We had two children, ages 4 and 6 at the time, and I was
wondering how our friends, let’s call them Bob and Jen, could possibly go
through a whole week of working 40 plus hours, laundry, dishes, dusting,
vacuuming, etc… (all the things you do real quick when you find your in-laws
will be arriving sooner than later).
We
arrived on time (this, as well, ANOTHER story all together!) and were greeted
cheerfully by Bob. I guess if I were
Bob, knew that my kids were at my mom’s, and was guaranteed a night of freedom
and, well, no ‘interruptions’ from children for 14-18 hours, I’d be that
cheerful too. He swung open the door wide, grinning and inviting us in.
The home’s hardwood floors and polished wood staircase
SPARKLED. I expected to see a tidy, yet thrown together mess of toys in the
corner of the living room, there were none to be found (not even under the
couch). There were fresh cut flowers in an intricately etched crystal vase (the kind you
don’t bring out where the kids can get at it) sitting on the coffee table.
Music was playing quietly, and as I peered further into their home, I could see
that the fondue was set, and the promised chocolate fountain bubbled away
without any small beings hovering about it. Jen’s home was immaculate! Did I
tell you that the floors SPARKLED?
We enjoyed the first few hours of chat, catching up on the
details of what we were doing, and where we were going. There was a silent code
of ‘no child talk’ that we danced around and stumbled around rather awkwardly.
The three couples there had experienced a life that was engulfed with nothing more
than issues with pediatritians, school woes, and the next best deal on clothes
and shoes for the kids. Aside from the occasional debate about new
vaccinations, or illnesses that our children had recently contracted, it was
mostly a ‘child talk-less’ night.
I couldn’t help but admire how the sink was dry and shiny
(if there’s a drop of water, it usually means they’ve just finished the
dishes). The counters were free of clutter, and there was no sign that children
lived in the home, other than the random pictures that dotted the downstairs
rooms. I asked Jen how she could manage working and raising 5 wonderful
children (the youngest at the time was 4 years old, and yes, they truly
were/are ‘wonderful children’) and pull off entertaining us with such wonderful
fare and a perfect house. She pulled me
aside, in a shocked sense, and asked me “Hasn’t your sister-in-law taught you how
to do this yet?!”
“Damned in-laws”, I thought. For someone that imagined a
good relationship with her sister in-laws, they were still holding out secrets
from me. I guess I hadn’t reached ‘that’ point, where you share the deep, dark
family secrets with the newest member of the family.
“What are you talking about Jen?” “The kitchen cabinet
trick!” she replied. Rather proud of
herself that SHE would be the sensai to guide me in the art of cleaning a home
for guests, she took my hand and led me back into her kitchen.
Opening her oven door, she produced what appeared to be half
of the pots and pans that she owned, stuffed into her broiler and oven. I had
been known to store pots and pans in my broiler, as New England homes are
notorious for never having enough cabinet space. These, however, upon further
inspection, were absolutely dirty! Grinning at me, but not saying a word, she
brought me to the corner of the kitchen, reached up and opened two cabinet
doors. Not knowing what to expect (other than dishes) I peered in. There they were. The past day and a half’s
worth of dirty dishes. Piled in, stacked up, and definitely in need of a wash.
“These are the spots you should make for yourself. You never
cook when the guests arrive, as the dinner or hors devours should be ready and
presented. So, that leaves you your broiler and oven for any of the really big
stuff that you can’t put into the cabinets.” Giving me the tutorial of ‘how to
entertain’, Jen was on a roll, and I let her roll….
“Then, you know, when you have that all filled up, you can
use cups or mugs to hold all of your dirty silverware. Pick a set of cabinets,
like these, that are furthest away from the clean dishware, and just start
packing in the rest of your dirty dishes!” Simple as that.
My mind was reeling. This person is not the one that I know.
The woman who’s children are always clean, shirts and dresses pressed, showing
up like a Rockwell picture every Sunday morning for service, EARLY and smiling.
This was the same woman who donated hours of her time to great causes, who ran
the ‘mom taxi’ for her older ones and their friends, who would help run VBS for
our church every year.
I took a deep breath, and a step back. “Why don’t you just
put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher?”
Jen walked over to the washer, opened it and showed another
full set of dishes that needed to be cleaned. “Already jam packed! I’ll just
wait to run the water later. With all of us needing showers, we’d run out of
hot water if I did laundry or dishes before guests arrived!” Well, at least
that made sense.
