Why My Children Will Probably Need Therapy, Reason 44

Growing up, we were not allowed to sit on the couch. If you looked in the windows of the Anderson household any given night, you'd see us cozily huddled around the 19 inch TV while sitting on the floor, next to the couch. Furniture was expensive. The one couch that we had for years was continually being reupholstered. It was at least a two week process that consisted of batting, fabric, and a fully loaded staple gun. (Home improvement projects were a huge element to my childhood. If you came home and saw a pile of wood, a hand sander, and an economy size tub of turpentine, you would know your weekend was pretty much shot. But that's a post all in its own.)
Our excitement to finally be able to come into the family room again was met with a wild crazed stare and frantic arm gestures like we had all gone and lost our minds.
"Don't sit on it! It needs to stay nice!" Sometimes we'd be allowed to sit on it, but there were rules. You had to sit all the way back, no slouching, no laying, no eating, no rough play, no bouncing, no sliding off the front of it, no resting your arms on the armrests. Eventually Mom couldn't take the stress of it all and we were ordered back on to the floor.

There was also a formal couch in the living room that you were not allowed to even look at, lest you somehow wear it down with your eye gaze. I remember wanting to sit on this couch more than anything. I can't remember where she had gotten it, but there were few things worse you could do than try and sit on the living room couch. I tried to date before I was sixteen, hang out with friends my parents didn't approve of, say my term paper was done when it wasn't, but you wouldn't catch me within a twenty foot radius of the living room couch. I may have been a tad rebellious, but I wasn't crazy.

I would take this opportunity now, 20 years after the fact, to confess I once waited until she was gone on errands, and the kids occupied elsewhere in the house (couldn't trust those little snitches) and secretly sat on the couch for like four or five glorious minutes. But I won't. Even at 31 I know I can somehow still get grounded. It's like her superpower.

Anyone who's spent any time in my house over the last five years can appreciate that I may have some "couch issues." I've bought and sold five different couches looking for the perfect one. Somewhere along the way, I must have construed that the couch is revered and treasured. I buy one, and then quickly am convinced it is not "the right one." Whatever that means. To his credit, Rhett puts up with it amazing well. As long as I sell them, he's indulged me in the couch craziness. Personally I like to pretend I'm Indiana Jones and this is my own personal Quest for the Grail.

As I spent a good portion of the other morning cleaning, I realized that any trauma or baggage I may have associated with never being able to sit on a couch, is small potatoes to what I stress over with my own family.
After hours of housework, I don't want anyone to use the entire house.

"Wait! What are you doing? Don't use the bathroom, I just cleaned that!"
"What is your plan for those shoes? You weren't just going to leave those right there were you?"
"Uh ba-ba-ba-ba, why are you making a sandwich? Didn't you just eat a few hours ago at school?"

After a good scrub down of the kitchen the other day, I couldn't bear for any food to be made in there just yet. I piled the boys in the car and headed for the drive thru. I'm in my scrub clothes, hat pulled down low, dark glasses (since the drive thru workers light up when they see me like we're old pals) and was busy contemplating if my children will be traumatized by never being allowed inside a clean house. As we pull up to order, Drew, who says a total of about four words right now (Mommy, Dada, Uh-oh, and socks) says words five and six, that I had been suspecting for about a week that he could say: Chiggen Nuggies!

It's possible we are there a bit too much.

In the journey to becoming my mother, my understanding for why she did the things she did increases. Motherhood and running the household is a tricky business. So much of your hard work, blood, sweat and tears goes into cleaning up after everyone. It's also full of back breaking projects to beautify the home while trying to save a few dollars. There's this satisfaction that comes along with your work, and it can be heartbreaking, literally, to see it ruined after every one's been home for an hour. Buried in the realistic part of your brain, you know you can't escape the fact that it's not any one's fault. It's simply the place where everyone lives, eats, sleeps, plays, and relaxes. Dang it!
I tried to explain it to Rhett once like, "What if you had spent all day calling and meeting with clients, selling ads, making deals, resolving problems, only to come back to the office to see me on your phone and email systematically undoing everything you had spent the entire day getting accomplished? While he saw my reasoning, he pointed out that the house getting used and messed up is not a premeditated diabolical plot. Hmm. I suppose that's true.
When I was younger my mom's BFF, Pam Gower had a magnet on her fridge. It said: Housework is something people only notice when you don't do it. I have no idea how I remember that. My subconscious must have recognized that those were wise words and tucked them away until a day off in the future when I would truly appreciate them.
Maybe Mr. Incredible said it best: No matter how many times you save the world, it always manages to get back in jeopardy again. Sometimes I just want it to stay saved! You know, for a little bit? I feel like the maid; I just cleaned up this mess! Can we keep it clean for... for ten minutes!