Choosing to Grow Up

The juncos are back. These small charcoal gray and white birds winter in the northern parts of the US (all I have to say is that you're pretty hardy when Michigan is your Mexico) and they always bring a smile to my face when I see them pecking around on the ground under the birdfeeders (which are in desperate need of seed right now). Today the backyard feeders were bustling with juncos, goldfinches in their drab winter array, a lady cardinal, downy woodpeckers, chickadees, and a solitary tufted titmouse, which is a rare sight in my fairly urban yard. The squirrels and chipmunks have been busy collecting seeds and walnuts (and destroying my garage, digging tunnels under my plants, etc.). And along with these small creatures I feel a thrill of anticipation when I think that cold weather and snow may be coming soon, perhaps within weeks.

Many people must think me a bit touched in the head, but I do enjoy most of winter, and I especially love November through January when the trees are bare, the snow is fresh, and the chill is still invigorating rather than soul-crushing as it is in February. One does learn during the winter months to appreciate the spring and summer all the more.

During the last week I have found my thoughts turning toward Christmas—jotting down gift ideas, considering what to cook should we host family at our house this year, even singing Silent Night and Away in a Manger to my little boy as I put him in bed for the night. I, who because of family tradition usually ban Christmas music before Thanksgiving, am already singing Christmas songs and it's not even Halloween yet! Is it because I know that Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas this year will be so much more fun and magical since Calvin is nearly 2 1/2? Perhaps. Now is the time to be making lovely memories and establishing my own family traditions that Calvin can some day look back on with fondness. How do I want him to remember his childhood?

I think this is also the reason I have tried to grow up a bit in the past few months when it comes to keeping my housework under control. I grew up in a house that was spotless but for my bedroom, which I kept at maximum pigsty levels for as long as my parents could stand it. When they reached the breaking point (I remember occasional swearing) I would clean up and subsequently not be able to find anything when before I knew exactly where something was—on the floor, half under the bed, beneath the pile of clothes and the stack of National Geographic World magazines. The house was spotless because we cleaned it every weekend (seriously, we dusted, vacuumed, and washed windows weekly), we had a cleaning lady off and on for years, and because my mother is a compulsively clean person.

Even though as a child I was involved in cleaning (and actually enjoyed it), somehow when it came to my personal space that "clean gene" didn't fully activate. Now, take my messy self, add a messy husband (is it because we're both fairly creative second-born "babies" of our respective households? Or just because we're lazy?) and a toddler and things have gotten completely out of control. And despite the fact that I tend to not put things away, when stuff is all over the house it drives . . . me . . . crazy.

I came to the realization this summer, while reading over every entry of Anna's Pleasant View Schoolhouse blog, that I am an adult. I am 30. No one is going to come and pick up after me; no one is going to sort my laundry; no one is going to empty my dishwasher if I don't do it. My mom doesn't live here. I live here. And if I (with the help of my husband and son) don't keep up the house, no one will. I've abandoned the childish notion that someday I will wake up and suddenly be a naturally clean person just by virtue of being a certain age.

So I have consciously started to make sure the kitchen was clean, the sink empty, the countertop bare, before going to bed. I've tried to look at laundry as a regular part of life rather than a huge, odious day-long chore. I've made the bed a few times when I'm the last one out of it. I've dusted some long-neglected areas of the house. I have much room for improvement, but I am trying. Because I want adult Calvin to think of home as a place of calm beauty as well as a place where he had lots of fun. I don't want him to think of his parents as slobs.

What I do now, the person I am now, the way I care for what God has given me now—that is what my child will remember. I am helping to form those memories every day. And I need to be careful about the message I am sending. I wish I was more compulsive about tidiness. But in the absence or repression of the "clean gene" I must make the decision to keep my house in order.