HOUSEKEEPING TRICK NO. 2: YOU TOO CAN HOST A PARTY AND ONLY CLEAN ONE ROOM!

If you want to end people asking
you to host an event at your
home, post this sign in your
guest bathroom!

Here is another housecleaning trick from me to those of you who are brave (or masochistic) and do like entertaining: Other than clearing off the kitchen counters (into a box which is hid in your bedroom) and running a cloth (a dirty sock you picked up off the floor) over the dust, there is only one room you must, and I repeat, MUST, clean well. No, it’s not the kitchen. If your event involves eating, then most guests will assume you didn’t have time to clean up after making that fabulous food you are serving. No, not your floors. Most guests never look down and if they do, they will assume the rest of your guests brought in dirt on their shoes and have messed up your clean floors. Of course, you have to hope that no one drops a “wettish” food product and beats you to the damp paper towel to clean it up. The color of the paper towel after wiping the mess off your “clean” floor will announce just how dirty it is.

The one room you must clean? The bathroom that all your guests will be using.  This is the only room where a guest will be sitting, or standing, alone, without distraction, and will have the chance to really look around. Women sitting on the toilet will always look around them: they will check out the floor, the baseboards, the tub (if there is one), the cleanliness of the towels, the sink, even what kind of soap is offered.  Men, I’m not sure they see anything, but I could be wrong. Regardless, the toilet must be spotless so that when a male guest lifts the seat there is nothing to see. Especially if the male guest was not raised right and leaves the seat up for the next guest (who will always be a woman)!

In conclusion: the bathroom you have the guests use must be immaculate. If this bathroom is clean, it sends a “clean” message over your whole house. And, be sure there is plenty of toilet paper! If a guest tells you, hopefully quietly, that you are running out, and they looked everywhere (egads, did you clean “everywhere”?) then you will be forced to get another roll. Depending on where you store your toilet paper, retrieving another roll could totally jeopardize your “clean house” mirage. I have had to open the under the stairs closet in front of my guests, step gingerly over the mess piled up on the floor, and bend over to dig out another roll hoping I didn’t lose my balance and need help getting out. Unless your closets are ready for inspection (are anyone’s?) this is not a dignified way to interrupt your hosting duties. So, be sure a spare roll of toilet paper is available, either in the bathroom itself, or within easy reach of your hand through a partially-opened closet door.  

Oh, and another, not so wonderful chore you, as hostess, must perform during your event...Periodically, go into this guest bathroom and do an inspection.  This means lifting the toilet seat and wiping it off with some toilet paper. Even though the toilet was clean at the beginning of the evening, after several people have used it, there is no way it is still “visually clean”. No, I don’t mean go in with the toilet brush. Check your toilet paper supply, take some toilet paper and wipe around the seat and rim (yes, the rim could be gross), wash up, arrange the towels, and go enjoy the rest of your party.  

HOUSEKEEPING TIP NO. 1: HOW TO STAGE YOUR VACUUM CLEANER AS A SOCIAL MESSAGE.

Yes, this doll house is covered in what is

sucked up in vacuums!

Hmm...What the hell is the green stuff? 

My vacuum would yield much more interesting 

materials to work with.

(Art by Maria Adelaida Lopez)

Our house is big and I am in control of cleaning it, either through direct action or through vocal efforts of “inspiring” the other inhabitants to do their share. Our crazy schedule does not present many hours of cleaning time. Therefore, I am not currently offering up our house for any meetings or events where people that have never been to our house might show up. 

Our house has some pretty cool and artistic touches. People who are new to our home invariably want “a tour”. Even if I am able to stop them from taking a “self-guided tour”, they are still invited into the entry, where I watch them scan the room.  This is my prime location for the “vacuum on standby”.   

My women friends who feel that their houses are out of control, merely need to come over to my house unannounced. Once they have been allowed in to see my house in its naked uncleanliness (and a quick assessment of our future relationship may be taken), the pressure on me to keep up appearances is over. My women friends will leave with the knowledge and confidence that their housekeeping skills are better, way better, than mine. It’s a service I offer to only my closest friends!

