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Finding Your Spirit in the Kitchen Sink
It felt like my nerves were scraping against one another.
It had been one of those rare nights in which everyone had gone to bed
at a decent hour and woke up at just the right time. But I felt jangled
and all tossed up inside.
My eyelids felt like sandpaper and all I wanted to do was crawl into a
corner, draw my knees to my chest, and crack open a thick, meaty book,
not emerging again until I had turned the very last page.
But it was Wednesday and my little girls had other plans - as they
always do.
"Mommy, Callie is getting bigger." Cassidy said.
"Yes, she is honey."
"Mommy, I said 'Callie is getting bigger.'"
"She sure is, honey."
"Callie, Callie, Wallie. You are getting bigger," she sang to the tune
of "I'm a Little Teapot."
Normal conversation sounded like shouting, and Cassidy's everyday
make-it-up-as-she-goes-along songs seemed way too loud.
I had exhausted everything in my arsenal. For a living, I write articles
to help parents celebrate everyday life with young children, to renew
our spirits, to revere the process of parenting. But all those little
things I write about that never fail to revitalize my spirit had all,
well, failed.
One of these techniques - and one that had always worked in the past -
is to wheel the kids through the rural Rocky Mountain valley that
surrounds my home. A summer stroll straight uphill always gets my heart
pumping, my legs burning, and my mind re-centered on joyful mothering.
But not today. My everyday panacea was cut short
by a nasty, from-out-of-nowhere hail storm.
After a mad dash over the river and through the woods back to our little
cabin, I tried another favorite method of returning my mind to the place
it should be.
I tried to sink into the presence of my girls. To be grateful for their
spirit and their presence by simply focusing on being present with them.
There's something about my five-month old that always does it. Callie
has reached that magical age at which the only thing she needs on this
green and blue rock - beyond the occasional dose of milk - is to look up
at you and see a smile.
When she does, her arms and legs start to pinwheel and her face sends
forth beams of energy that can only be defined as pure joy. This is no
garden-variety grin. What she offers is not so much a smile as it is an
"explosion of face." I challenge anyone to stay in a blue funk after
looking at that for 15 minutes. It always works. But not today.
Today it is Cassidy who is eliciting such an expression from her sister.
Callie is in her swing while I find some dry clothes. Cassidy has
decided the mechanical swing isn't doing it. She helps to push.
"That's pushing too hard, honey." I try to keep the sharpness out of my
voice.
The swing bumps the wall behind. "Cassidy, she doesn't like that!" I
say, just as her sister erupts in giggles.
My credibility is shot. So are my nerves.
"Into the car." I say. "We're going on an adventure." This may sound
exciting - and it's meant to - but it's just code for "We're leaving the
house." And I hadn't yet decided where we'd end up.
We pull into the parking lot of Mommy's "Special Place." A place they've
never been before, though they've seen me enter it enough times as they
continue on to the park with their dad. This is the place reserved for
my occasional weekend retreats into those thick, meaty books.
It is one of those rare coffee shops with a man behind the counter who
is friendly enough to know your name and tuned in enough to know when
you don't want to chit-chat.
When we get there, he gives Cassidy a huge cup of cherry vanilla Ben and
Jerry's, which melts before she eats it. The spoon leaves a sticky pink
trail as it travels from the cup to the table, up to the window, and
into her lap, somehow not making it anywhere near her mouth.
I mop the drips with a Kleenex while bouncing Callie, who is a little
bored after her sticky-fingered sister finds diversion in a
four-year-old who has taken to bouncing up and down the back stairs.
Now I know why I haven't taken them here before. This is my place (a
place I hope I'm still welcome). So we climb back in the car. I start to
drive slowly. Maybe they'll nap. Nope.
I unload them into the house. What now? My husband and relief pitcher
won't be home for hours. That's when I spot my sink, and I think about
the Flylady. At http://www.flylady.net, the Flylady offers a helpful
system for getting your home organized and orderly, thus stamping out
domestic CHAOS, which is Flylady-speak for "Can't Have Anyone Over
Syndrome."
The first chore in Flylady Land is to clean your kitchen sink. The
theory is that a shiny sink will give you a sense of accomplishment,
even amid your clutter. The Flylady says, "When you get up the next
morning, your sink will greet you and a smile will come across your
lovely face."
That's a pretty tall promise, but what have I got to lose? Out comes the
Comet, scouring pad, toothbrush, and rubber gloves.
"I want to help," Cassidy says, climbing on the counter and grabbing for
the sponge. I mutter something about this being a Mommy Job and march
her over to watch a self-made tape of her new hero: Dora the Explorer.
Callie goes down for some "tummy time."
Then I scrub that sink until it shines. After 15 minutes, it's as though
the silly thing comes alive and winks at me. And a smile does come
across my face.
Maybe it was the 15-minute break afforded by Dora the Explorer. Maybe it
was the ability to put both my babies down and focus on a project long
enough to see it through to its completion. Maybe it was this part of
the world, however small, that I could control with a scouring pad and
some hot water. But it had some kind of spillover effect to the rest of
my day.
In retrospect, I'm really not sure what possessed me. My sink wasn't all
that dirty and the last thing I wanted to do on a day like this was
clean. But, of all things, cleaning my kitchen sink cleared the air in
my little cabin that day.
I've said many times that finding delight in your role as a mother is
dependent on your ability to take care of yourself. It's about easing
yourself down from the curtains you've been climbing because no one can
do it for you. It's about pushing yourself to be mindful amid tasks that
so easily lend themselves to mindlessness.
And I never thought I'd say it, but there are days when time spent
scrubbing your kitchen sink is time spent honoring yourself.
You know you've found such a task when you can once again feel yourself
settling into that core of joy. The place from which you radiate grace
and love and light straight from your soul into the soul of your
children, the way mothering was meant to be.
This is a reminder that practicing self-care isn't about booking a
cruise or a day at the spa. It's about finding the re-centering tool
that resonates with you at this very moment, and staying attentive for
the cues that point you toward the right one.
The right tool for today will be different than that of yesterday. It's
up to you to hunt for it, and to delight in the search.
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