Keeping House

My book club just finished reading "The Help" by Kathryn Stockett. I highly recommend the book for many reasons- it's one of those books that made me fall in love with the characters, and it opened my eyes to a period in time that I knew nothing about. It was sweet without being sappy, and realistic without making me too depressed.

It did, however, make me feel like a lazy bum.

In "The Help", you will read very descriptive accounts of the household chores that southern black maids in the fifties completed each week. These included polishing the silver, waxing the floors, washing, mending, sewing, and making elaborate meals from scratch each day. I aim to cook most of my dinners in under thirty minutes; these maids started making the evening meal first thing in the morning.

So one day after reading a few chapters, I felt inspired to go a little wild. I made egg salad sandwiches for lunch! I boiled, peeled and chopped the eggs, mixed in the mayo and mustard, toasted the bread, washed some lettuce and sliced up fruit to complete the meal. I felt accomplished. This wasn't just peanut butter and jelly or reheated leftovers, it was a labor of love. (Grandma Moorse, feel free to laugh at me as you whip up your five course lunches from scratch.)

And all the while, the kids were playing nicely in the living room. (this is called foreshadowing)

I assembled the sandwiches, carried them to the table, and my jaw dropped to the floor. What had my children been doing while I slaved away in the kitchen? Systematically deconstructing the living room. All of the books within reach were strewn on the floor and piled on the newly-cushionless couch. I nearly slipped on a pile of Kix by the dining room table (What is it with my kids and Kix?), toys were everywhere. This room had been in some semblance of order before I started cooking... and now look.


My pride balloon quickly deflated as I picked my way through the minefield and ushered my children to the table. All I could think was, "How did Aibileen do it?" She did the cleaning and the cooking and the caring for children, and everything was always in order. I attempt to tackle one area and another one pops up to taunt me. It's like playing Domestic Whack-a-Mole.

I don't have a moral to this story, but please do read the book. Just beware: it may inspire you to become Superwoman Housewife and then quietly mock you when you are reminded that you are human.

I'm human. But I may try to be Superwoman again someday. Off I fly to tackle the dirty dishes!