Laundry. Such a mundane task. Most people gripe about it - especially when it involves having to do other peoples'. It's one of those unfortunate and necessary evils.
In the past, I've always felt this way. The idea of staying home and spending my days cleaning up after some man just screamed miserable 1950's, pill-popping housewife. I knew that if I married a man who expected that, I'd end up chain smoking Virginia Slims and the marriage would last all of a week - until the laundry needed cleaning and the floors needed mopping. I am a modern woman, for goodness sake. I owned my own business and lived alone and opened my own jars and my own doors. My future was worth more than signing up for a life as a live in maid.
But, when I married Ernie, all of my modern-woman-hear-me-roar talk went out the window. Knowing my stance as the "ultra emancipated woman", he never expected me to do his laundry, clean house, and pick up his dry cleaning. In fact, he sort of enjoys cleaning. He was happy just to be marrying someone that had other things to fill her time.
But, just before we got married, my soon to be mother-in-law gave me a piece of advice that has run through my head almost every day since. She said:
"Always treat your husband as a king, because if you don't, some other woman will."
And, I thought, "Of course! What is the harm in taking care of him in a traditional way? In taking the weight of all the everyday tasks off of his shoulders so that he can focus on his career and on being a better soldier? He would love it! But, oh no! It will probably just make him happier and in turn, our marriage stronger..." What was the point of not doing something so simple as his laundry to make a statement that I am a free woman, not restricted by the rules of traditional marital roles? Doing these tasks would still allow me time to accomplish all of my goals, and it would fulfill that biological womanly need to nurture, to care for my family. But, most importantly, it was a simple, small way that my husband could feel like a king everyday.
Much to my surprise, I found that taking care of him in this very primitive, very traditional way was more satisfying than anything I have ever done. It has triggered something in my brain that gives me the ultimate feeling of satisfaction - like my life has a definite purpose, and that purpose is to bring ease, joy, and comfort to the lives of the people that I love most.
Which is why, when I was doing the laundry yesterday, I had a total melt down.
I found myself smelling every piece of clothing lying around the bedroom, completely unable to throw the ones that still smell like him, into the laundry basket. It felt as if washing those clothes, folding them and putting them away would be the ultimate sign that he was gone.
Not having his crumpled undershirts lying on the floor seems unbearable.
The fact that his belt is still weaved through the loops of his pants makes it feel like he just took them off, and that he's still here somehow. Maybe he just slipped into a different pair of jeans and is out for a few moments to pick up a paper and a coffee for me. Maybe he's down in the basement, rooting through his Army gear. Either way, it still feels like he's here when I see his clothes lying about.
As I was sobbing and folding his clothes that I did manage to clean, I was so upset knowing that this would be the last time for a long, long time that I would be taking care of him in this usual way. That it would be many months before he opens his closet to see that I have spent a small part of my day trying to let him know that he has a wife who worships him.
But then I thought, how can I feel better about this? If having his dirty pants on the windowsill makes me feel better, what is the harm in leaving them there? What is the damage done by having these little pieces of him, these little reminders that he will be right back? They don't smell. They don't obstruct a walkway.
And, so, I decided to keep them there.
I decided that, when I am ready, I can toss them in the wash, fold them, and put them away. But, if I never get there, it's totally okay. The goal is to thrive through this deployment, and if a couple of dirty shirts, a pair of socks, and some cargo pants helps me get there, then their new home is on the windowsill.
No comments:
Post a Comment