Another art house by Maria Adelaida Lopez  

Besides making them feel superior in their cleanliness, I have also let these close friends in on my trick to avoid criticism from not-so-close friends: If there is a chance someone might stop by, and you don’t have time to clean, leave the vacuum out!  Leaving the vacuum out sends the message: “Yes, I know my floors are covered in dog hair, and there is stuff everywhere, but I was just getting ready to clean before you showed up at my door.” How can anyone fault your messy house when they are the reason you haven’t started vacuuming or cleaning? It is imperative, of course, that if you have a clear canister vacuum that the canister must be empty and not full of hair and dirt. And have the vacuum plugged in. If it is just sitting there, unplugged, the “I was just starting to clean” moment loses its spontaneous quality.

It is also important that you dress accordingly. If you are dressed to go out when you open the door, your credibility as a harried, interrupted, housecleaning kind of gal flies right out the window.  

I have used this “vacuum cleaner as art installation” successfully for several years. But Himself is now commenting that the vacuum is always out, and the canister is always clean. He does notice that the vacuum moves around from room to room though. And his problem is...what?

Two lumps or none?

Yep, there's a lump alright!

When Teenager was young, around five years old, a neighbor's daughter watched her at the house during the summer a few days a week. This wonderful sitter brought our daughter her entire collection of Breyer horses to play over and gave them to our girl. Well, Teenager, being an observant child, was playing "horse" holding and moving the horses around. She turned the horse over and with true anguish blurted, "My horse has lumps!" "Why does it have lumps?" The answer we gave is that those were the boys. Her disappointed little face spoke volumes. She next turned over each horse and examined it for "lumps".  Those without lumps were able to play with her. Those with lumps were separated out.  

Last Son had not been born yet, or no doubt she would have asked us, "Is that the penis?"

True or False? Grit is Grit!

Beginner Child was a latch-key kid at the age of nine. XBH (ex-Beginner Husband) did not wish to pay court-ordered child support, and so money was beyond tight.  We lived in a very small town, and though the school had after school care, the cost was more than my budget could cover, so Beginner Child had to be home, alone, for two hours between school and my coming home from work. No, not the best scenario, but it that's what is was. The home alone “rules” were: he had to stay in the house or backyard, lock the front door, not answer the phone, and call me when he got home from school and at least once again. Oh, and no cooking.      

This was before computers and Nintendo DS, so watching TV and eating were his in house options. I find it interesting that Beginner Child was only eight when he was home alone, while Last Son, who now nine, is not allowed to be home alone for any time. I believe my experiences with Beginner Child have shaped my current parenting standards on the age of when a child can be left on his own.

A priceless gem of Beginner Child’s childhood, and probably the first time I acted like the parent I hoped to be, is when...

Beginner Child was eight years old. I came home from work, did my normal check in with him on his day at school, received his usual “It was okay” response, and asked him to take a shower while I fixed dinner. When I put the baking pan for the chicken on the kitchen counter it made a scratchy noise. A closer inspection revealed a layer of fine grit on the counters...and the floor...and the top of the stove. What the hell? I cleaned off the counter and stove, swept up the floor and finished up with dinner. The dining room table had some dust on it too. The living room looked unscathed. Very mysterious.

During dinner, I asked Beginner Child if he knew what was all over the floor. He looked down at the floor and said, “I don’t see anything.” Well, of course not child, I swept it up.

No use in asking about the kitchen counter either, at this point.  

Beginner Child dutifully went to bed without argument, which should have been a clue to...something. I shut down the house and took myself off to bed as well, not knowing that my head wasn’t going to hit my pillow for at least two more hours.

Back then, my dressers were antiques, and the drawers did not always shut easily, which meant they were sometimes left slightly open if I was in a hurry. Me in a hurry?  Single mom? Anyway, I went to close them and there was more of that grit stuff inside my drawers coating socks, sweaters, whatever was in the open drawer, the same stuff as what I swept up off the kitchen floor.  This fine grit had found its way into every open drawer, and on top of each dresser.  Again, what the hell?