The rest of the evening was fun, but I believe to this date,
that I was in a state of shock, disbelief, and maybe even had an out-of-body
experience. We left around 12:30, all of us taking advantage of a rare evening
without children. On the ride home across town, I turned to my husband and
began to spew out all of Jen’s ‘secrets’ of a clean home and entertaining
strategies. My husband chuckled, then he realized what I was driving at. It was the picture of the perfect family,
living in a perfectly clean home, with perfect appetizers, and a perfect
marriage. Maybe they weren’t so ‘perfect’ as we thought.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Flash forward five years later. Billy and I have two more
children in tow, and I am selling real estate. Open houses every weekend, and
excusing myself from Sunday services to set up for the weekly ‘featured home’
open house. On one particular Sunday, I was asked by a fellow realtor if I
would take their open house in return of a favor. I accepted. It was a basement
condo on a little side street in town. I no sooner set up the Open House sign
outside, tying balloons to the banister leading down the outside stair well,
when a familiar voice came from behind.
“Hey! You wanna sell me a place?” I
turned to face our friend Bob.
The first thing that went through my mind was
‘Bob’s not in church’, followed quickly by ‘He must be checking up on me for
Billy.’ (He’s a really nice guy, like I said, and he wouldn’t think twice to
help out a friend in that regard.)
I invited him in, grateful for the company that he offered.
Open houses can be very, er, boring. No one to talk to, you don’t want to be
watching TV and appear to be ‘slacking on the job’. Truth be told, there’s only
so much walking around the property that you can do, without a nosey neighbor
asking you what you’re doing, how much they’re selling the home for, and asking
if they can snoop around while their neighbor’s out to see how they decorate,
as they’re not normally invited in.
Bob began to cry, and when I say cry, I mean, grown man,
sobbing. I felt so helpless. He began to tell me that his marriage appeared to
be over. He asked me if I saw it coming, because he certainly didn’t. He worked
crazy hours to make certain that they had everything they needed or wanted. He
had even taken work out of state for weeks at a time, just to make certain that
the big checks kept coming in. I suggested that maybe the big paycheck wasn’t
worth the loss of their relationship. Our conversation went from what was going
on immediately with him and Jen, to how they would deal with housing, the kids,
and what the future might look like for all of them.
Bob left that afternoon, after being there with me through
the three hours of the open house. He kept telling me how lucky Billy and I
were, and what a great relationship we had, and that he wanted that. Pulling up
the yard sign and taking down the balloons, Bob said goodbye. We gave each
other a hug. I told him to come on over to our home anytime he needed to talk
to Billy. He agreed, and went on his way, head down, his little red compact car
trudging out onto the street.
As his car moved further down the road, I thought back to
the New Year’s party that they had hosted. It was perfect, so was the house.
Everything seemed good. Now, all of those dishes jammed into the cupboard and
oven came to mind. It just appeared that all was right. There were things
undone, chores that were not completed. You wouldn’t know it by looking around
at their home, it was perfect; until you opened the cabinet doors.
I’ve thought about that, over and over throughout so many
days and years. How perfect others seem to be. How their life looks amazing.
Their kids go to the ‘right school’, they’ve got great titles in the amazing
companies that they work for. Their home is not only in a good neighborhood,
but it’s in a great town. Weekends are filled with events and places, and then
relayed on Monday morning at the coffee pot or water cooler as a badge of
accomplishment. They go to the really nice restaurants, vacation in wonderful geographic
locations, and have deeply held social or spiritual beliefs that they act on.
That’s how Bob and Jen’s life were. That’s how most every
other person I’ve known is (or was). But, just like Bob and Jen, so many have a
proverbial cabinet full of dirty dishes. I began to realize that the perfection
that we all strive for, the façade that we manufacture for the rest of the
world to perceive, isn’t always as glamorous as we really are living.
There’s a
stat about Facebook users that had come out. Those that spend time on the
social web site begin feeling depressed. The more time they utilize these type
of sites, the more they feel less than. They look at the pictures of friends
and family’s vacations, events, and other snapshots. You know, the one’s you take
three times to make certain you’ll look good and the extra ten pounds doesn’t
show as much. Yeah, you know what I mean.
Smiling faces (Have I got a family portrait photo story to tell you!)
and everything’s perfect with you, your family and the world. Then, we wonder
why those TRULY special moments that are captured by a whim, a freak chance,
don’t seem to be garnished with the same 'so amazing' comments.
Just like Bob and Jen, we have our own set of ‘Dirty Dishes
in the Cabinet’. Not just a few, all of us. At one time or another does the mantra 'fake it til you make it' come into play. Alas, for most of us, we don't make it ~ not in the way we originally intended, and the dishes, well, they're waiting there for us to clean them up.
