I Dream of Cleaning Carts
And Other Maternal Musings
A Poisoned Mentality
Systems over motivation… Systems over motivation.
It was and continues to be one of the mantras I’ve used since adapting to everything
I’ve been going through an entire process of complex metamorphosis in the year since my twins were born and while dealing with postpartum depression. A substantial fixation for me during this period is feeling like failure in all dimensions of self, including typical facets attributed to motherhood.
There is a deep, unsettling sort of cognitive dissonance between the fact that I know these measures of motherhood are based on grotesque sexism and patriarchal principles and the fact that I have internalized them enough that my failure to meet those standards causes me emotional distress. Even early in my marriage, I felt a terrible internal pressure to do things like take the lion’s share of the housekeeping and cooking–despite the fact that that had never been asked of me by my partner.
And my partner has been happy to adapt to any request to take more and more of those items on, but I’ve been so conditioned to feel that I should be responsible for the home that I feel guilty even asking.
Rocks Turn to Diamonds While I Turn to Mush
It is this cognitive dissonance, anchored by these archetypes and amplified by my having more children, that has been a continuous source of distress. At each added responsibility that a new child brings, nevermind that I had two at once, all the structures that were held together by fraying tape begin to crumble. And I am left in the ruins of it, wrestling with thefact that I am not enough, that I cannot be enough for myself to meet all the roles I am supposed to play.
Partner. Daughter. Sister. Employee. Writer.
Mother.
A word that itself carries the weight of so many things. As a mother I am a caretaker and nurturer. I’m a food source as I am still breastfeeding, which means my body is not even my own — it is in service of my children. I’m a laundress, personal assistant, chauffeur, chef, scheduler, and housekeeper.
A Sisyphean Task
Housekeeping has rarely been my strong suit. I’m not an organized person, I collect too much crap, and I’m also a little bit of a germaphobe which causes me to fixate on perfection.
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To cope, or to try to find solutions to this during this period of my life, I began binging mom and cleaning content on TikTok and Instagram. It’s an effort to find a solution, a magic remedy to make all this better. What secret do these other moms in deceptively tidy homes have that I don’t? How is it that other moms and parents can meet all of these challenges? And why can’t eye?
I am cognizant that what I am seeing is an illusion. That in reality, these people are likely more affluent, or have paid help or people in their lives helping them make up the slack. That they are selling me simplicity or products or both.
Like aforementioned cognitive dissonance between gender and behavior, I exist in the joint between the understanding that what is displayed is a fantasy and still buying into that fantasy. I still devour the content as if it will help me cure this immense feeling of inadequacy that haunts me.
When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Floor Cleaner
One of the often repeated ideas in those videos is to develop systems, as systems will beat motivation every time. That making something simple and placing it where you need it will make it easy to do the task.
So we bought a chore chart. We got a more portable vacuum. I put a watering can in my bathroom to water the herbs outside the door. And other little improvements. It’s gotten better, even though the mess is less all over and more segregated to certain corners of the home.
There is one illusory device I hope to implement. A cleaning cart. This is using a small utility cart that is packed with cleaning supplies and baskets that you can roll to whatever room you’re cleaning. And I was deeply excited to make it. I have bins ready to pack, bungee cables to strap paper towels and plastic bags. We ordered a cart from Walmart and waited. When it gets here, I thought, I’ll finally be able to keep this house clean.
The idea of that cleaning cart was growing larger in my mind. As if its mere existence would awaken a domestic inner goddess who could declutter counters and mop up floors with maximum efficiency. And if I could keep the house clean efficiently, then I would have time for all the other aspects of my life. This cart would make me better at work, a more present mom, and maybe give me time to write. And so we waited for it to arrive
And waited.
And the entropy around my home built up as the days went by and I waited for this stupid cart to get here so that I could get everything done at once.
And we waited until the shipping issues resolved. And we were treading water, trying to keep up with breaking appliances and colds and furniture issues.
And waited until it finally arrived–broken.
Its brokenness felt oddly prescriptive, painful, and freeing. There would be no cart coming to save us. So we went on with life as it was. We ordered a different model and it arrived today. Honestly, I haven’t felt like opening it.
My house is as clean as it needs to be, right now, today. And at some point, that is going to have to be okay. I’ll let that inner domestic goddess sleep in a little longer, at least one of us should get to.
This is part 1 of a series for a personal challenge to blog every week for 39 weeks. Read more about that here. If you want more on motherhood, check this out.