It was too late, and I was too tired, to clean, so I just took some big, deep breaths and chose to go to sleep and deal with the mess in the morning. Pulling back my sheet and comforter I almost laid down on the pile, yes PILE, of grit in the middle of my bed. This pile had been under the comforter and sheet, not on top.  

Okay, for those really perfect parents, beware, my next act was a brief relapse of mirroring my mother...  I stormed into Beginner Child’s room, switched on the overhead light and told him to get up! Beginner Child was half-asleep, until something in his brain must have registered that I had just discovered “the pile” in my bed.  

“Mom, I didn’t mean to do it. I just couldn’t stop it.” Beginner Child sobbed out before I had even asked him any questions.

Note: I had recently attended a parenting workshop (yeah, I know, didn't I learn anything? but at least I knew I needed guidance) and felt this was a wonderful opportunity to see if that guy I listened to for four hours actually knew what he was talking about.

“Okay, let's both calm down. Now...what is this stuff?” I asked, gently, while pointing at the pile in my bed.

“I don’t know what it is...sand?” Seriously, he doesn't know what he put in my bed? Grrr. My internal voice had apparently not paid attention during the workshop. My external voice, fortunately, remained in control.

“Okay, what couldn’t you stop.” I now was more curious than furious. (What a catchy phrase.)

“That thing in the kitchen, it wouldn’t stop.” Sobbing had ceased. He was surprised at the “new parent” he was dealing with.

“Show me what "that thing" is in the kitchen.” 

Beginner Child led me into the kitchen and pointed at the fire extinguisher which was in its holder by the stove. I truly had never given it much notice as it was there when I rented the house.

“How? What? Oh, Jeez was there a fire?” I twirled around  the kitchen looking for burn marks.  

Beginner Child then told me that no, there wasn’t a fire.  He knew he wasn’t supposed to cook when he was alone (He can follow some directions, yeah!), he just wanted to see how the fire extinguisher worked. He said he pulled something off the top and it started spraying out and he couldn’t figure out how to make it stop, so he ran through the house and stuffed the fire extinguisher in my bed until it stopped making noise. Then he put the fire extinguisher back into its holder.

“Oh.”  I was really straining to keep the “screamer mom” in, but that four hours in the parenting workshop was going to a waste of my time if I didn’t.  “You know, I have never used a fire extinguisher before. I always wanted to know how they worked too. So, you're telling me that you can't stop the stuff from coming out once it starts?”  Curiosity was extinguishing (I’m liking this word) any residual anger at the enormous mess Beginner Child’s experiment had caused.

“I couldn’t make it stop, Mom. I tried really hard.” 

“Well, you can help me change my bed right now.  Tomorrow after school, instead of “vegging” in front of the TV, you will vacuum the house-the entire house.  AND next time you want to try to see how something works, could you ask me first?  I might be curious too?”  Wow, did that really just come out of my mouth?  

I would like to say that from then on my parenting style was just like that...understanding, compassionate, positive. I’d be lying to you, but I did enjoy a delicious moment visualizing Beginner Child rushing through the house, freaked out, holding onto the fire extinguisher as it spewed, whatever it has in it, all through the kitchen and into my bedroom where it coughed its last breaths under my covers.

The Agony of Swimming with Trichophobia - and how I didn't get over it!

No!  It is supposed to say:
"Protect your Pool from your Hair!"

At my last milestone birthday, I decided it was time to set some new goals. First on the list was to be able to swim laps without looking like a dork.  This activity may be so easy for some of you that your eyes are rolling up when you read this, but for me, it was harder than training for a half-marathon.  And I had no idea that my challenge of swimming laps would also expose me to an unaddressed phobia.

For me to be able to swim laps, correctly, posed a tremendous challenge.  I never truly learned how to swim properly.  I got by after all these years by avoiding any activity which would highlight this gap in my childhood education.  However, if you were to toss me in the ocean or a pool or a lake I will not drown.  At least, I won’t drown where you threw me in.  I may not make it to the beach or the shore if they are far away, but I will make it to the edge of the pool- and probably look okay doing it, though my head will be up like a dog’s, while my arms will be doing their thing.  My style was much like an old lady who didn’t want to get her “do” wet.  I have tried to teach myself to swim over the years by watching good swimmers, and trying to copy them.  The Teenager swam competitively for five years, and was a tremendous inspiration. Listening poolside to her coaches, I picked up a lot of information on form.  Putting it into action proved more difficult.

