They won’t remember the clean skirting boards and the freshly mopped floors.
They won’t remember the dishes washed and put away moments after they’ve finished eating.
They won’t remember the garden that looks more like an overgrown forrest while they talk of fairies, and I stare at the weeds.
They won’t remember the housework I managed to get done in my frazzled state, and the lists I crossed off.
They won’t remember the clean surfaces or windows where their little handprints once were.
So I often wonder why it’s so important to me.
Somehow over time I’ve forgotten.
Or rather always believed, that a clean and orderly house is a reflection of my mothering.
When my only reflection is in them.
So today it waits.
Today I lessen my self imposed load.
And the world won’t implode.
Half the time I don’t know where ‘there’ is, because my mind is always elsewhere.
But I want them to remember I was ‘there’.
Because mothering isn’t housekeeping.
No they won’t remember the washing that was done, dried and folded in a day.
And I don’t want that to be all I remember.
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