HOUSEKEEPER CRISIS: Part 2
Entropy: 1. a thermodynamic measure of disorder in a system: entropy always increases and available energy diminishes in a closed system, as in the universe.
Or in a home.
I’ve noticed how many laws of physical science apply to home maintenance since my housekeeper left two months ago. Take the entropy law: The amount of available energy (in our home) is definitely smaller than the amount of work that needs doing. Or the chaos theory: Everything in the universe is constantly moving toward a random state of chaos.
These laws are occurring at light speed since Lupe, who for five years cleaned, got the foolish notion that she would rather go back to her country and witness the birth of her grandchild than continue emptying our trash.
Here’s another universal truth: No matter how well-decorated your home, it only looks as good as the last time someone wiped, swept, organized, polished, sanitized, fluffed, plumped, and clutter busted. Forget all the fancy, home design advice out there. Getting a home to look beautiful is the easy part. Keeping it looking that way requires the stamina of Lance Armstrong, the work ethic of a Puritan, and the mindset of those who paint the Golden Gate Bridge: Once you finish, you start all over again.
Shortly after Lupe defected, I decided to conduct my own scientific study to discover how long my family would last (and how much money we could save) without household help before we plunged into a black hole of cosmic anarchy. I knew I’d eventually need professionals, but this would be a science lesson for us all. I started by calling a family meeting to create a house-cleaning plan. No one came. I tried a more covert tactic.
“Want to see the world decomposing?” I yell to my kids, so they can hear me through their iPods and earwax.
“Sure!”
“Yeah!” They tumble down the stairs after me to see the excitement.
They arrive to see me poised at the entryway table. I dramatically drag my finger across it, leaving a streak like a meteor trail.
“Huh?” says the oldest.
“That’s dust,” says the youngest.
“No. That, my dears, is the decomposing world. From now on, our job is to eliminate all traces of this.”
“She wants us to dust,” mutters the older one to the younger.
“Call it what you want,” I say. “I prefer to call it taking on the universe.”
“You’re gonna lose,” says the youngest, with her usual knack for nailing the truth.
She already sees that every house is at war with the universe. And every house will eventually lose the universal battle to decay, grime, wear and weather. Put another way, doing housework is like combating aging. All you can do is wage a battle to forestall the inevitable degeneration. But wage war – and degenerate – we do.
Which brings us to the rude awakening. My kids, like me, keep thinking housework is someone else’s job. If they’re going to do it, they protest, like Lupe, they want to get paid. As usual, this is my fault.
Until now, I believed that one of my most rewarding maternal moments came several years ago. I was reading one of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books to my older daughter, who was around 7. In one scene Laura’s pioneer mother cuts an apple in half so the seeds make a star pattern. She explains to young Laura that the seeds are like a mother’s role in the home. She does a lot of special things that no one sees. While that’s a lovely message, fitting for the 1800s, I would like my girls to leave more vivid marks on the world. So after reading that passage, I asked my daughter, “What do you think I’d tell you about a woman’s role today?”
Without hesitating, she answered, “You’d say family is important, and so is career and let someone else do the housework.” Bingo. My love for her knew no bounds.
Only now I’m trying to undo that feminist upbringing, which defies its own laws of science (I’ll save that for another column), and motivate my daughters to roll up their sleeves and pitch in.
I lay down the family law along with the new domestic policy:
– As a consuming member of the family who contributes to the general disorder of the house, you will cheerfully pitch in because you are part of this team. (Groans.)
– You will make your bed every morning, and clean your room and bathroom on weekends. (Gasps.)
– You will bring your dirty clothes to the laundry room on the assigned day, and put away what I’ve washed. If not, your clothes will stay dirty another week unless you wash them yourself. (Threats to call Children’s Protective Services.)
– You will alternate dog-scooping duty with each other, and help in the kitchen, washing your hands between those tasks. (Argument over whose turn it is ensues.)
– Before bed you will comb the house for your stray belongings and return them to their rightful places. Anything collected after hours will become Mom’s property, to be sold at auction, donated or possibly earned back by the original owner in exchange for more chores. (Does that include schoolbooks?)
After I’ve gone over the rules and given the entropy talk, I lift each child’s eyelids to check for consciousness. “Got it?” I ask.
“Got it,” they groan. Then together add: “How much?”
Marni Jameson is a nationally syndicated columnist who lives in the Denver area. You may reach her at marnij@comcast.net.