My first day of lap swimming I went to our local pool, which is a small one, but the only public pool in our coastal area.  It is regularly packed every summer day, with lap swimming starting once public swim is over.  Donning a swim cap over my wet and conditioned hair (a tip from a swimmer friend), wearing an old bathing suit (another tip), I gathered up a towel, my new swim goggles and was off to the pool. Before leaving the house, Himself let me know that I would most likely have to share a lane if it was crowded. When I arrived, every lane was occupied - with people who knew how to swim. 

Now, faced with the no open lane scenario, how does one choose who to join?  Is there a protocol to follow only known amongst swimmers?  Is it a “your choice” rule, or does everyone start joining in at one side and just move to the next lane as they fill up?  Himself had suggested I figure out which lane was the slow lane and start there. The slow lane?  There are speed limits in a pool?  Apparently, if you are a pokey swimmer, aka me, you aren’t supposed to share a fast lane.  Discourteous and all that.  Okay, I accept this “rule”, however, how does a “newbie” figure out which is the slow lane?

While sitting there, trying to see who was "slowest", and most likely looking a bit timid (yes, sometimes I can be timid), a wet friendly face popped up and said, “You can share this lane with me, I’m almost done.”  Oh, how kind and maternal of her.  Adjusting my goggles, I slipped into the water. I took some big breaths, visualized what I thought I should do, and plunged forward.

I made it one lap, stopped, held on to the side and gasped for breath.  My form was obviously inefficient, but I had tried side breathing and I hadn’t hit the lane line, the side of the pool, or the other swimmer.  However, hanging onto the edge of the lane messes up the other swimmer, but she continued to be very patient with me.  Damn, this lap swimming was harder than I thought it would be.  But it wasn’t my poor use of air control that was hampering me.  Rather, it was my in-the-face panic moment when I became so totally aware of how gross pool water is after several hours of a hundred kids swimming in it.  My new goggles were crystal clear and I could see all the hair floating by me.  Looking down at the bottom near the drain I saw hair ties, a metal barrette, an old bandaid and a broken strap from a pair of goggles.  

I am not a fan of loose, no longer connected to the scalp, hair mixed in water that makes contact with my face or body.  It doesn't matter that it might be mine, it gives me the creeps.  Viewing a Floating Hair Clump severely affects me both physically and mentally.  It became increasingly difficult to get into my Zen breathing while I looked underwater.  Solving my problem my swimming with my eyes squeezed shut proved to be very disorienting and potentially hazardous to my lane mate.  Was I going to let my hair issues keep me from reaching my goal?  No-but it definitely added a challenge that I had not foreseen.

In spite of seeing the horror of my underwater environment, I did succeed in swimming six laps.  My form wasn’t pretty, but I was kind of getting the every-three-stroke-side-breath rhythm down.  Not once did I resemble a water spaniel, so I felt that Day One was a success.  But one day, or rather twenty minutes, does not a lap swimmer make.  I would have to do it several days a week to reach my new, improved goal of 36 laps of glorious “I look like I know what I’m doing” swimming.

Over the next few weeks, I swam religiously, though my disgust of what lies below the waterline in public pools never wavered.  A memorable moment of panic was had while swimming in my newly-acquired Zen state and I felt something move over my hand.  Screaming underwater is difficult.  Screaming underwater in a public pool can also be dangerous.  I came up sputtering, water had made it into my mouth and probably... haaaaiiirrr!  


Bobbing up and trying to drain out any remnants of pool water from my mouth I spied a tiny tan frog swimming vigorously away from me towards the center of the pool.  Funny, I am more than grossed out touching floating hair in pools, but not afraid of touching frogs and gladly scooped the little critter out. (I did worry how his skin would take the chlorine he had just soaked up.)  Apparently, he was not the only frog taking a dip as another disturbed swimmer came up splashing her frog away.  I swam over and rescued her frog as well.  

