I wake up and think, Today’s the day! I’ll be so happy with myself and the whole house; I’ll wonder why I put it off this long. Today, I’m finally going to mop the kitchen floor.
Hoping the charge on my toothbrush lasts until I complete my mental list of to-do’s for the day, I ponder, when was the last time I mopped? Let’s see, the youngest child was out of diapers and I haven’t bought diapers in…ten years…so wait, it had to be more recent than that…uh, right since we put down the new tile…which was three years ago…but my shoes haven’t come off from sticking to it so it can’t be that dirty…of course the dogs have been hanging around the kitchen more often these days…now where do I keep the mop?
So there I go, out of the bathroom with my good intentions and quest for the mop when I see my daughter’s bedroom door ajar. I’m pulled in by the invisible yet lethal Maternal Revenge Force. “Clean meeeeeee;” it hisses in my brain. “Make your mother happy with your suffering.”
Three hours later I emerge, trash bags and laundry baskets cradled on the hips designed by God to cart babies, groceries and Teenage Girl Goo. I dump and sort clothes on the kitchen floor which naturally delays my mopping endeavor. I’ll get to it when the six loads of laundry are done.
I’ve worked up a thirst. I open the cabinet door and am knocked to the (unmopped) floor by an avalanche of plastic to-go cups and recycled water bottles with mismatched lids. I spend the next hour sitting on the (still unmopped) floor, methodically matching bottles with lids and stacking cups by size and age of child when we schlepped them home from the Kids Eat Free on Tuesdays buffet.
This elementary yet astronomically satisfying task takes enough time and concentration, I forget to let out the little dog with the bladder the size of a walnut, who prefers carpet instead of the (soon to be I mean it) mopped tile floor. I kick both dogs outside as the big one gives me the, “Why do I always suffer because she’s a weenie?” look.
With the door open, I see the mail lady arrive. Today there are only two bills, four pieces of mail addressed to people who lived here nine years ago and one which requires my immediate attention in the form of a simple phone call.
Which takes 42 button bashes and 13 minutes to reach a live person; then three supervisors and 37 minutes to convince them my prescription for Adult Acne medicine should indeed be covered under the Mental Health portion of my insurance. While on hold, I fold laundry, load the dishwasher and survey the freezer contents for something vaguely resembling dinner.
My husband arrives home. “Hi honey! What’d you do today? Hey, I noticed my shoes sticking to the floor in the kitchen….”
Karen Rinehart is a syndicated newspaper columnist, public speaker, and creator of The Bus Stop Mommies™. Her book, Invisible Underwear, Bus Stop Mommies and Other Things True To Life, is a popular read in book clubs, school pick up lines, and soccer fields. She enjoys hearing from readers across the States and as far away as Australia, Japan, and England. You can read more at BusStopMommies.com. Karen lives in North Carolina with her two kids, two dogs, and one husband, where they attend St. James Catholic Church. (Well, they leave the dogs at home.)
