I do think I can do everything … but I can’t

I am at home this morning waiting for my newly engaged cleaner to arrive. We are, unfortunately, still renting. For reasons too complicated and distressing to go into here, this situation has been going on longer than I would have liked. The house is old. It is hard to keep clean. Paint flakes. Carpet fluffs. Lino cracks. Things rust, leak and sag. Dust eddies. I have been struggling. I am banned by my GP from doing housework to alleviate my tendonitis and carpel tunnel (since when did I have so many things wrong with me?) I regularly ignore the advice and scrub away. It has however been a struggle. It is frustrating.

In an attempt to regain some control and spurred on by our bi-annual estate agent ‘inspection’ I have engaged a cleaner. Highly recommended. Considered excellent.

There is only one problem. The way it makes me feel and the way I should feel. I should feel glad. Some of the jobs in my life are done by someone else. Great! My house will be clean regularly. Great! It isn’t a huge inconvenience or an issue. Great! Except it is an issue. A big issue.

For me, in spite of myself, and my firmly held commitment to feminism, liberation from drudgery, to being independent, I am still feeling like the act of not doing my own housework calls my womanhood into question. I feel like I should be able to do it. I should be able to take care of my child, cook good food, keep the house clean and have some fun. After all I am not doing paid work. But I can’t. No one else can either! Quick straw poll of my mum friends. Nearly all of them have some assistance. Or a cleaner, a baby sitter, someone to help them.

Maybe then it isn’t a woman problem. Maybe it is a control issue. It could be that I think I can do everything. That sounds more plausible. I do think I can do everything. Alone. preferably unassisted and between the hours of 1 and 3pm when Benedict is usually asleep. This is, of course, ridiculous and will send me insane or to an early grave or both.

Motherhood it seems is about acceptance. Lots and lots and lots of it. Accept yourself. Accept you get the children you deserve. Acceptance that you cannot do everything. Acceptance that you will have bad days where you want to leave home and never return, expose the child on the hillside or drop him off with his father and then leave home. Your hair will get long. Your nails will be bad. Your bed won’t get made. Your house will be filthy – some of the time.

Accept too that you can see your friends. Get a cleaner. Go to mothers’ group. Cuddle your partner. Ignore the dirty house and play with Duplo. Cuddle your baby and make him laugh.