the food lasts longer.
so does the cleaning.
routines are simpler.
decisions too.
but less than 48 hours later,
our hearts ache in his absence.
so we tell them:
don’t be silly,
he’ll be back soon.
but hearts are funny that way.
families too.
I’ve written about the importance of chores before, including these posts:
How Full is Your Plate? an online workshop for moms
But what I’ve failed to fully admit is how much easier it would be to do everything myself.
(And it would be done a lot better.)
Why do I bother?
I’d like to say that I do it all for them–to make them better citizens, humans, energetic beings (and that is true); but another truth is that I don’t want to do everything so it’s worth it to have some jobs done less than perfectly.
BUT the angst. THE ANGST!
The reminding. The redirecting. The reprimands.
Sometimes I find myself questioning if it’s worth it, and questioning whether I should be encouraging other people to suffer like this by leading workshops on chore sharing in the home.
And then there are those other times, when in the distance, I hear the sweet and soothing sound of a boy swishing a toilet, or vacuuming a room, or emptying waste baskets; and I think: I AM BRILLIANT.
But what if you like doing your own chores and want them done perfectly?
I still recommend sharing the load. Here’s why:
But what if your teen’s resistance is so strong that it takes way more energy than you can manage to keep them in the game?
It’s still vital. For them.
Try a dose of creativity, like this:
And now for a new chunk of highly salient information expanding on why it’s worth the EFFORT:
Kids need conflict to grow up. Particularly teenagers. It’s part of the individuation process. It’s how they begin to separate from our cozy nest and shape their own flight.
When I accept that conflict is necessary, I surrender to it, and not just that, I RESPECT it.
This is quite revolutionary.
Conflict isn’t in the way,
it IS The Way.
I’d like to take credit for this awareness, but my therapist gets a lot of that.
See this post for how I put it into action:
And here’s something even more radical for your consideration:
Since conflict is a necessary part of the developmental process, particularly with teens, then how cool is it that they get their daily/weekly dose of parental conflict in a way that makes such a foundational difference in family life–working together to honor and contribute to the space we share–rather than investing it in other areas with much higher stakes. (Think sex, drugs, alcohol.)
Last night I felt the “Lloyd void.”
Lloyd is my first born, and after a month at home (following a season abroad), we deposited him back at the university.
This. This is my first morning of my first week alone in the home since before Thanksgiving.
I work at home. I require clear space to do my work. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally.
After a month of sweet chaos together, Lloyd’s final week home was so turbulent as to render the separation less severe. (Think episiotomy.)
The tension reached its physical climax, however, on our final morning together, as we stood face to face, above the last box, in a tug of war–with a kettle.
I knew that the unpacking of this last box wasn’t entirely rational, especially since it was already loaded into the car.
But it wasn’t organized. It had a jumble of food and pharmacy and odds and ends that had no business together; and more importantly, I couldn’t tell if he had everything he needed. Without me.
So before he got up, I unpacked it and resorted it–into like items–each with their own smaller box; and then I dashed around the house, adding things–like tea, and bandaids and peanutbutter.
When he came down the stairs to the sight of this intrusion, he was appalled. He started throwing everything back into the larger box; while I tried to stop him. Like the tide. Of time. And life. And love.
The kettle was large enough that we could both have our hands on it at the same time. We each pulled in our own direction.
“Let me have this,” I said, and I didn’t mean the kettle.
Please, let me have this irrational, let-me-do-this-last-thing-for-you, mother-panicked, moment.
And he did.
The Empty Nest Diary 