A Real Suck-Up

One downside of this blog is that I am no longer able to perpetuate the image that I have it all together.  I know that many of you pictured me, skirt-clad, ironing and dusting whilst my children quietly discuss a Dickens novel.

I really hate to come clean to you.  That was such a pretty image.

The truth lies somewhere between hospital-grade sanitation and a scrap metal yard.  For example, I hate clutter.  Like, I REAAAALLY hate clutter, and that leads to constant inner conflict as parenting is nearly defined by clutter.

Par-en-ting.  Verb.  Picking up the clutter left behind by those smaller and less tactful than you.

Incidentally, marriage is defined by really similar terms.

Marr-iage.  Noun.  The state of ever-expanding piles of papers on the freshly cleaned kitchen counter.

So while I do my best to keep the mail and train tracks and other paraphernalia at bay, I really fall short with the actual cleaning.  I can clear the bathroom counter of whatever occupies it with seconds, but getting down on my hands and knees to scrub the toilet or wash the floor would require some serious motivation. 

Joel, just in case you're reading, I've compiled a few motivational examples from Pinterest that you can refer to the next time you notice that the house is looking particularly grimy.

Find it here

Find it here

Let me know if you need prices or item numbers.  I've got them written down on a paper in your mail stack.

So knowing my aversion to any real cleaning, you can understand my frustration toward my vacuum, a device whose purpose is to suck dog hair and ground up Cheerios from the carpet, when it chose to cease and desist.  I would see-saw back and forth over the floor five or six times before I could clearly distinguish the color of the rug through the layer of fur it had accumulated. 

And then, faster than Cael could mount the dog and parade him around the house like Seabiscuit, my less-than-effective vacuum started smoking.  It was pouring grey-black smoke from all of its clogged fixtures in one final protest to cleaning. 

I quickly unplugged it, stuck it in the garage in case it imploded or spontaneously combusted, and accepted that clean floors might just not be in my present or my future.

But it took not having a vacuum for me to realize just how much I was actually vacuuming.  Our dining room rug, a dark and colorful purchase I clearly made before we had kids or pets, is a hair magnet and has to be sheared every two or three days before mold and various cheeses begin to grow under the cover of darkness.

So I took my sister Amy's advice and bought the same vacuum cleaner she has and likes.  Now, I don't know if the new vacuum is especially powerful or if I've been desensitized by my suction-less device, but this new machine pulls dirt from the carpet at a black-hole rate.  And dirt from the ceiling below. 

And the carpet below that.

So now my sister and I are engaged in a dust-off, texting each other photos of our vacuum canisters filled with the debris from our previously filthy homes.  And it's true that we're still in the honeymoon stage, but I have to admit that I'm kind of in love.


So in love that I almost didn't notice a small stack of papers beginning to form on my dining room table...