Last Things First

When I brought my second child home, my good friend Fiona told me, “Last things first. When the baby goes down, don’t do the dishes or vacuum. Those things will get done somehow. Instead, read, write, or call your Mom. Those are things that otherwise might not get done.”

Fiona was wise and right.

It’s Saturday morning. There are piles of laundry, mail, and DVDs. From where I sit in the living room I can see three pairs of my husbands shoes—one resting on a dryer sheet. The floor has a light dusting of microwave popcorn and pretzel crumbs, remnants of someone’s movie fest. Are those movies overdue?

I should pick up. I should sweep. I should mop. No I should walk away.

Why am I obligated to clean up after everyone else? Tragically, my husband can’t see dirt. It’s a common condition associated with the Y chromosome. He walks right by it completely unaware of smears or crumbs. He even tracks in mud, grass, and horse manure without any knowledge that his boots have left a trail of deposits. What doesn’t make sense to me is why he asked me where I had gone in the station wagon to get it so muddy. I told him the living room.

My children are like irresponsible boaters, leaving a massive wake that rocks and tosses other boats without regard. Where ever they’ve been you’ll find evidence: empty cracker boxes, cereal bowls with a quarter inch of milk, flip flops, nail polish, nail polish remover, cotton balls, hair ties, crumpled tissues, gum wrappers, lip gloss…

I’m no one’s Cinderella. My husband and children all have hands and feet. Otherwise why would I be looking at so many of his shoes? What are my teenage girls putting nail polish on?

Cleaning up after themselves isn’t their top priority. Why should it be mine? “Last things first,” I say. “But why am I always last?” I ask. “Not anymore,” I answer.

It’s a beautiful day. I’m going to ride my bike to Goose Pond and hike around it. I’m going to give the horse a bath and groom his tail. I’m going to feed my soul instead of enslaving it in housework. Then I’ll come home and leave dirty tracks across the kitchen floor to see if anyone notices.