Returning to finish up my laps, I shuddered as I watched a clump of floating hair drift by my hand towards the side filter.  It is difficult to swim and shudder simultaneously.  The shudder came with the realization that just a minute or so ago, pool water had entered my mouth during my underwater scream. A quick round of the tongue through the mouth came up hairless.  But the fact remained that pool water had already entered.

Because my brain continually carries on internal conversations when my body is physically occupied, several questions came up.  Why don’t the lifeguards strain the pool before lap swimming starts?  They have those long mesh things.  The answer: Because they don’t go in the water, so they don’t know how gross it is, that’s why. I prefer to believe our youth are negligently uninformed, not intentionally avoiding doing something that could benefit others.  What was the chance of me getting diarrhea later from any ingested water as I had heard can happen from pools?  And if I actually thought this could happen, then why in the hell was I in here swimming in the first place?  Can chlorine really kill everything?  And if there was a chance of me getting diarrhea later, did some kid, perhaps a kid that comes every day to the pool, already have diarrhea and... you know...

The internal voices calmed down and I did achieve my goal of swimming laps that summer.  My form was okay, thanks to encouragement from the pool deck, and yes floating hair actually streamed across my face during a few sessions which ruined my form for that lap as I freaked out a bit.  I got past my disgust of looking underwater by allowing my goggles to fog up.  I was able to barely make out large objects like lane mates and lane lines, but was oblivious to all the other stuff floating around.  This method worked well and I only hit my head on the edge a few times.  My hair got trashed from the chlorine, and my bathing suit had to be thrown away at the end of the summer.  I still have extreme  issues with loose hair and am close to gagging if I have to pull any out of my food, my coffee, or my mouth.  In fact, damn the etiquette, I’ll work at finding and pulling out that little hair in my mouth however long it takes. 

Back to the accomplishment of my goal: to be able to swim laps.  If you were to throw me off a boat into the ocean or into a lake, I now have a very good chance of making it to shore - as long as the distance is no more than 36 pool lengths (though why you would ever feel the need to throw me in escapes me).  Water clarity in either body of water would probably not disclose any floating hair masses. What I can't see won't hurt me, right?  

But, you just try and throw me into a pool that has been previously occupied for several hours by a lot of people, and I will put up a mighty struggle, a fight for my well being, and it has nothing to do with me not wanting to get wet!  

When Temporary is Really Permanent or How to Incorporate Dog Hair into your Design

Very similar to our stairs, 

except you need to add twelve 

years of spilled drinks,drops 

of paint,dog drool,dirt, etc.

We began adding on to our current home twelve years ago. I say “began” because  we may be unable to put a past tense on that statement. During the design phase, I told Himself that I wanted a big ass house with a large kitchen. Of course we did not have the budget to finish a big ass house. The analogy would be someone trying to build a Porsche with a Volkswagen budget. It doesn't happen, something will be missing. Ergo, several aspects of our house are still unfinished. But with the amount of time that has passed, we are currently into maintenance projects. These take precedence over   finishing initial projects. 

One such unfinished project is the interior staircase.  It is still construction grade wood. Had I known I would be writing this current description of those stairs, ten years after the stairs were put in, I would have at least painted or stained them back then. Himself keeps telling me it is too much work to sand them down now and paint them. He also says the paint will wear off in the traffic zone. I’m thinking it’s okay if the paint starts wearing off in a year or so, at least it will show that there was paint on them once. Plus, maybe the dog hair will float down the stairs easier with the painted finish, and hopefully it will collect in just one big pile on the landing. If I was to tackle this project now, what color should I paint them? Dog hair color? A stain color trying to fake a better looking wood? Or some totally out there color that screams,“I know the stairs are just construction grade wood, but aren’t they painted a cool color? We meant to do this!”  

Writing this, I am actually getting excited about this idea. Knowing that “someday” the stairs will be covered by finish wood, I can have some fun with this project. I’m visualizing patterns, words, mosaics of color. As Himself likes to say, “Nothing more permanent than a good temporary fix.”  This philosophy explains why our dining room table is a piece of 1 inch plywood with sanded and rounded corners, sitting on top of four 4”x4” “legs”. This “temporary” dining room table is now permanently painted bright “Safety Red” (this really is the color stated on the can). It functions, so now why would I still want a beautiful Amish-crafted dining room table?

