My motherhood is a dirty fridge

My motherhood is a dirty fridge.

Wait, let me start over. I mean my motherhood is like a dirty fridge. Hear me out.

You know how you felt that one time your fridge was empty and clean? Remember the promise? The crisping drawers that would only be used for crisping. The deli compartment that would only hold sustainable, locally sourced animal products, not too many because you were thinking about becoming more plant-based. A shelf just the right size for organic speckled eggs. A space just the right height for the stoneware crock you bought for at-home pickling. Room for stacking a few of those beautiful glass containers that would hold the healthful leftovers from the sustaining dinners you’d make by plucking simple ingredients from each shining and abundant compartment. And around all of this there’d be gleaming, white, navigable space.

And you know, the first time you fill that fridge? It seems almost possible. I mean sure, buying sustainable locally sourced food is expensive. And what felt plentiful hanging from your arm in a lovely woven basket at the farmer’s market will hardly get you through the first few days of the week. But it’s the right start and the right start matters. Probably. You know that if you are just a good enough steward then that single bunch of kale will multiply and bear fruit, or ummm leaf, in a week’s worth of soups and veggie tacos.

Course, you’re ordering pizza by Wednesday and that kale wilts before it can get cooked. But still. It felt good to carry it in that little basket, didn’t it?

I remember when motherhood was a clean, empty fridge. It was that brief time between deciding to have a first child and actually giving birth to a first child. Filling the shelves was a joy! The Perfect Name in this drawer and Freedom from Hurt tucked inside the door. Of course there was a shelf full of Right Times. The right time for bed, toileting, speaking, crawling, walking, and learning to ride a bike. A education drawer for crisp, joyful learning. A compartment that would keep faith fresh. And around all this a gleaming white, navigable space.

And then, you know, I had the baby. And then babies. And I just shoved whatever I could, wherever I could. Right Times rotted and in their place I stacked What Will Work Right Now. Freedom from Hurt was recalled. None of it is what Goop-ites would call “clean”. Most of the stuff in my bedraggled motherfridge is cut with enough ingredients like doubt, sorrow, and does this really matter to be considered processed. Whatever the mothering equivalent of kale is has never been stocked in the fridge, let alone wilted in it. And, yeah, no matter how full the fridge is, we still end up ordering pizza on Wednesdays. Which, in this brimming simile, is how I admit to letting my kids watch hours of movies so that I can just….not talk to them for a minute.

It takes a lot of rooting around to find what we need. Everything gets mixed together. Instead of silhouetting clean lines and white space, the fridge light outlines precariously stacked and swaying provisions. Sometimes I move the piles around, toss the leftovers, clean the thing out, mop up the spilled BBQ sauce. But it’s always messy again by the next week.

It’s not so bad. The fridge works. It keeps things fresh, the light turns on when the door is opened, there are good fruits next to the old cheese. And once in a while a messy fridge pleasantly surprises you; only a disorganized fridge can gift you a single forgotten package of Chick-Fil-A sauce when you desire it most. My kids are mostly sustained by whatever I can rummage out the depths of that dirty fridge. And, mostly, I am too. And I don’t know...maybe clean fridges are overrated. Or at least unnecessary. Or at least not the only way fridges are meant to be.