Let’s start this conversation out by being completely honest. I have to admit, cleaning house has never been my strong suit. Never was good at it, never will be, but I always gave it a valiant effort. Now, not even physically having the strength to throw a hail mary at it, it has dwindled down into a state of total and complete disarray.
So, all that to say, my house is D-I-R-T-Y dirty. The floor is actually starting to take on a completely different color as the sticky spots begin to meld into one another and the lovely tumble weeds of human hair mixed with cat hair really add to the desert feel that we are going for. The stairs are coated with a pleasant mixture of dirt, hair and cat puke, the kitchen décor has been updated as the cabinets are splattered with drips and drops, smears and streaks of who knows what. And, best of all, the charm of the bathrooms is just so inviting……well you wives all know what a bathroom looks like when living with kids and a boy…..its covered in…..well, you know what it is covered in. Actually, I think it is starting to take on a new style, a sort of grunge meets suburban chic. It now carries its own panache and flavor. It’s gas station bathroom/Lady Gaga mixed with Martha Stewert and just a touch of feng shui. The foggier my brain gets, the more I am loving it.
Yesterday, as I stepped out of the shower, I glanced down at the toilet and smiled as I discovered a truly wonderful surprise. On the silver lid of the toilet were several tiny little Finley handprints. I couldn’t stop beaming as I remembered the night before when she played around me, eating apple straws as I sat on the floor organizing my makeup and nail polish. I leaned down to examine my D-I-R-T-Y dirty toilet lid, now decorated with handprints and carrying the faint scent of apples and cinnamon, and I laughed to myself at the memory. The hair, the splatters and sticky spots, even the dirty toilet all carry their own memories, and until I have the strength to clean them, I will treasure each one.
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