I spent Saturday morning scrubbing the grout in our bathroom. I really wanted to wait until the mildew at least spelled the word “help”, but we were at h-e-l, and I feared what the next letter might be. So I scrubbed with bleach… with Steve’s toothbrush. Our daughter, who is a born neatnic, walked into the bathroom and said, “Oh, Momma! I just LOVE that smell! It smells like love and clean houses.”
I know what you are thinking, and yes, she really is our child. (And if you were thinking about Steve’s toothbrush, don’t worry; he got a new one that afternoon.) She has always gravitated to the neater things in life. We went to Atlanta last year and went shopping at the Container Store. She was in heaven. Did you know that they make organizers to organize the organizers? And colorful labels to label the label maker? Good times, I tell you. For her anyway.
Now don’t get me wrong and before you go dialing DHR, let me tell you: I do appreciate walking into a clean house. I like the beds made, dishes out of the sink and a reasonable sense of order. I am just not a deep cleaner. Word has spread to the dust bunnies that they won’t be evicted anytime soon. But I am house-proud enough to have made a compact with my friend Molly that when I kick the bucket, she is to by-pass the funeral home and get herself over to our house lickety split. She has to get there ahead of the United Methodist-casserole-carrying-sweet-saints that always show up in the event of a death. Her job is to speed clean the house and relocate the mountain of dirty laundry I will have undoubtedly left behind. I have sworn that I will do the same for her, should she be stricken first.
Steve and I are equally yoked in this area of our lives. He hates to do laundry as much as I do. We will talk about doing the laundry, even be so bold as to put it on our to-do list (in red ink mind you!), cast furtive glances at it as we casually toss another pair of socks on the pile. But somehow, it just never seems to take precedence over whatever it is that we have deemed a top priority at that moment. That’s where our daughter’s cleaning obsession bails us out. Hey, you do what you have to do for the kids.
I was waiting to pay my weekly cover charge at the grocery store yesterday when I read that Jennifer Anniston was quoted as saying she doesn’t need a husband to have a baby. That is just so, so, so very sad on so many different levels. I mean after all, whose toothbrush is she going to use when her grout gets dirty?
I know what you are thinking, and yes, she really is our child. (And if you were thinking about Steve’s toothbrush, don’t worry; he got a new one that afternoon.) She has always gravitated to the neater things in life. We went to Atlanta last year and went shopping at the Container Store. She was in heaven. Did you know that they make organizers to organize the organizers? And colorful labels to label the label maker? Good times, I tell you. For her anyway.
Now don’t get me wrong and before you go dialing DHR, let me tell you: I do appreciate walking into a clean house. I like the beds made, dishes out of the sink and a reasonable sense of order. I am just not a deep cleaner. Word has spread to the dust bunnies that they won’t be evicted anytime soon. But I am house-proud enough to have made a compact with my friend Molly that when I kick the bucket, she is to by-pass the funeral home and get herself over to our house lickety split. She has to get there ahead of the United Methodist-casserole-carrying-sweet-saints that always show up in the event of a death. Her job is to speed clean the house and relocate the mountain of dirty laundry I will have undoubtedly left behind. I have sworn that I will do the same for her, should she be stricken first.
Steve and I are equally yoked in this area of our lives. He hates to do laundry as much as I do. We will talk about doing the laundry, even be so bold as to put it on our to-do list (in red ink mind you!), cast furtive glances at it as we casually toss another pair of socks on the pile. But somehow, it just never seems to take precedence over whatever it is that we have deemed a top priority at that moment. That’s where our daughter’s cleaning obsession bails us out. Hey, you do what you have to do for the kids.
I was waiting to pay my weekly cover charge at the grocery store yesterday when I read that Jennifer Anniston was quoted as saying she doesn’t need a husband to have a baby. That is just so, so, so very sad on so many different levels. I mean after all, whose toothbrush is she going to use when her grout gets dirty?
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