Clean Spot on My Floor

When was the last time you were down on your knees underneath your kitchen or dining room table? I mean, really crouched down there to explore up close, the alternate universe that exists where only your broom, mop or Swiffer dares to go? I was surprised, a little embarrassed and disappointed in myself, but guess what, I had a panic attack don't really care.

Let me just tell you that I thought my home was fairly clean. People say that when they visit. I believed them. I worked pretty hard to keep it that way with three boys (two little, one big) and a dog in the house. Until I was forced (on a weeknight - gasp) to get down and clean up what could have been three full cups of Spanish rice from the dining room floor on Tuesday. Sophie, our Weimaranner, is loosing her edge. Normally she would have had that spot licked clean and shining in 1 minute flat, but she's getting older and slower and hard of hearing... so I think maybe she just didn't hear the spill and following comments and grunts from me after the incident.

'Oooopsie, sowwy mommy... I missed it' is what Rowan said. This was just not one spoonful but at least 10 and I think he managed to maneuver three kernels of rice into his mouth per bite. He insists on using a big-boy spoon himself, which is great - we have an extremely independent-minded toddler on our hands, but with rice, it's a little dicey for a self-diagnosed, slightly obsessive mom to watch this taking place. My usual m.o. was like the big spill or each medium-sized spill was happening in slow motion and my eyes and anxiety grew from tiny to mid-size to grandiose.

So, instead of my typical crazy-mommy over-the-top AH! and dramatic holding of breath reaction... "oh, no, Rowan, oh buddy. OK..." ending in a defeated sigh, I smirked and shrugged my shoulders at my hubbie. He raised a suspicious eyebrow at me... because he knew inside I must be twitching. It would get cleaned up after dinner, I decided. I think my husband is starting to like this new found 'whatever attitude' about overzealous (insane) housekeeping... in that I no longer feel that I need to keep the house museum-clean and organized. Yes, I used to act like a curator of our crap. And our place is no MoMa, see my point? A little nuts, I am.

So the rice. There was as much on Rowan's lap, cuffs of his shorts, booster chair and dining room chair as there was on the floor... you could have scooped it up and put it in a cute little Chinese take-out box.  How does one pick up cooked Spanish rice from a wood floor? Had I asked the 7 year-old he probably would have offered a quippy, 'chopsticks, mom?' It clings to your broom, a Swiffer just pushes it around in nice little clumps and it would clog the vacuum (yes, I pondered that and was too spent to go get the Shop vac from the basement)... Sophie wasn't lapping it up quick enough for my liking. I am reasonably fit, but getting into a crouching tiger position to clean anything is ridiculous. Things were cracking and creaking... a sad, sad scene. I'd seriously rather be doing Bikram Yoga. This is when the reality of the lack of effort I have been putting into cleaning under this table. Oh. My. Smashed Pea! Oh. My. Splashed Chocolate Milk on Chair Legs!

I was so very distracted by the spec-tacular village of Whoville residing under my table... that cleaning up the rice took longer than anticipated. Then I saw it, a particularly unfamiliar site. There was a big clean spot on my floor. Crud! Now I have to clean the entire thing, hands and knees, probably with the good wood floor Orange Glo cleaner and a special rag or something. I'm getting lazy in my old age. This would have been an exhilarating Saturday morning a few years ago. I used to clean to release stress. I am a sick, sick woman, I know.

But you'd be proud by the way I've transitioned from a clean freak to lackadaisical mom and wife by measuring the level of crunchiness building on my kitchen floor. Nowadays, I just kick the cereal pieces, random Goldfish or animal cracker to the dog and make Noah pick up those little tabs off of squishy yogurts packets and paper corners from granola bar sleeves. Why can't 7 year-old boys and 37 year-old men throw those portions of the packaging away? Do they really not see that it is still there on the counter or notice it has fallen on the floor? You're not marathon runners, able to simply drink from your Dixie cup, crush it and throw it down! How do you know we'll come by later and automatically pick it up and throw it away? Male readers, you know I still love ya. Dudes, can you please explain this phenomenon to me?

So once I determine whether I can live with the unidentified spec of 'something' for two more days based on it's consistency, stickiness or grossness rating... I spot sweep/Swiffer the rest. Sorry. Heavy cleaning only happens on the weekends. And lately, the heavy cleaning has really been cutting into my early morning peaceful jogs before anyone gets up. Clean floors and empty sink or 45 minutes to myself through a sleeping neighborhood? The Asics and ear buds having been wining out more and more often.

This is ludicrous behavior for me. Unheard of. People will think I have gone certifiably bananas. It's pretty bad, however, when the 2 year-old tells me that after washing his little hands that he also needs to wash his 'peets' (feet) because they are 'duhrr-rteee'... and I inspect them only to find that they're padded with crumbs from the kitchen floor. Yep. That's right. #1. He's a little obsessive like me, poor child, and #2. My floor has perpetual crumbs. Can't keep up. Not gonna stress no more!

If you think this lack of consideration for my families' bare feet is outrageous, check out My Dirty Kitchen Floor: Pages of a Dubiously Pissed Off Housewife. WARNING: sweet, innocent and impressionable followers: author "Donna Freakin' Reed" is a cross between Roseanne Bar and Chelsea Lately, so faint of heart - click with caution! But she is pretty darned hysterical.

It's getting easier to count to ten when the house is obliterated merely 20 minutes after a three-hour cleaning session. I don't stress about Ro dumping three baskets of folded clothes all over the living room floor. The fam is not quite used to this yet, but I've had more time to play trucks and ride bikes and get hit with basketballs and Nerf bullets. And that is what is most important, dirty floors and all.