I am not much of a housekeeper. I'm on load number seven, somewhat of an accomplishment, but loads one through six still remain piled, like a craggy rainbow colored mountain, on top of the folding table. I'll get to it. Eventually.
Yesterday, a day after my youngest returned from camp, her body just seemed to collapse as the effects of several sleepless nights and exhausting days helping to lead her "Color Days" team to victory suddenly took their toll. Her skin is burning from two much sun, her back is aching from way too much adrenaline-inspired heavy lifting, and her voice is weak from too many shouts of encouragement and congratulations. The giddy teenager who stepped off the bus proudly carrying all the souvenirs of her team's victory is, temporarily, out of commission.
It's when the kids are down that I sometimes recall I'm not so inadequate after all. I am reminded that I certainly don't need to mark off loads of laundry on my bedpost to memorialize my own, often unsung, accomplishments as a mother. They are the things that take no effort, the "tasks" that come as naturally to me as laundry does not.
She didn't want to get out of bed, probably couldn't if she tried. So I went and got her some of her favorite soup, and delivered it to her bedside. Even at fifteen, a girl needs some mommy time. And so it was that I found myself spoon feeding tortilla soup to my daughter, her head lifting a few inches further off the pillow with each tiny offering. We chatted about everything and about nothing -- another "task" that seems to come as naturally to me as laundry does not.
She reminded me of a day, more than three years ago, when she came out of school so upset with a teacher she could not bear to get on the bus. She remembered vividly how she called me, and I showed up to pick her up, and we went somewhere (the details are fuzzy) to just sit and shoot the shit and ignore homework and anything else we had to do. "It's just the kind of thing you do for me, mom," she said. Well of course it is. Maybe it's my job, but it's a labor of love more than anything.
When she had eaten enough soup and was ready to get out of bed and join her friends on Facebook (and, yes, dispose of me), I went back downstairs to work on load number seven. For years, I have kept a picture my daughter drew when she was in nursery school taped to the laundry room door. It is a picture of a little girl lying in bed, her mom by her side. The caption (written by the teacher) says: I love my mom because she brings me hot chocolate in bed. I used to think, "that's it?" But I suppose on some level I always knew that was nothing to sneeze at. There's a reason I've kept that drawing up all these years.
Tonight, I will have a full house. My older daughter will be staying over, and my son will be arriving from New York to spend some time at home before the fall semester starts. I wish I could line them up, the three of them, and feed them spoonfuls of soup and wisdom and comfort and assure them all that everything will be okay. But I can't, and I'll try not to beat myself up about it.
At the very least, I'm going to give myself a break from the laundry.
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