Mom on Strike!

I will first confess that I am not OCD when it comes to cleaning. I love having a tidy house, workspace, desk, and so on, but I don’t get overly uptight when things aren’t in impeccable order. Honestly, I just have more important things to do with my time. I’d rather be blogging, scrapbooking, sewing, reading, or any other variety of things than scrub down my bathroom. But even I have my limits.

I hit that wall on Tuesday night. I had been gone all day after volunteering at the school, grocery and clothes shopping, picking kids up and driving them around, and even managing to throw a satisfactory meal together for everyone in less than 20 minutes. All I asked was that they have the kitchen tidied up before I got home from a temple trip with their dad that evening. Was it done three hours later? Did they even start? An emphatic NO to both questions. In fact, it was worse than when I left. So the question I really needed to ask myself was: How long am I going to tolerate it?

Admittedly, I started a bit of a mom rant/guilt trip upon those within earshot. I informed them that I would not be cooking them dinner the following night if I had to clean up all their dirty dishes, school papers, and debris they left on the counter and all over the living room. John rallied, “Yes! Go on strike. I’ll be your union. Don’t do anything until they can keep this place clean.” With my only appreciative patron behind me, that’s exactly what I decided to do.

And the stakes got higher. I had just enough time to clean the disastrous kitchen before the kids came home from school Wednesday afternoon. When they asked “what’s for dinner?” my reply was simply “whatever you can find.” Downcast faces and sullen “Oh’s…” revealed their disappointment that Mom had not forgotten her prior evening’s threat. Worse for them, they asked if they would be able to go swimming like they usually do on Wednesday afternoons and I said “have you put away all your laundry from Monday?” A few sighs ensued and they trudged down to the basement to retrieve the rest of the clothes sitting in a pile in the family room. Meanwhile, I set to work making cheese quesadillas and mango salsa, fried zucchini, tomatoes, and onions, and steamed some sweet potatoes for John and myself.

I dropped the kids off at the pool since they met that end of the deal, then came home to eat with John and clean up afterward. When I picked them up, they had a clean work area to start with. Much whining and grumpiness ensued. One child even took off on his bike for a while to blow off his irritation with me. But I stood my ground. Eventually, everyone ate something—mostly thanks to my 11-year-old daughter cooking spaghetti noodles and meatballs with parmesean cheese. A couple of people nuked potatoes too.

But the kitchen remained clean after the evening meal (and a little nagging) so we were off to a good start.

Thursday night was worse. As they’d used up their knowledge of what they could successfully cook, they were left without inspiration as to what to eat for their evening meal. Their agitation at my trying a new recipe my friend sent me—Chicken Chimichurri—and only fixing enough for two resulted in our youngest daughter stomping around the house slamming doors and yelling, our elder daughter curled up in a corner of the kitchen and wept bitterly since she was left with cleaning up dishes from cooking pasta the previous night, Our oldest son grumbled and griped about how he had too much homework to have time to cook, and the other two boys ignored me by playing video games in the basement. As much as I had wondered several days prior if it was wise for us to be gone so late on a school night to attend my brother's debut band concert in Provo, it was the best thing in the world for my own sanity and resolve to hold out. Despite how angry they all were at me, I came home to a clean kitchen and a finished load in the dishwasher.

Friday evening unfortunately proved to really only be a detriment to John. After a visit to the temple for the boys and a workout at the rec center and a playdate at a friend's house for the girls, no one thought much about dinner—including myself after piecing on leftovers in the fridge. But John came home from work hungry and I had nothing for him. It was not a good moment. And we were already running late to go to my nephew's birthday party. I took the younger four and headed to Kaysville leaving John and a last-minute-showering 15-year-old to fend for themselves and meet up with us later. Essentially dinner was cake and ice cream, plus John showing them all how to make a quick pesto from Wednesday’s leftover spaghetti when we got home.

So somehow we all survived it. And we are now heading into day five of people cleaning up after themselves. I still have to issue the occasional reminder to take care of that dish on the counter, but they tend to hop to it a little faster now. They know I mean what I say. It’s been an emotional ride, but one that we’ve all learned from. I think I explained myself and my motives best when I sent a good friend this message Friday morning:

“Cleaning up after people has been a 'staple' for 16 years, though John tends to be naturally tidier and cleaner than me. I have tried to teach my children how to pick up after themselves, but I'm not always the best example myself. If I clean up my own messes, I don't have time to tackle theirs. And if I work on theirs, I don't have time to work on my own. So I'm caught.

This 'strike' was my way of showing the kids what are my messes and what are theirs. I wouldn't mind doing the fine tuning for them if I didn't have to worry about the bulk of the task too. I can never get that far. So our house is rarely ideally clean. Especially when the eldest & youngest leave a wake behind them wherever they go. Sadly, the three in the middle are suffering the most because they're better at picking up after themselves and are most willing to help out, but what none of my children do is simply notice when something needs to be done and pitch in and do it (a tall order I know). By my not doing anything for them and insisting that everything must remain clean or I will remain on strike is opening their eyes a little. I've been a pushover too long and John has suggested I do something drastic like this for quite a while. He's behind me 100% and that has been helpful.

If nothing else, it has proven to me that I still know how to cook for just two people and that when I do it takes me half as long and I can clean up afterward in just a few minutes. That's powerful leverage—to know what you really can and can't do and not just assume. Then I can set my expectations bar a little higher for both my kids and myself.”

Now my family knows too. Hopefully, mom’s strike will prove to be the springboard for positive change