I didn’t get this or that done. (FYI: He does not demand this of me.)

Until recently, it was just me and the condemning voice in my head telling me that if I was a better mom, I’d have a spotless house. If I was a better mom, the laundry would always be done and the dishes would always be clean and we’d always have a home-cooked meal on the table. (Where do I get these ideas?)

Photo by Scott Umstattd on Unsplash

But then something happened. A man came to our house to perform a service for us at the request of our landlord. And before he left, he said some things to my husband about the state of our house. He used the word “filthy” and implied that Jesus would be disappointed in how we kept our house and that it was somehow my husband’s responsibility to make sure our house was clean. (Aside: I don’t think he meant that my husband should clean the house. No, no, no, this was ugly patriarchy rearing its head.)

I was out for coffee with a friend and it was one of the mornings my husband is off. He was home with the kids and watching World Cup soccer. The night before had been our community’s fireworks celebration. I had cooked and prepped food all day Saturday and we were out of the house most of the day Sunday. We were also in the midst of a string of days that were 95-feels-like-105.

So, yeah, our house was messier than usual. (Did I also mention it’s summer and the kids are home and we’d only been home from vacation for a week?)

The words, told to me later, shocked and angered me, but they also fed that little voice that lives inside. Maybe he’s right. Maybe my reasons were nothing more than excuses. Should I have been doing a better job with our house?

Whether he was wrong or right about the state of my house, I felt it was wrong of him to say something about it, so I tried contacting him by phone but ended up sending a letter stating my thoughts. A week later, I got a reply. The sentence at the beginning of this post is a paraphrase, and it was not the worst thing in the letter.

I’m still not sure I’m over it.

In the days since this man’s visit and the exchange of letters, our house has gotten cleaner because that’s the normal rhythm of our lives. We work hard, we play hard, and eventually we get around to cleaning up after ourselves. We don’t live in squalor but we also don’t strive for perfection when it comes to how our house looks. Because I’m a low-energy person and the heat affects me severely, cleaning my house in the summer is a gradual process. (We don’t have AC in most of the house nor do we have a dishwasher … oh the modern conveniences we lack!)

Photo by Catt Liu on Unsplash

I like having a clean house, but I don’t always like the process, and I will often choose other activities before I choose to clean. I’m learning to accept this and not try to fit myself into someone else’s mold. I know there are some of you out there who love to clean (wanna come over?) and maybe you can see this man’s point of view. But we all have our own standards when it comes to cleanliness in our private spaces, right?

The Bible might talk about cleanliness and purification, but I’m pretty sure that’s cultural and not a justification for “cleanliness is next to godliness.” If Jesus came to my house and rebuked me for how well I kept it clean or not clean, then I’ve read the Bible all wrong all these years. (Would Judean homes have been spotless? What was that story about Mary and Martha again?)

I didn’t want to tell this story just as a rant, although I’m still pretty mad about the whole thing. I wanted to throw it out into a public space, though, because maybe you have an inner soundtrack like I do. Maybe you think you don’t deserve to do anything fun unless your house is spotless. I’ve come to think of it as Cinderella Mom Syndrome–if you finish all your chores, then you can go to the ball! (Or Target, or Starbucks, or whatever.)

If that’s you, then hear me now (and I promise to listen, too): A clean house is not the price you pay for staying home with your kids. Housework is not your penance. How much or how little you clean isn’t the measure of your success or failure at motherhood.

I have to say those words because I have to hear them. And as much as I want to believe that more people than not agree with me, if this guy can walk into a stranger’s house and say things that only add burden and shame to what is already a tough job (motherhood), then surely there are others out there believing their worth as a mother is wrapped up in their housework.

I stayed home with my kids for 10 years, and our house was never clean. I could have kept the house clean, but I think my mental health would have suffered more than it already did. I started working part time in January, and our house is still never clean. (What does that word mean anyway?) But our family is healthy and closer to whole than we’ve ever been.

Doesn’t that count for something?

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This is 40

I am nesting.

On Saturday I emptied the refrigerator. Last summer’s homemade pickles in their jars. The bread ends that seem to multiply on every shelf. The eggs. The milk. The fruit and veggies. All of it sat on the floor or the counter as I carefully removed the shelves and wiped them down with soapy water. When the whole thing was finished, I almost didn’t recognize the interior of this appliance. It felt good, this cleansing.

For weeks now, I have had the attitude, especially with the clutter in our house, that it needs to go. Broken things or things handed down. Shoes and clothes that don’t fit. I am slowly and gradually releasing things that have taken up space in our home. I suppose it could be spring cleaning, although I cannot admit to being bitten by that bug too often in my life.

I am making room for something. I am nesting, but I am not pregnant, at least not in the “with child” sense of the word.

—

On Friday, I turn 40.

Photo by Miguel Sousa on Unsplash

I remember how freaked out I was when I turned 30. I had a baby and a husband and the carefree(ish) days of my 20s seemed gone forever. Which was a confusing feeling because my entire 20s felt like I was waiting for my life to start until I had the husband and babies. Having what I thought I always wanted wasn’t enough to keep me from feeling a tiny bit of sadness that my 20s were gone.

Ten years later, I am almost giddy to kiss my 30s goodbye. The babies have grown into small adult humans with lots of words and thoughts and actions, and these are the years I was waiting for when I thought the diapers and potty-training would be the end of me. The husband and I have walked through some dark days and are re-emerging in the light. Our marriage is almost 11 years old and it finally, almost, feels like I thought it was supposed to feel, but there were plenty of days I wasn’t sure I’d still be married by the time I turned 40.

Having made it to now feels like a gift.

But it was also a lot of work.

