Monday, August 31, 2009
I was sure it’d be better, easier. Once we moved to our new house, had our new kitchen, we would have a much better floor. The “oo” and “goo” would not be as bad. I wouldn’t battle the nastiness like I did before.
The flooring in our old house was a nightmare. It was supposed to be this high end flooring that you could only wash and clean with certain approved cleaners. What a nightmare for a mom with young children.
The only way to get it clean was to get on my hands and knees and scrub like Cinderella. The sparkle only lasted until the next meal time, or the next moment my sons came in from the sand box and back yard adventures. I blamed it all on my floor. It was the floor’s fault.
I’d go to other homes and be envious of their floor choices. If only I had what they had. My mom was sure it was me. She bought a new mop and scrubbed away. She humbly admitted that it was my floor. She had great empathy for me after that.
We’ve been in our new house about a year. It is a lot better. I don’t have to scrub and crouch with mop bucket by my side; however, it still gets nasty. What’s the deal? The constant battle, the pit of hell, is around the kitchen table where my little gentlemen eat. Why do I find large hunks of hard cheese, bits of bread, globs of jelly, and crusted pasta underneath this place of family connection? Why can’t it stay on or near their plates?
I hate monotony. I hate repetition. I love to do something once and check it off my list. This is why kitchen floors are my enemies. If I wanted my floor to always look presentable I would need to sweep, vacuum, and mop that baby three times a day, and then once right before bed.
Last night I tackled the demon head on. I moved the furniture, placed the chairs on top of the table, got out my scrub brush, and attacked with a holiness not seen before. It sparkled. I thought, “I must not let this abomination win! I should resolve to do a simple scrubbing after each meal. Then I would have less work in the long run.”
I know this resolution will last a week at tops. That is just me. That is how I function. I will slowly let the crumbs creep back in. Soon the watermarks will blend in with the other stains. My middle will finger-paint with the margarine. My oldest will turn his fish crackers into bombs, and my baby will spit up all manner of mashed veggies and fruit.
This is my reality. I think I need to accept it and not try to fight the beast. But I don’t have to like it, right?