I have always loved routine. Ever since I was a teen waking up two hours before I had to leave the house to go through an extensive sequence of makeup application and outfit changes, I thrived on knowing exactly what the next morning would bring, the pattern that would shape the day with familiarity and give me that much-needed feeling of control. This continued way into my twenties and thirties – that is, until I had a child and “routine” became synonymous with domesticity, a seemingly never-ending string of chores that all revolve around keeping the house clean and each family member nourished (a challenging feat, given that both my daughter and fiancé qualify for competitive eating).
While many parts of the house require consistent maintenance, there’s one particular area that always bore the brunt of my frustration. It’s the pathway between the kitchen itself and the counter where we eat our meals, and it happens to be the part of the room that needs the most upkeep. I kneel above it countless times a day: picking up crumbs, serving the dog food or water, wiping residue with pieces of paper towel and marveling each time how dirty it is, mopping and scrubbing and trying to get to the 7pm finish line when the kitchen is clean and the baby is in bed and I finally get to exist for a few hours for me.
Over the past few months, the area began to symbolize something bigger – the redundancy of it all, perhaps, the fact that, no matter how many times I cleaned it, I would have to do it again in a day, or a few hours, or minutes, a hamster wheel of domesticity that I had grown to resent. Part of me felt it was taking away from all the things I should be doing – sitting in solitude, writing, making money, deliberating the meaning of life, the list goes on. All the things that felt like they had a higher purpose than scrubbing the space between the kitchen and the counter. Hell, I had higher purpose than scrubbing the space between the kitchen and the counter, and I resented everybody around me for taking me away from it. Throw in a dog with a bladder issue, an 18-month sleep regression and tantrums normally reserved for the terrible twos, and my nerves were starting to give in. I cried every day before 6am for two weeks. My daughter’s favorite new expression was “stopit” (said in one word, just like Mommy).
“It’s just a stage. It’s not forever. Soon, she’ll be in school and you’ll have more time,” my fiancé would tell me, with that look on his face that made it clear that he would rather be dealing with a backed up sewer than with my issues. My therapist said more or less the same thing as him, although she also seemed to think I would benefit from redirecting my focus on something outside of the home, something that would fulfill me in a different way.
And so, I did. I started this newsletter and picked up a new work project (which, to be fair, added some much-appreciated childcare hours). I bought a cocktail of homeopathic nerve soothing herbs, the new age alternative to mommy Valium. At the same time, my daughter learned how to respond to questions with “yes” and “no,” which made communication with her slightly easier. A few weeks passed. Things started to feel lighter. The morning hysteria began to lift.
Then, I spent a Saturday with a friend who had chosen the exact path I often daydreamed about in my most frustrated moments: a life of vagabonding around the world, answering to no one, living on communes in Europe and flying to California to attend a concert in Big Sur. Complete and total independence, so opposite of what I have today. This is not a commentary on his life, for I know he’s had plenty of chances at a traditional route and genuinely prefers it this way. And yet, seeing it so close up, it suddenly looked different. To me, it now felt lonelier, less glamorous, more familiar. I had a déjà vu of those days of my own life, the year before I met my partner – how lonely I had been and how much I had yearned for what I have today.
We were at the beach and my friend was reading a Henry Miller book and all I wanted to do was close my eyes for a moment, but I couldn’t, because a 19-month-old was spinning in circles around me – tossing sand with a shovel, looking for snacks, squealing at the sight of each big wave. For once, I didn’t mind. I colored with her and told her all about the waves: that they couldn’t hurt her, that they wouldn’t reach her, that one day she would jump in them and love it. (That day happened exactly one week later.) At lunch, I had a glass of wine and my daughter climbed on top of me and started biting my face with that funny raw love that only a toddler can manifest. I carried her back to the car and, somehow, she felt lighter, the drive home less frustrating. I came home, where my fiancé was waiting for us. We watched Elvis while she played with her books and toys in front of us, occasionally turning to the TV to watch a Baz Lehrman phantasmagoria sequence, her little eyes absorbing the craziness of it all the very first time. She still had so much to see, to learn, to explore – and I was suddenly honored to get to do it alongside her. To learn alongside her.
She also seemed so happy at home with us, so comfortable, running around the living room and straddling the dog and bringing things she needed from her room and shouting over and over again “Mama” and “Papa.” Maybe it was the wine or the sun or the Elvis tunes blasting in the background, but, watching her spin around in her little domain that she calls home, everything we had done to create this for her felt validated. I may have felt like I was scrubbing the floor for the thousandth time, but in actuality, I was doing something that was part of the bigger picture: giving her the safety and comfort that she needs at this foundational time, factors that will largely affect her life. And that, suddenly, felt like purpose.
At a time where thousands of people are leaving their homes – because of natural disasters, because of a war waged by a tyrant, because of a barbaric militarization by that same tyrant – the concept of home feels so fraught. One day you have it, the next day you don’t – your own fortress that can collapse like a house of cards in the matter of days, hours, even minutes. Sometimes, we just need a reminder that the things we take for granted are the ones that we will miss the most if they are taken away. The comfort of your own bed. The sound of a child playing in their room. The kitchen chaos, cleanup included. All the little things that, together, constitute the bottom two tiers of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. Without which, by the way, the top tiers no longer matter.
And, just like that, domesticity is no longer a dirty word.