A Personal History Of Chores

When I first came into the world,
my needs were met by others
and when they weren’t,
I simply screamed.
Sadly,
I had no appreciation
of my privileged status.

Soon enough,
I was forced from this position
of entitlement and egocentricity.
Whether it be
toys or spills or temper outbursts,
I was expected
in an increasingly meaningful way
to clean up my own messes.

A little older and I was mandated
to contribute to the tribe,
the running of the household.
We awoke every Saturday morning
to a job list adhered to the refrigerator door.
Girl jobs-vacuuming and laundry and bathrooms,
and boy jobs- anything outdoors.
This went on until I left home.

In college,
I was free to generally ignore chores.
When I ran out of clothes, I took them the laundromat.
I bought a minimum of groceries.
I don’t remember ever cleaning anything.

The yoke of chores descended
in a new and unanticipated way
when we married and bought a home.
Suddenly, we were responsible for everything.
For the first time,
the state of the house
was a reflection on me.
Division of labor became an issue.

That yoke threatened to strangle me
once kids came along.
Cooking and laundry became a lifestyle,
cleaning, an ongoing exercise
in futility.

Ironically,
I had to teach my kids
to clean up their own messes,
to contribute to the tribe.
Job lists went on the refrigerator.
They grumbled and lollygagged.
Almost always, it would have been easier
to do the work myself.

To my surprise,
once the kids were grown,
housework became something else entirely.
I could get things done more quickly
without constant interruption.
Clean stayed clean long enough
to enjoy a sense of accomplishment.

Today,
cleaning means order from chaos.
Decluttering satisfies and simplifies.
I take some pleasure in making this space
that contains my memories and dreams
peaceful, whole
and holy.

By Maria Brady-Smith
Photo by Mike Smith