Some sort of spell has come over me. After nearly 37 years of not picking up after myself, I’m suddenly picking up after everyone, especially
It all started in the middle of February, when we had a bunch of family members come into town for a visit. Too embarrassed to let them see how we really live among a of plastic toys, children’s books, dog hair tumbleweeds, and half-full sippy cups, I spent all my free time cleaning the house the week before the relatives rolled into town. I even took a vacation day from work to complete the final round of intense scrubbing.
The place had gone so downhill that I was physically sore from the effort once all was said and done. I wouldn’t even say the place was spotless when time ran out, but the result was a major improvement from where I started. We can now walk around without taking a spin on a Matchbox car or getting Lego blocks imbedded in our arches. The well-intentioned plastic bins that sat empty for months are now and stored on the shelves. It kind of doesn’t look like our house, to tell you the truth.
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But something about the results has me making an effort every night to pick up the clutter before I finally sit down on the couch to vege out. I’m too paranoid to let it slide by any small degree, from a crown that is left outside of the dress-up bin to a cup that goes unrinsed before bedtime. Smarter mothers than me have figured this out before they got to their fourth year on the job, so I guess that makes me a slow learner. But maybe if I keep my act together now, the kids will pick up on it – as they seem to be already – and will learn from newfound cleanliness.
