Gratitude Sweep
I’d always had two women, Nora and Blanca, come to help clean the house. They’d been coming for fifteen years; needless to say, we were close.
They watched me grow Tate in my belly, vacuumed around me half-naked, pumping both breasts at once, with a fussy little one scrambling for my lap. They’d witnessed her growth and mine, always rushing around them, chasing my girl, cooking for her or racing to go pick her up.
Endlessly, thanking them - on repeat - for being there to help. I didn’t know what I’d do without their support, every couple of weeks. Before Tate was born, I was grateful for this support but after, it felt like the biggest gift I’d ever given myself.
Now, it’s COVID, so they can’t come. Too risky. Nobody knows what’s okay anymore, with so many in the hospital and dying. The pandemic is just starting. We’re playing it ultra-safe.
This leaves all of the cleaning to me. Of course, every day I clean up the house and organize and wash dishes but the deeper cleaning, I’d become accustomed to Nora and Blanca doing.
The house isn’t as dirty because we aren’t coming in and going out the way we used to but still, it needs attention with us and the shedding dog home twenty-four seven.
Slowly, I take on the tasks I’d given away. I wash our sheets. I wipe down the cupboards and clean the bathrooms. Some of these I’d missed. Some I still can’t stand.
At dinner, sitting and staring at one another, again, it feels like Groundhog Day. Just the two of us. Gulp.
I listen to her high, “I got to have lunch on Facetime with Claire”. So sad. Yet, worth celebrating. What times we’re in.
Her low, “I’m super mad we’re still not back in school.” For an extrovert only child, it’s painful how lonely she is. I’m helpless.
My turn.
“Well, my low is how sad I know you are, sweet pea, having to spend so much time away from your friends. I’m so sorry.” She scowls at me, in appreciation. I sit with it. Feel my helplessness.
Then, I perk up with, “My high is a bit funny tonight but kind of cool.” Tate peeks, curious.
“You know how much I don’t enjoy sweeping. It’s so slow and incomplete and messy and imperfect. You can’t get everything into the silly dustpan that moves around, so frustrating - ach.”
“But, today!” I brighten.
“Today, I was sweeping the whole house from back to front and I remembered who I was,” I pause, dramatically.
“It’s true. It was almost as if I was meeting myself again, for the first time, in a long time. Remeeting, I don’t know. I just,” sigh, “remembered myself.”
Tate tilts her head to the side, “So, you like sweeping now?”
“Yeah, I mean maybe, maybe I love it. Because I love me.”
“That’s deep, Mama.”
