Sweep and scrub

Oh, the mess. The exquisite, infinite mess. Back when my husband and I were newly married and fixing up our current home, I can remember feeling stressed about the “state” of the downstairs. Moving boxes formed towers in the corners. Our kitchen counters were covered with cleaning supplies, and the new fridge contained only Diet Dr. Pepper (for the caffeine boost). We had things to do.

I felt like I couldn’t sleep in the new place until the closet was organized and the kitchen cupboards logically arranged. I needed to do all the things at once — and in those days before children, I could try.

Sometimes I think about the hours I once had to do . . . whatever. I took so much pride in decorating our home and keeping it looking fresh, choosing furniture for the library and arranging recipe books “just so” in a reading nook with a cute end table and lamp modeled after the Eiffel Tower. I can actually remember sitting in an armchair wondering if I should place Elizabeth Berg’s “The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted” on top of Ina Garten’s “Barefoot in Paris,” or would the yellow and green covers clash? Man. Wow. I’m so far from having the wherewithal to even consider things like that, it’s amusing to remember when I worried about artful stacks of books meant to make me look cool. Did people come over and see them, thinking Spence and I were a hip couple who regularly prepared French cuisine? I mean, that wasn’t the intent . . . but certainly some of my “design” skills were wrapped up in vanity.

Any shred of that self-consciousness is gone. Now, I’m mostly preoccupied with litter and dishes. Granola bar wrappers. Sippy cups. Hidden veggie sticks — Hadley’s current obsession — that crunch beneath our feet, grinding their way into a fine dust in the carpet.

I used to be diligent about vacuuming, even breaking out that bad boy several times a week. Now Spence has taken over sweeping, which is easier: gathering up the grains of rice, tossed noodles, snacks and other detritus our toddler gleefully tosses from her high chair.

Still, the kitchen is always a wreck. And that’s actually a new experience for us. Our son is fastidious and hates getting dirty — but his little sister seems to delight in disaster. My husband and I have been talking about how important it is to let Hadley learn to eat just like we did with Oliver, but it’s physically painful for me to watch the mess that ensues.

Squash in her hair. Yogurt on her legs. Cereal bars broken up and ground between her fingers. When it gets to be too much, Spencer or I will swoop in with paper towels. That attempt at damage control only makes it worse: laughing, Hadley mimics us . . . by using her shirt sleeve to mop up some mess. Next? Bath time. Every time.

I’m not a clean freak. Step into my house and you’ll stumble over an overflowing pile of shoes — our first indication that the Johnsons are just trying to get by. But I do have a few standards. As 18-month-old Hadley is new to the whole eating adventure, we’re not breaking bad too quickly . . . but I am trying to cut down on what’s getting tossed on the floor.

It’s a balancing act: letting our kids act independently to eat, dress, play. I want Hadley to get a handle on spoon feeding (pun intended), but it’s difficult to clean the same messes again and again.

I guess that’s called parenthood.

There has to be a balance, though. I’ve been doing a pretty decent job of letting go of what I can’t control, and limiting how upset I get about the proverbial (though often literal) spilled milk. But my anxiety does ratchet up when I come home to a cluttered mess, and Spence and I have been trying to keep on top of packages, mail and other items that tend to accumulate right by the front door.

Hadley and the squash, well — there isn’t much I can do but power through. Most meals are now followed by a necessary sweep and even a scrub . . . so on the bright side?

Maybe our floors are getting cleaner after all.