This afternoon, my husband and I spent a good chunk of time moving furniture out of our bedroom and dining room in preparation for Redoing Floors, Part 2. Here’s what I was thinking about as I lifted, pushed and pinched my fingers:
1. I always blow household jobs out of proportion; I overestimate the time they take, and give them too much emotional weight. The actual moving of furniture only took about two hours, but I’ve been feeling increasingly stressed and anxious about it for the past few days, to the extent of stomping around this morning in a terrifying mood because I knew we had to tackle it today. (Sorry, honey.) I can attribute part of this to the fact that I dislike disorder. I have trouble feeling calm when my surroundings are messy, so I wasn’t looking forward to having our house in this disorganized state. But mostly, I think, my anxiety stems from overestimating the amount of time it will take to do the task. Moving things from room to room has so many small steps, so many trips between rooms, so many swipes of the dust cloth, that thinking through all those steps completely overwhelms me. I know I should try to just do one thing at a time, think one step ahead, as I do when I tackle other big projects: one workout at a time, 1,000 words written a day. But I seem to be unable to do this with household chores. I build it up in my mind until it takes over. Ironically, once I actually start moving/organizing/cleaning, I usually enjoy it.
2. My in-laws are coming over tonight to bring us dinner and visit with Edwin. Here’s how I know that I really see them as my own family: I don’t care that the house is in the worst shape it’s been in since we moved in. I don’t care that there are dust bunnies skating around between stacks of displaced dresser drawers. I don’t care that our dining room table is packed up and we have to eat off TV trays. I don’t even care that I haven’t showered since before the furniture moving and I don’t have all my makeup on. (There probably is time to remedy that.) I would care about all of those things even with close friends visiting. I would feel embarrassed for myself and my house, and I would be running around like crazy trying to fix things up.
Some people never get to this point with their in-laws. Mine have seen me pale and shaking in hospital beds and passed out on restaurant floors. (Stomach flu/pregnancy; dehydration.) They’ve seen me intensely sleep-deprived and dealing with the emotions of being a new mother. They’ve lived with me in several vacation houses and know all my routines and food preferences. Getting past these experiences, along with the everyday love and care that we all share, make them my family.
Who would have expected such insight while moving furniture? Perhaps I’ll get more creative inspiration when we have to (moan, groan) move it all back again in a few days.