Oct 15 2008
A Job So Nice I Did It Thrice?
When the dog hair dust bunnies start ambushing the children, it’s usually a good indication that I’ve got to clean the floor. I try to get to it at least once a week, although ideally every other day would keep it under control. Our dogs shed a lot. They also bring in a fair amount of dust and dirt from the yard. Add to that four klutzy kids that are prone to spilling sticky liquids they only half clean up just to have it turn in to a big yucky smear somewhere obvious, and well it’s a job.
This morning I spent a good hour vacuuming and mopping before breakfast, just to get my most dreaded chore out of the way. I could’ve eaten off that floor, if I’d chosen too, although I imagine the dogs might have tried to wrestle me for my pancakes. Strangely enough, when my floor is clean, it seems to brighten up the whole rest of the house. Like the sparkly hair free ceramic tiles outshine the crayon marks on the walls and the permanent marker on the leather furniture. It makes me feel domestic. Like I should put together elaborate floral arrangements or perhaps produce my own line of scented candles.
Don’t worry, I restrain myself.
Back to my clean floor. It was clean. Until a particularly ferocious tantrum caused a certain toddler who shall remain nameless, to upchuck goldfish crackers all over my kitchen floor. Right before dinner. Talk about losing my appetite.
So I cleaned up, again.
Not long after, a certain tween who shall remain nameless, got up from the dinner table to serve herself a second helping. Great. Fabu. She can appreciate my cooking skills and get an extra boost of nutritional goodness. Unless of course she drops her plate on the way back to her chair because she was trying to shovel food in to her mouth and walk at the same time.
This plate did not just break.
This plate did not just shatter.
It. Exploded.
Black beans, white rice and microscopic shards of white CorningWare spread from one end of the house to the other. This broken glass turned corners, imbedded itself in footboards, it even landed inside of shoes which I still can’t explain.
So I cleaned up a third time while my cranky toddler was confined to his high chair lest he get a tender foot impaled by some deadly glass shard. It doesn’t help that the kid doesn’t wear shoes if he can help it. So while he screamed bloody murder, I vacuumed. Again.
It shouldn’t surprise you that at some point I abandoned all attempts at trying to feed him dinner, settled for giving him and apple and a bottle of milk and put him to bed.
Tonight, defeat smelled like black beans, rice, and antibacterial wipes.