Saying I do get this project going, how will the family get from one floor to the next?  Creatively, and with care. How will I keep the dog hair from blowing onto the drying paint? Hmm, perhaps I’ll use the dog hair as texture to keep the painted step from being too slick. Next step, let's go see the choice of paint stored in the garage. Since Himself won’t be too keen on me purchasing paint (yet) for a project that he sees as a big waste of time, I’ll be restricted to what is on hand.  

Of course this new project of mine will keep me from exercising for the next several days or weeks (are those tears of sadness or glee coursing down my cheeks?), and it may take a few more glasses of wine to make this tedious project more enjoyable (see comment above about tears), and it may change the whole look of the house since the staircase is seen from everywhere (again, see my comment above), but sacrifices must be made.  

The only downside I’m seeing is the fact that I’ll have to sand the old wood first. I’ll only do it if I can use the power sander. I hate the feeling, energy, and sound of hand-sanding large pieces of wood. It is right up there with fingernails on the chalkboard.  Then there is the dust from the sanding, followed by tremendous time vacuuming up the dust. And how much wine is in the fridge? Enough to start right away? Details, details, so many details.

LOSING, FINDING , LOSING AND FINDING THE TITLE TO THE KIA

This is a follow-up to my August 26 post where I relived the time, many months ago, when I attempted to register the KIA, aka generic SUV. If you like ironies, and who doesn’t?...I did find the “plain white envelope”, eventually, sandwiched between some gift boxes in the closet. Apparently, that is where it has been for the past three or so months. I haven’t a clue how it got there, and probably never will. In a rare instance of cleaning out the closet, the envelope fell onto the floor. I grabbed it up, looked in, and actually squealed as I ran into Himself’s office, where I stated, “I found it!” and started ripping it to shreds. After a brief reminisce of how much trouble this document had caused me, I swept up the shreds and threw them in the recycling bin.  

Should have been “end of story”, right?  Not in this house. That night, I popped up from a sound sleep. I didn’t really check over the document inside the envelope, before ripping it to shreds, to verify it was the missing title. Maybe it was the “real title.” I assumed it was the missing one that I was gleefully ripping to pieces (yes, yes, I know: When you assume, you make an ass of u and me).  Not wanting to wake up Himself or the kids as I searched the house for the “real title” or scavenged outside in the recycling bin at midnight for scraps of whatever I ripped up, I let myself go back to sleep knowing that trash day was still a few days away. Plenty of time for confirmation.

Except that I forgot all about it the next morning, and the following day. I remembered the evening before trash day, and was rummaging around the recycling bin as the sun sank into the fog bank. Wow, I shredded that document into really small pieces!  Really small pieces that had fallen through really small spaces into the nether layers below, through butter wrappers, sour cream containers, yogurt cups, etc.  After too long rummaging through icky plastic and paper, I did find enough shreds to confirm that it was the missing title-the “cost me an extra $300” missing title. Oh yeah for me. Again, this should have been the end of the story, right?  Nope, not yet.

Confirming that I had indeed shredded the “too late to use it” title, it became important that I view the “real title” too, and now.  Well, of course, it wasn’t where it “should” have been, among the other vehicle titles, birth certificates, etc.  Did I panic?  Nope, I stayed calm, realizing I didn’t really need to know where the title was until I wanted to sell the vehicle, and by that time-hopefully many years from now-it could be honestly “lost” or “misplaced” without any connection to me. This future excuse would not work if I asked Himself if he had put it somewhere. It was time to let the matter rest.

Follow-up to the follow-up: The “real title” surfaced recently during another spontaneous cleaning out of a cabinet. Yep, there it was...on the shelf tucked between the dog and cat flea control packages, next to the supply of new checks.  And that is where it will stay, for now, since somehow its location must make perfect sense to some part of my brain.  Of course, I may not have been the person who stuck it there, but if I ask, I will expose my lack of knowing where it was in the first place.  Best to let shedding (sleeping?) dogs lie, or is that lay?

