Clean-Up, Clean-Up

     People who say that they like to clean are liars. Nobody truly enjoys the act of cleaning. It is the time after the job is done, when the air smells of bleach and the floors shine, that people enjoy. Conversely, nobody really likes living in a dirty house, either. People who claim that are just good at ignoring the mess, transcending the clutter. I am of the former persuasion. While I don't dance through the house with my dustrag, I can only truly relax when the house is clean.

     I keep a clean house partly because I like it that way, and partly because I don't want to be embarrassed when someone stops by. I was a typical teenage slob, and my college apartment was disgusting. I had a full course load and waited tables five days a week, and I didn't see the point of cleaning a place that I was rarely in. When I moved in with my husband, I embraced cleaning, and found that it made me happy to keep a nice home. Very 50's housewife, I know, but it gave me satisfaction.

     After kids, the housework got harder to keep up with, but I managed. When Mary began home therapy, it became a huge daily task. Therapists coming over every day, sometimes twice, was a great motivator in keeping everything immaculate. It hurt my pride, a little, that I couldn't do everything for her, that I couldn't teach her the things a mom should. At the very least, I could vacuum the carpets and pick up the blocks, to make their job easier.

     Cleaning was a way to maintain control over my life. If the dishes are done and the toilets are scrubbed, I can relax, knowing that there is nothing more to do. However, I am very much an out-of-sight, out-of-mind person - my basement is like that episode of "Friends," where Chandler finds Monica's closet jammed with crap. I enjoy home-makeover shows on HGTV and Style network, and I think that I've got a great idea for one. "Dirty Little Secrets" would feature homes like mine, which appear in order, except for that one room or nook that holds all of the odds and ends. To any tv execs reading: I volunteer to be featured on the first episode.

     Now that Mary gets all of her therapy at school, I worry less about keeping the house clean. I no longer rotate the toys every two weeks, and it's been way too long since the upstairs was vacuumed. Maybe that's a sign that I'm relaxing more, accepting life for what it is. Then again, this week my son and I spent a full morning shoveling his room out. He was so happy, he actually played in it, instead of dragging his stuff around the rest of the house. I'm making one just like me! You're welcome, Ben's future wife.

What a Good Boy

In the interest of fairness, and to round out my story, this post will be about my 8-year-old son Ben. The parents of disabled children tend to get a lot of sympathy, but the siblings aren't often considered. Ben is shockingly patient and kind to Mary, even as she rejects his affections constantly. He understands when we have to suddenly go home from someplace fun, thanks to Mary's behavior, with more maturity than I have. I'll be sitting in the car, flushed and embarrassed from her outbursts, and irritated with her for ruining yet another dinner out, and Ben will serenely say, "It's OK, we can just get Chinese." 


Ben is a regular almost-third grader, who loves fart jokes and his iPod, recently recovered after a two-hour shovel-out of his bedroom. He forgets to wash his hands, talks back, and prefers Disney XD to reading a book.  A three-sport kid, we spend many hours at practices and games, which Mary hates and protests loudly. I still make her go sometimes, though. I figure that it's the least she can do for him, considering the disruptions she causes in his life.


A study of siblings of disabled children, conducted by PRISMS, concluded that they are more likely to be empathetic, and that they are glad to have their siblings, despite all of the difficulties that go along with them. Ben likes to talk about Mary's future. "When Mary gets older" stories are common topics of discussion in our house. He is hopeful, sure that she'll speak intelligibly, and go with his for ice cream once he gets his license. I've tempered his expectations with a dose of reality, but I don't want to crush his dreams about her.


He mourns, in his own way. His new cousins, both under 2, delight him in a way that Mary doesn't. They interact with him, are happy to see him, and soon will start talking to him. He asks for another sibling, but that's not happening. This factory is closed! But I get it - he wants a sibling to relate to, to play with, who will respond to him with something other than cries of distress and kicks. 


What a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy.

Am I the Only One?

      Mary has been glued to my side for most of her life, with brief dashes over to Daddy. This week has been especially trying - no school plus hot weather equals one cute little girl extending her arms and saying "uppie" all day long.

     Daddy and I did manage to get away for an overnight at a friend's lake house this weekend (thank you, Gaga!), which was a nice break for my sore back and tired arms. As soon as I returned, though, my little shadow clung to me like crazy, and hasn't let go since, unless Yo Gabba Gabba was on. Which it is, in our house. A lot. Way more than that hour per day recommended.

     Even though we've seen lots of family this week, people who Mary loves, she wants only me. When passed to another person, she calmly puts her thumb to her chin and says "Mama," with big eyes and a serious expression. She is not joking around here. And I cave every time, to avoid unpleasantness in the form of a huge tantrum. Maybe I enjoy playing the martyr, or maybe I just want to keep the peace. Typical middle child stuff.

     My husband always tries to take her off my hands, but when we're out of the house, I just take her, to make things easier. Today, at the amusement park, I did hand her off once. I had held her through several cycles in the wave pool, and I just needed to be free for a few minutes. I swam away, she cried, and then she got over it. Out of sight, out of mind.

      Others have told me that when I am not there, Mary is much more willing to engage with them.  Maybe I'm holding her back, or subconsciously enjoying being needed. It is nice to have someone on your life who is always happy to see you, and wants endless hugs and kisses.

     Or maybe I just like the gun show I'm packing, thanks to carrying around a forty pound preschooler.