I should be cleaning. We have a house to sell, you know.
Of course, if more people were coming to see the place, I’d probably be more on top of it. Right now, though, if someone stopped by, well, I guess he could just pitch in and help me fold this laundry piled up right beside me, here, now, couldn’t he?
I should be vacuuming. Or folding. Or dusting. Again and again and again, over and over. Saoirse said to me yesterday, “Mommy, you clean a lot. Why do you clean so much?” But at the same, you wouldn’t know it. Because for each item that I put back in its place, there’s another being yanked off a shelf. And for every board in the floor I mop, there’s another getting orange juice poured all over it. I’m washing my hands of it all. Ha. Get it?! Washing? I can’t get away from the cleaning even when I’m trying to get away from the cleaning.
It’s 78 degrees out right now, under mostly sunny skies and only the lightest of breezes. I’m not cleaning, and haven’t been. I’ve been outside with my kids.
At the park.
In the backyard.
Digging in the dirt.
Going to the farmer’s market, which, yes, is inside, but whatever. We drove with the windows open.
Taking the dog with us during our pajama walks (the girls are in the pajamas, not us. We like to avoid giving the neighbors any more gossip for fodder than they need).
Going for ice cream. A lot of ice cream.
I’m envisioning a spring and summer of being outside, all the time, outside, outside. Out of the house that always needs cleaned and away from the windows that need to be washed, and eating lunch outside because then I don’t have to wipe down the table for the thirtieth time that day.
I’m already at the point where I think we don’t really need to sell our house, so let’s just stay here, okay, just a little while more?
I’m tired of cleaning.
I want to be outside.