Vacuuming: One step closer to insanity!

Okay, this dog does not look happy.
But, this may be the answer to my dreams!

I like a clean house. Problem is, I don’t want to clean it. It’s not the actually cleaning part, but more the amount of precious time needed to keep it clean. Dust accumulates overnight in this house. Our dog is a Golden Retriever. You cannot own a Golden Retriever unless you like to vacuum. I mean really, really like to vacuum. We have maple hardwood floors, which are approximately the same color as the dog’s hair, so you don’t always see it until it starts billowing up behind you as you walk by. If it’s been a few days between vacuuming, and happens to coincide with a more heavy seasonal shed, there can be a lot of dog hair on the floor. When I vacuum during one of these heavier-than-normal-shedding times, the whole top layer of floor appears to move as a unit as it is sucked into the floor nozzle. We have a Dyson, which I can truly state is the best vacuum I have ever owned. Seeing how much dirt and hair I suck up in just one room is amazing, and appalling. We have some area rugs which are vacuumed with the Dyson in upright mode. The rotating brush picks up the dog hair very effectively, but the length of my dog’s hair twirls around and around the brushes and must be cut and pulled out by hand every month. I have had to replace a few parts of the Dyson due to wear and tear, and a few parts that did not survive the day the Dyson had an unfortunate fall down our wood stairs.

Overall, vacuuming is not that big of a chore, but my house is large and it takes over two hours to vacuum all of it. I seldom vacuum the entire house in one session. The Teenager will usually vacuum her room if the vacuum is brought in and left there. Last Son will occasionally volunteer to vacuum his room.

My issue with vacuuming is all the crap on the floors which requires me to bend over, pick up the item and put it out of the vacuum’s suck zone. Last Son likes to have Nerf gun battles throughout the house, and I am getting really tired of picking up Nerf darts as I vacuum. I’ve tried vacuuming around them, but the Dyson sucks them up like they’re Dyson food. If I am in “Nice Mom” mode, I’ll pluck them out of the canister right away. “Nice Mom” rinses these darts off (dust sticks to Nerf darts like glue) before resuming vacuuming.  If “Mean Mom”, on the otherhand, is in charge of vacuuming that day, she shows no mercy until she is finished.  It is likely that she will get distracted before she remembers there are Nerf darts and other “precious items” inside the canister.  If the kids are home, “Mean Mom” gives a ten minute warning to Teenager and Last Son that vacuuming will commence in ten minutes. This announcement is followed by my children scrambling to pick up all the crap on their floors before the vacuum is turned on. “Mean Mom” does not intentionally vacuum up anything left on the floor, but it can and will happen. “Mean Mom” says, “Oops, I have no idea what that was”, as the sucked up item rattles into the canister. Sometimes I can see what the victim item is before it is swallowed deep into the hair and dirt, and if it is something I will need to replace (meaning it is necessary and will cost money), I will retrieve it. However, if the victim item is “non-essential” in my world, or cannot be readily identified, no search for the victim item will ensue. 

When Teenager was a toddler, to her horror she witnessed a few Barbie shoes get sucked up after the vacuuming announcement.  She ignored the warning then, however, it only took that one time to convince her that “Mean Mom” meant business.  She has yet to defy “the warning” since that pivotal day.  Last Son, however, acts like he doesn’t really care if some of his Legos get sucked up, and defeats “Mean Mom” by simply reminding “Mean Mom” how much Legos cost and how hard it is to make sure every single last tiny Lego is picked up, thus delaying immediate vacuuming.  

Even after the second announcement, Last Child will still be picking up or playing when the vacuum, whining through the door (The decibel level on a Dyson is a tad high), starts sucking up baseball diamond grit, beach sand and garden dirt while dodging dirty balled up socks, pennies,etc. still laying around.  (Note: I cringe when I hear a penny or other coins sucked up.  It’s not like a penny is worth much, but I will retrieve them.  Can’t stand the idea of money going into the landfill knowingly.)  Last Child frantically tries to guess my next move and actually picks up potential victims and flings them into the nearest corner of his room. Before I start to vacuum that corner, Last Child dives in front of me and flings the victims into already vacuumed areas, thus avoiding accidental suck up by “Mean Mom.” He has experienced the moment of panic when he missed something and heard the tink-tink-tink of “something” being sucked up.  Okay, I admit I have filtered through dust, dog hair, dirt, sand, and all the other gross human flake that gets sucked up, searching for tiny Lego Star Wars guns and helmets.  But if you have ever tried to replace these Lego parts, you know they are worth more than the pennies and dimes I willingly pick out.