Ten years ago, I barely knew who I was. I defined almost every part of myself by my relation to someone else–husband and children primarily. I was a wife and a mother but that is not all I was and I had trouble giving voice to those other parts of me because I didn’t really believe I was those things myself.

—

I’ve been preparing for this birthday for years. I think it started when I finally made an appointment to see a therapist. Maybe it was earlier, when I read a book about women and their issues. What stuck with me was something about women getting better or bitter by the time they are 40.

Here’s what I wrote six years ago about this: Every woman becomes either beautiful, bitter or beaten (having given up on life) by the time she’s 40. We either face our stuff or we don’t. Six years from the big 4-0, I’m tracking toward bitter or beaten. That’s a hard truth to face, but my eyes are open to how I can face my issues and let God work through them.

SIX YEARS AGO. This journey goes back further than I thought. Even then, I had had my share of bitter. It took me a few more years, but I decided to get better. Bitter is easier but nothing compares to better.

This week, two days before my 40th birthday, I released myself, with my therapist’s blessing, from counseling. I’m taking the summer off from my once-a-month appointments and in the fall, I’ll reconsider whether I still want to keep going. I’ve been seeing this therapist one or two times a month for more than three years. This was the road to better. It was forged with tears and paved with hard conversations and truths.

But it was also the place where I learned to find myself again. “You are strong and capable,” my therapist has said to me more times than I can count. She has spoken words to me that I could not speak to myself. The woman I am today is partly due to the woman who asked me hard questions, who prayed for me and spoke truth over me. Sometimes I hated it, but I’ll never regret it.

—

A few weeks ago, I started making a list. A few weeks before that, I started thinking about what theme would define my 40s and beyond. I’m not into pressuring myself to check a bunch of stuff off a list in a set amount of time, but I did want to think intentionally about what I want to do. I’ve been choosing a word to guide my year for several years now. How could I translate that to the next decade and beyond?

Photo by Alexandra Gorn on Unsplash

I landed on “no excuses, no regrets.” This is a balance of risk and practicality. I’m not a risk-taker, but I’m more cautious than I need to be. In my 30s, I had a lot of reasons for not taking care of me, for not pursuing my wants and dreams. Reasons are valid, but they can easily turn into excuses and excuses are rooted in fear. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to look back 10 years or more from now and regret that another decade passed without me at least taking aim at the things I want.

The list is in progress and there are not firm deadlines. There are health plans and travel dreams and writing goals. For whatever reason, I feel like I don’t have the luxury of putting things off until someday. Maybe that sounds morbid, but I don’t want to live in the shadow of someday. I want to step into the light of today. Not everything I do in my 40s and beyond will be magical, but I think that’s the beauty of it. It doesn’t have to be. Sometimes being present in the ordinary and grateful for the everyday is its own kind of magic.

—

I don’t remember when I first heard about a mid-life crisis. It always sounded like such an awful thing. It was a phrase loaded with stereotypes. Of men buying sportscars or divorcing their wives for younger women or of women taking drastic measures to alter their appearance. I’m not sure I actually know any people who have done this at midlife, whatever that means anymore, so maybe the “crisis” part of it is just another lie meant to make us want things that will make us feel better for a moment but won’t reach deep enough to find the wound we’re trying to ignore.

I always wondered what it would feel like to approach midlife. Would I panic and grasp for flimsy lifelines to my younger days? Would I secretly hate people who were younger and more successful? Would the words I said reveal me as a bitter old woman? Would I be able to age gracefully?

I’m surprised to find that this doesn’t feel like a crisis. It feels like a rebirth. A chance to start fresh and do things differently. I think that’s why I feel like I’m nesting. I am pregnant with new life, but it is my life not another human’s that I’m growing. I have yet to know what it will become, but because it is composed of all the things I’ve already experienced, it will be rich and full. And oh so loved.

—

A benediction, of sorts, for my 40th birthday.

Photo by Samantha Sophia on Unsplash

Blessed is my body, stretched and scarred from bearing children, often hated and ignored. This is the vessel I’ve been given and I will treat it with respect, honoring the ways it literally carries me through this world.

Blessed is my mind, beaten and bruised from the mental gymnastics I have performed for so many years. This is my inner sanctuary, a place of retreat and rest. I will renew it, minute by minute if necessary, telling myself what is true and right and good. This mind is the captain that steers the vessel, and I will give it what it needs to guide me on straight paths.

Blessed is my work, even when I’m not sure what that is. I will strive to do what I can where I am, giving myself grace to say “no” to anything that isn’t part of my mission in this world. I will accept that the progress might be slow and that as long as I am alive, the work is not finished.

Blessed is my presence, my place on the earth, my contribution to the human race, even if there is no measurement of my impact. I am here. I am worthy of life. I matter. I will seek to live like I believe this true everywhere I go. And blessed is my voice, when I cannot stay silent about something important. I will not be afraid to say what I think, to speak truth to others, even if it is hard to hear. I will not take responsibility for someone else’s feelings about truth.

Blessed am I, my past, present and future me. I will forgive myself for the things I believed about myself that were not true, for the choices I made based on those decisions. I will not look back in anger but with love and understanding for the girl I was and the woman I was becoming. I will remember the good things that came from even the most hurtful situations. I will hold it all as grace and remember that what I think, feel and do now will look different in another decade or two.

—

This is not a competition, friends. That’s another thing I’m learning. I am 40 years old and still discovering what it means to have fierce and loyal friendships with other women. I find it’s easier to do the more I focus on the woman I’m becoming instead of comparing myself to who other women are becoming.

I have sometimes dreaded my birthday, but this year, I feel nothing but light and love. It is a good way to enter a decade. Amen.