Housekeeping

Grant Park, Chicago

I'm back and have hit the ground running. This morning, Henry observed that I was a tad obsessive about cleaning the kitchen, Mom. He and I are up first every morning because he goes to school in the deep, dark Valley, and we need much preparation before our journey. I was spraying the microwave down and then the cupboard doors before moving on to using the stainless steel spray on the fridge door. Watch that pile! I might have cried out as Henry walked over to the counter to get a spoon for his gigantic bowl of cereal that fortifies him for the journey ahead. He was about to kick the stuff that I'd swept up, the detritus of a weekend without me. Jeez, Mom, he said between mouthfuls, as I wiped at the newspaper smudges all over the door molding. I'm not upset, I said. I'm cleaning for my own sake. Because that's how I like it.  My days of resentment have cleared away for the most part. It took many years to get that way, but I'm, if not proud then relieved, to feel diligent more than aggrieved, content by my actions more than enraged by the lack of theirs. At worst, I feel slightly superior. Henry downed a glass of milk and got up to go finish his toilette and pack his provisions for the journey. I wonder how long I could go without cleaning anything around me, he said. Maybe two weeks? Or three? He was, if nothing else, equally as self-satisfied as I.

The Post-Trader Joe's Life

This happened:

That's what happened while I innocently meandered the aisles of the store, planning on the shrimp and vegetable stir-fry I was going to make, and texting a friend about how I was ready to drive off the rails. While I purchased a bag of cinnamon and apple "fries," I was also wondering if the reason why my derailment seems imminent is because I haven't visited Dr. Jin in more than six months. Maybe it's just a matter of balance and some herbs, I thought, heroically. Yes, heroically.

Back to the window.

Henry was doing his usual lacrosse practice of throwing the lacrosse ball against the side of the house (above the window) over and over and catching it. Except for this time when the ball crashed through the window and shattered glass flew everywhere in the dining/homeschool/cluttered room, including all over Oliver who was preparing his lemonade stand:

He evidently cried for a moment in shock and fear (which was, I'm certain, resoundingly mocked by his older brother), but he's laughing in that photo because the first photo was snapped with Valentine in the background, peeing, and as I'm slightly frazzled and mad (in the unbalanced sense of the word, not angry) from walking in on the shattered glass scene, a very grumpy chef, an ineffectual Teenager trying to clean up the larger glass, and a seizing daughter who appears to be acting much as she always does right after I declare that she's doing just fine weaning from her benzo,  I began to chant:

Milk, milk, 
Lemonade,
Round the corner,
...

Perhaps that's inappropriate and not the best way to market The Entrepreneur's wares.

Especially given this a few yards away from his stand:

Yesterday, we had to have a new one installed and where else does one put the old one? I am wondering whether it could be a planter or even one of those charming little libraries that dot the suburbs -- I've been dying to make one.

I have thus cleaned up glass, vigorously vacuumed all the rooms of the house (because why not while I'm at it?), bathed my seizing daughter while musing about the cost of redoing the bathroom so that it'd be safer to give her a bath (which moved into how am I going to do this? how am I going to do this?), put Sophie's seizing self safely in her chair post-bath, put the groceries away and trimmed the peonies that I bought in a reckless moment at the store, thinking that peonies might keep the train on the rails, peeked in on The Teenager to make sure that he's studying for finals and not playing games.

 My thoughts have progressed from how I'm ready to drive off the rails to a bemused wondering about the extraordinary life I'm living as a quite ordinary person.  And it's just too much, sometimes. Too, too much.

Sunday Comments from The Brothers

I began the morning -- after the usual pleasantries -- with the admonition that since I had a lot of work to do around here this week, The Brothers would need to be helping me out. That means picking up your stuff when you see it needs picking up and sweeping when you see something needs sweeping and feeding the dog without me telling you. Yesterday we went to Target and Oliver begged me to buy a bottle of Febreze. He convinced me that cleaning up The Brothers' room would be infinitely more doable and  fun if Febreze was a part of it. I'm the kind of housekeeper who doesn't really clean, per se, but rather organizes and makes very neat piles of stuff, everywhere. I absolutely don't use advanced cleaning products, like Febreze, but I was persuaded. We bought the Febreze, and this morning after my militant admonitions, when I stepped out of the shower I was assaulted by -- what shall I call it? -- a Spring Breeze.

It stinks in here! God, it stinks! I heard Henry shout.

I vacuumed our rug like it was a lawn, Mom! Oliver shouted through the closed door.

And then I Febrezed! 

Sometimes light only illuminates bad housekeeping