If it bugs me so much, then why don’t I “make” the kids do the vacuuming? Answer: Because until I enjoy stepping on grit, or tiny Lego parts (ouch!), until I can reach a “zen moment” watching dog hair gracefully float in the air billowing up behind the dog (or anyone walking by); and until I get to the point where I don’t care if someone stops by and sees my house like this, I will continue to repeat the above actions.  

My brain just popped up with Albert Einstein’s quote: Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Okay, so, I ask you: Is it more insane for me to just stop vacuuming-waiting for the kids or elves to do it? Or doing what I am doing, over and over, hoping for a different result, but still having a mostly vacuumed house?

What has 6 wheels and 82 legs?

With Beginner Child’s wish to “baaale haaay” when he grew up, I don’t know why I dared to hope that Last Son’s dream for his future would be more...inspiring or ambitious. Nope, when Last Son grows up, what he plans to do is a bit wacky.

From the moment he first stepped inside an RV at the age of six, Last Son has dreamed of living in a motorhome when he grows up...a motorhome with twenty cats. He wants to travel everywhere with his home, and his cats, with him always. This Last Son has always enjoyed traveling, but also shows the biggest relief coming back home and sleeping in his own bed. I suppose in his six-year-old mind living in a motorhome would be a great way to spend his life. And with twenty cats, the odds are good that at least one or two of them will not scatter when he moves to pet them. Last Son does not move anywhere slowly.  He runs in and out of doorways, jumps into bed, does ninja rolls over ottomans, and just doesn't stay still very long. All this movement makes our two cats a bit unsettled. The only way Last Son can pet our cats is to move close to the cat very slowly, with his hands by his side, not make any eye contact, and nonchalantly put his hand on the cat lightly.  Which is very sad since one of the cats is his.  

My parenting has tempered a bit since Last Son came on the scene.  When I heard Last Son's future quest, I did not react like I did to Beginner Child's career choice by packing up and leaving the state. Actually, I was fascinated to hear more about Last Son's motorhome dream.  Perhaps he had a creative career path that needed a motorhome.  Time to ask Last Son to give me some details on his plan.

“Where do you plan on going in your motorhome?” I asked him.

“I’m going to see the world, definitely China,” Last Son replied. He has dabbled with a fascination of China ever since he read about the Great Wall.

“Hmm, how will you get the motorhome from here to there?” I hope he realizes he can’t drive there.  

“On a big container ship.” Hmm, he’s been thinking a bit about this.

“What kind of work will you be doing?” Oh please answer with something that requires some intelligence.

This guy lives in his motorhome and has
five cats that he does tricks with.
I wonder if his mother ever comes to visit?

“I don’t know.” This came with a shrug and a “who knows?” look on his face.   

“Hmm, well, how are you planning to feed all those cats? You are going to need money to buy food for twenty cats.”  

“Look, I haven’t got that far yet, okay mom. Maybe I’ll just have ten cats.” His tone made it clear - I had asked my final question.

In Last Son’s first grade class, there were adorable twin girls who had a bit of a crush on him. Their mother told me the girls were sure that one of them, if not both, were going to grow up and marry Last Son. I informed this mother that Last Son was planning to live in a motorhome with twenty cats when he grew up.  She pondered what I said, and then replied that one of the girls would probably find this arrangement quite agreeable.    

It is now very clear to me that I did not spend time with either of my sons, when they were young and impressionable, discussing all, or apparently any, of the wonderful career choices out in the world available to them.   Last Son has assured me that when I am old I can stay with him in his motorhome, just for a few weeks though...he might need someone to feed his cats.