When we were young, we had chores. It sounds like a simple concept, yet one that seems to have gone by the wayside in many families today. My mother is what most would consider a clean freak. This is not to be confused with a germaphobe. She was fine sharing drinks or a taste of your cookie, but the weekly ritual of cleaning was required to happen come hell or high water. Each of the three girls was assigned a task to do weekly: I dusted, Heather did the bathrooms, and Amy ran the vacuum. 

Having chores was far superior to the days we were required to stay in the basement, playing all day while my mom cleaned by herself. Don’t get me wrong, playing all day was not a bad fate, but the idea that under no circumstances were we to come upstairs made the time feel like a prison sentence. Being entrusted with a chore felt like an honor. Knowing that dusting was a pretty sweet task, I made sure that I never lost it. I would carefully put away anything that was out of place, remove everything from the surface, spray Pledge generously, and wipe every single centimeter until it was glossy with not a fingerprint in sight. Before anything was replaced, it too would be completely wiped down and meticulously replaced. I would wipe baseboards, windowledges, doorframes, and any other surface that may have possibly seen dust over the last week. I did NOT want to scrub toilets. 

We cleaned weekly. We cleaned before leaving on vacations. We cleaned before parties. We cleaned after parties. Cleaning was a non-negotiable. It was a way to claim organization from chaos. When it was my own house, it was a way to keep my mind busy as my husband worked back-breaking hours as I went through college. Cleaning became a form of therapy to me. One that eventually became far more negative than helpful. 

As we had more children and I began working, it became more and more difficult to maintain the same standard that always made me feel so proud. I began to see my failure as I looked around the house. I began to see my weaknesses. It became an extreme source of anxiety for me that I used as a weapon against my family. I couldn’t understand why noone else saw what I saw and stepped up to help me. It was common for me to yell, to threaten grounding, and once to even go to my sister’s for the day to get away from the frustration that was strangling me. I needed help. And not just help cleaning, I needed help with the anxiety.

I have come a long way in regards to my house and the level of “clean” I expect. Cleaning still gives me a sense of peace when I am in the act of it, it still helps me reset to face the week ahead. In fact, I really enjoy cleaning and organizing. I just no longer require it to find value in myself and my capabilities. There are many things that I do value in this life, I just had to learn where a clean house fit into this, and number one is not it.