Grandma’s working on the yard today, pulling crab grass and weeds by hand. She says it gives her motivation to do further chores. She needs her house in order to think, she says. Her house before she slashed the tire, and had to move to transitional housing, was always immaculate. The houses before the same.
Grandma herself is quite tidy, though prone to buying too much stuff: toys and clothing for the animals, electronics for the kids, extra cans and dry food; everything in abundance. She wants to ensure she has everything she needs in case of disaster. But things keep going missing.
Towels walking off. Three whole sets of them. Pyrex dishes. Things of value that she’s bought quality versions of. Are the items merely lost in the mess, tucked away in someone’s pile of clothes on the floor? It’s hard to know. The house is overwhelmed with items. The living room stacked around each wall with items. Items packed up the stairs. In the hallways. Around every corner.
Everything seems stacked against her. The neighbours she sees outside running around with their dog unleashed. The very same neighbours who called the Humane Society on Grandma for her dogs off leash. Grandma just notices it in passing, unwilling to be spiteful.
“I’ve been working since this morning. Like, I’ve actually stuck with it. When I first started out I was in such bad shape, but am slowly getting clear,” she proudly exclaims.
She’s been working daily to try and get the house into some kind of shape, and failing miserably. Her fingers are sore because she didn’t wear working gloves in her task, even though some exist elsewhere in her house. Somewhere amongst the piles.
Grandma would really benefit from organization, although how long it would stay in that form is not hard to predict. Every time anything gets cleaned, it’s messed up within a day or two. Grandma feels like she’s tried everything. Chore charts with the grandkids, even.
“I might have to quit soon, I’m getting too damn sore,” she cries out. “Oh, I need a coffee. Oh, my body.”
She gets up from her stool on the grass and goes inside, the little dog Molly following close behind her, whining as she does. She grabs a coffee and crashes on the couch, Molly crying as she does.
“Go to bed, you’re driving me,” she says to Molly. The cat cries and she exclaims, “I was just there!”
Never ending tasks to do in a house with 3 early 20-somethings, up to 5 dogs, 2 cats, and one tired Grandma.
Have you ever noticed how much easier it is to think when your surroundings finally feel under control?
If this story made you think about the exhausting work of trying to keep a home, and yourself, together, restack it and share it with someone who understands.
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