There was an initial heavy thud followed by three or four quick bangs before my college roommate, Katherine, landed at the bottom of our skinny wooden stairs, her long limbs askew.
My other roommates and I ran to check on her. The other two quickly chalked up Katherine’s fall to the fact that we had just gotten back from “Penny Pitcher” night at one of our favorite bars. However, Katherine spotted the evidence that I was trying to slyly toe behind the fridge before anyone noticed.
Between classes and going out for cheap beer, I had Pledged our stairs to a high shine. In my haste to hit the town, I had stupidly left the bright yellow bottle and dust rag at the bottom of the stairs – right beside where my friend landed.
Katherine screamed, “Sosha, did you WAX our steps?”
She didn’t question our other roommates. There was no need. If steps had been cleaned, it had been me, the notorious neat freak…the person who was known to wake early after a raging party and vacuum around bodies still passed out from the night before.
I have always been tidy. Anyone who has taken an entry level psych class could tell you that it is a way for me to control aspects of my life. I don’t argue with that. I grew up in chaos and now order and cleanliness bring me a sense of calm. Furthermore, when any of our various rental houses, trailers or apartments were clean and tidy, it meant that my mom was in a good way. So, I also equate a tidy home to the rare happy times I had with my parents.
I am aware that my fastidious tendencies can drive those closest to me to the brink of insanity. I am constantly putting still-in-use cups and glasses in the dishwasher. I can’t allow a pair of shoes time away from their assigned space if they are not on someone’s feet. I am constantly getting bleach spots on clothes because I think the power of Clorox is as close to seeing a miracle as I’ll ever get.
My daughter, Conley, did not inherit, as she calls it, the neat gene. Her housekeeping style is goat-like. For the past dozen years I have worked hard at not forcing my neuroses on her. And, last week, I found out what a spectacular job that I had done with that section of parenting.
When Covid hit and we were barely leaving the house, I tried to make life inside the walls of our house as comfortable as possible for her. We set up the spare bedroom with a desk and school supplies. She found an old mini-fridge in her dad’s shop and we cleaned it up and filled it with drinks and snacks. She also had her room filled with a comfortable bed, board games and books upon books. It was the type of set up that I would have slayed dragons for at her age. I was proud and happy that despite the world being on fire, the person I loved most could feel secure in our home.
Since we had vastly different ideas of what constituted neat and clean, I decided that it was best if I just didn’t spend much time upstairs. When I would ask about the state of the upper part of our house, my daughter would assure me that it “wasn’t that bad”.
When she went back to school, I decided it was time for me to give the upstairs a thorough cleaning. It was bad. Really, really bad.
I spent hours upon hours sorting clothes. I filled an entire laundry basket with plates and bowls. I threw away more than a dozen empty Gatorade bottles that had claimed squatter’s rights and I washed out what was the beginnings of prison hooch from her trash can. I called my husband on the brink of tears and told him that I had been in port-a-johns that hadn’t made me as sad.
I had a fiery speech planned for my daughter, but by the time she got home from school I was too exhausted from making her room gleam like the top of the Chrysler building for my filibuster. I explained to her that the state of her room was far from acceptable. That it was disrespectful and that we expected more from her. I reminded her that there were many people who would love nothing more than to walk into a home that welcomes them every day.
She’s an old empathetic soul. I think she got it.
I came from a chaotic, unstable world. My childhood instilled many of my attributes that I hold most dear today. It also left me with demons that I still fight. I try to pass along my determination and focus to my daughter while attempting to keep my control and abandonment issues away from her.
If a messy room is the worst I’ve had to deal with out of her so far, I’ll take it. However, can someone let me know if there is still a reward for Jimmy Hoffa because I think I found him under a pile of clothes in my daughter’s room.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
