Clean it up!

“Clean up your room kids, get your garbage out of the living room and the wet towels off the rug.  Ro is coming tomorrow.”

None of this made sense to me growing up.  Why clean my room if someone is coming to clean it tomorrow?  Every week it was explained to me that unless the mess gets cleaned up, the housekeeper can't do her job – clean under the mess.  Cleaning around the mess was not an option. Toys were put back on shelves.  Clothing had to be turned right side out before their journey to the laundry room and “don’t throw stuff that isn’t dirty into the hamper.”  Dressers had to be clear of “stuff,” shoes walked back to their closets. My young self promised my future-parent-self that my unborn children, once born, would ever be subjected to such hogwash.


I am eating crow.

We are fortunate to have Anne.  She arrives every Monday, smiling, proverbial  sleeves rolled up ready to cleanse my home of a week's worth of living.

Man made mess

Chad responds well to the Sunday night room cleaning ritual without complaining.  He manages to fit a week's worth of Lego construction, two soccer balls, light sabers, Sunday's pajamas and 40 pounds of football cards into a single night table drawer.  Bravo Chad!  Out of sight out of mind.  Bravo bravo!

Eden, too, gets the job done. Brava Eden!  Except two years in, we discovered every toy she's played with since birth under her bed.  Out of sight out of mind.  Brava brava!

Mess art explosion-style

Remi, who loves her animals and anything that can be made into a project and her umpteen collections requires a backhoe and a rubbish dumpster.  She'd rather drink Ipecac than clean on Sunday night.  She's the kid that forced me to break my young-self's promise to my future-parent-self.  "Anne is coming tomorrow. Start cleaning NOW.” The irony of history repeating itself is not lost on me. The variable is that now I understand the logic behind the lunacy and I have no issue continuing the cycle of logical nonsense.


Faith is powerful and it provides me with the knowledge that at least my girls will carry this uphill legacy into their adult homes.   Chad will most likely be fine with the night table technique.  As for me, I only have one more thing to say on the subject. “Sorry, Mom.”