Mar. 9: Magic wand, please

I spent most of yesterday cleaning out our closet, which expanded into the larger project of cleaning our bedroom. I really hate cleaning because of the way I make myself do it. I can’t clean by simply straightening up and putting things away; I have to clear out the space that needs to be cleaned, wipe it down with a wet rag and/or vacuum, entirely re-organize the space, analyze each item that goes back in it to decide whether it should be kept, and so on. But it doesn’t stop there. If I decide not to keep something, I then need to decide if it should be donated, thrown away, or given to a friend (usually applicable just to kids’ clothing, toys and books). This creates several areas in which things get piled as I go through my cleaning process. It’s exhausting and messy and you really should stay out of my way, especially if you are my husband or children or pets.

The problem with cleaning this way is that I procrastinate. Big, overwhelming tasks cannot be completed in a short 15 minutes of dedicated cleaning time. And just doing the little parts of it, like, say, putting away clean laundry? No room in the drawers. Vacuuming? Can’t; there are too many stacks of clean laundry on the floor. I wait for the right day, for a long stretch of time, and the motivation to tackle the project. These things almost never occur at the same time. It takes a perfect storm.

In other words, perfectionism is a good trait when it comes to spelling, punctuation and taxes, but sucks when applied to almost anything else. Especially cleaning.

As is the case with many parents I know, the master bedroom is the room in our house that gets cleaned least often. When we have to straighten up for guests, a lot gets thrown in our room. When the kids have a stack of clothes they’ve outgrown, it goes in our room until I can sort through it. Piles of mail, art projects the kids want to preserve, spare bedding, the dogs’ crates… if it needs to be out of sight, it usually ends up going in our room. Then we close the door and tell Katie and Jack that it is not to be opened—under any circumstances whatsoever—until the last guest has gone.

I remember when the master bedroom was a pleasant place to be. It was a bit of a retreat; a lovely child-free environment in which every item in the room belonged to me or Victor. Those were happy days. I’m trying very hard to get back to that place, at least to some degree; to make our room ours again. My sister is part of my inspiration, as she occasionally sends me beautiful pictures of the master bedroom in her new home—it looks peaceful and neat and matchy-matchy and I want to live in it.

There are a few things we’ve done that make our room special: we changed the wall color from a dramatic navy blue to a soft aqua-y blue a while ago. Our linens are high thread count and delightfully comfy. We have soft lighting and large windows that create a refreshing breeze. There is definitely a relaxing quality to the master bedroom. It’s all the SHIT everywhere in between all these elements that make it a much less pleasant place than we’d like it to be.

It’s easy to forget how vitally important having a space of one’s own can be—and for me, to keep that space clean and clutter-free. I may be working on it for the rest of my life, but I am determined that it will happen.

Yesterday’s perfect storm came and went, and I didn’t get the project completed, but I still have some motivation so I’m not giving up. By the time I’m done, you’ll be able to see floor in our closet and the runner on my dresser. I can barely remember what color they are.