What Is Productive

I have a difficult time working on “unproductive” tasks.

I said this to a friend recently when she asked if I plan to get back to writing. That response has been haunting me since. It started with a gentle tapping on the shoulder, “there’s something deeper here” it told me. This morning it felt more like a slap across the face, the way someone would try to jolt you back to consciousness. That’s when it hit me; unproductive = self-care. I see anything related to self-care as unproductive.

Writing? Time would be better spent catching up on laundry.

Exercise? Well, cleaning the house kind of feels like a workout.

Hell I even talk myself out of sleep. SLEEP. “It’s 4AM and I’m already awake. I could try to go back to sleep and get a few more hours or…sexy idea…I could tip toe around the living room like a quiet, cleaning bandit.

Are you a mom? If so, I’d bet the house that you have the same struggle. The crazy thing is I’ve noticed this seems to apply ONLY to moms. Dads, at least the father of my children, have no problem making time for themselves. My husband takes his sweet ass time on the toilet, for starters. What mother do you know that plays on her phone for half an hour while pooping? I’ll wait.

My husband has a “I’ll get to it” mentality when it comes to responsibilities. I have spent years resenting him for this. I mean a hot, seething RAGE, steam coming out of my ears type of resentment. I have been known to aggressively clean while staring a hole through the man while he nonchalantly plays videos games. He accurately describes this as me throwing a fit.

But the truth is….I envy him. I want to be calm amidst the chaos that surrounds me. I want to do things just for the joy of it too, even if that means putting productivity aside.

So, as mothers, why does taking the time for self-care feel like torture? I LOVE writing, but taking the time to write with a dirty kitchen and laundry strewn about the house literally makes me nauseas. I know I need to workout, but 30 minutes of lifting weights feels pointless when I could spend 30 minutes lifting toys from the floor to their proper shelf instead.

One time I asked my husband something along the lines of “do you not feel the need to clean?” to which he responded “I wouldn’t want to take the joy of cleaning away from you, baby!”. Don’t come for him with pitchforks – he was only joking. But I can see why he would think I love cleaning since I do it, oh, I don’t know, CONSTANTLY. Let me clarify, I do not love cleaning. I love having a clean home.

Ask yourself this: Do I love having a clean home more than I love myself? Did you hesitate for even just a fraction of a second? I did.

Here’s what I’m learning about myself: having my to-do list checked off does not bring me joy as much as it mitigates my anxiety. My entire life I have equated the absence of stress with happiness. If I can remove this mess, this thing causing me stress, I’ll feel better.

But I want a full life.

I want a life that has laughter filling in all of the crevasses. A life full of memories of time well-spent with my children as a version of myself that I can be proud of. I want my children to have memories of me being gentle not only with them, but with myself as well. I want them to remember a mother with a sparkle in her eyes, not a house with sparkling floors.

The reality is that nobody in my family but me really cares about having a clean house. That used to piss me right off, but now it brings me peace. My 3 year old doesn’t care about the pile of clothes I never seem to get put away; she just wants mommy to read her books before bed. My husband would rather us dance around the kitchen island than load the dishwasher that resides within it. My 6 week old baby would prefer I stare into his eyes while feeding him versus trying to multi-task. All of that sounds pretty productive if you ask me.