The Laziness Myth

When I was young, relatives called me lazy because I sat and read a book while the other children played, but that same "lazy" child took on the housekeeping for nine people, at age ten, after her mother died. It was war time and a cousin and her two small children, a half-sister, her husband and her two children stayed with my father and me while they worked at the same shipyard as my father. I was old enough to cook, and young enough to want to, so I fixed meals for the tired workers. It was expected of me to clean up, so I did. They didn't see me working, they only saw me reading. They didn't consider fixing meals work when I did it and the cleanup was my job anyway so that didn't count. Does taking care of eight other people sound like lazy? Maybe not trained in the most efficient way to do things, but certainly not lazy. If you believe the myth that you're lazy, non-op could become a habit.

I wanted to believe it was possible to learn a better way, so I started looking to upgrade my job skills (you know--find a better way, build a better mouse trap). Now, having learned a better way, even if I sometimes fall back to the old way because it seems easier, I don't forget the better way and sooner or later, I again choose to live the better way. It surprised me to find out that as I gained more knowledge I could deal more effectively with my problems.

Speaking of problems, it seems I always had them. I married at 18, and had a colicky son at 19. When I say colicky, I mean screaming day and night! I would walk the floor at all hours, bouncing, rubbing, cajoling, singing, dancing, driving, pleading, crying him to comfort. That was the 50's. I didn't have a caring doctor or nurturing relatives to tell me I was doing okay. Just a husband who yelled at me to "keep that baby quiet so I can get some sleep. I have to work, ya know!" My selective memory deleted Darling's exhaustion from working a full day, going to school, coming home, picking up that same colicky baby, walking, pacing, dancing, singing, jiggling, trying to soothe and comfort his beloved new son until, in total frustration, he vented his anger at me. I never once considered his anger as an expression of his helpless frustration at being unable to comfort his obviously hurting new son or that his anger was really aimed at himself because he felt helpless--I took it personally. I believed it was a personal criticism of my ability as a mother. It was August and the only air-conditioning we had was an open window. The neighbors complained. I was condemned for not being a good mother because I couldn't keep my baby quiet. Somehow, his constant crying was my fault. Finally, at about age six months, he slept through the night. By that time I was pregnant with twins.

With the GI Bill, we moved into our dream house. I was expecting "happily ever after," but became the neighborhood joke. I was called lazy because of the mountain of clean laundry in residence constantly recycling on the sofa in the living room. We didn't have all-day-wear disposable diapers. My delicate-skinned babies were allergic to plastic and rubber pants, so I changed them every time they were wet, which seemed all the time! The neighbors knew the washer was in the garage. Why couldn't they see that the quickest place to dump one of the five loads of baby clothes and eight dozen diapers I did every day was the sofa? By the time I got back inside with an armload of wash, one or more of the babies were crying and needed immediate attention. Now that I am a grandmother, I marvel that the clothes were even clean, if not folded and put away. My twins, now mothers themselves, took their toddlers shopping, and after an hour came home exhausted and irritable. When asked why, they replied, "Have you ever tried to take three babies shopping?" I laughed. "Poor dears! And there are two of you!"

Life continued to happen. I had three more children in four more years. I went downhill from there. With more people came more work. The more I tried to teach my children how to take care of themselves, the more they resisted and avoided. Although I was skilled at doing chores, cleaning, and even cooking, no one had taught me the tricks of the trade. Physical disorders, coupled with having six children in nine years, caused me to suffer chronic fatigue. The task of daily upkeep for eight active people was overwhelming. I would drag myself out of bed to take care of babies, do the laundry, muck out the toilets, fix meals. This was all sandwiched between phone calls, taxi service, nursing care, cub scouts, you name it. I would attempt to clean up the mess and tried to remember to feed myself in between all these and other tasks. Somehow, I never got enough time to get back into my room to make my bed. That unmade bed became the symbol of my failure as a wife, mother, housekeeper and homemaker. That failure was reinforced every time I re-entered my room for whatever reason. Without my being aware of it I had introduced a habit of failure into my daily life. I accepted it. After all, everyone said I was lazy and there was the proof in the form of my unmade bed. Every time I looked in the mirror, a frumpy, unhappy failure looked back at me.

I thought life would be easier with teenagers, who would be big enough to share the work load, but I found that teenagers have a natural bent toward resistance and avoidance. You might even say they have a natural tendency to rebel. When I asked my teenagers to make their beds, hang up their clothes, put their bath towels in the laundry, or set the table, they thought I was "invading their space." So their beds remained unmade, their clothes remained unhung, their bath towels remained on the bathroom floor, and I had more work to do. Not knowing how to make better use of my time and energy, or even that I could, didn't help. I felt it was my responsibility to keep my house in order, but my family could mess it up faster than I could clean it. I compared myself to others, who seemed to have their lives in order. That just made it worse, because it seemed the hurrier I went, the behinder I got! (Another hitch came in moving four times, lock, stock and barrel.)