It is a rainy and humid day in Southern Maryland. So humid that I feel moisture gathering between my toes as I sit here typing this. I have lost track of the number of recent thunderstorms and every day it feels like we are walking through a thick pea soup. The snack crackers grow soggy before you can eat them. My hair is at its curliest this time of year and it seems that my son has inherited my humidometer locks. This week he is all ringlets. We have been attempting to air out our sleeping bags from a recent campout but the longer they hang over the upstairs railing the wetter they get. You get the idea.
Clearly this was not the best day to mop my kitchen floor. However it was long overdue and it had become so sticky that traveling through the kitchen felt like trying to fight my way out of a glue trap. I was over it. I would vanquish the stickiness. I would beat it into submission. Prying myself out of the wooden chair I went through the motions of mopping. Then the water sat there. For hours. Not drying. Perhaps even accumulating more moisture as it sat glistening at me in a mean-spirited kind of way.
Finally I took down the baby gate in order to make lunch. Instantly one child went down. Then the second. Possibly both concussed from the wetness of my disgusting kitchen floor. The baby gate went back up. The dog towels came out so I could dry the whole thing by hand and even after all this the floor was somehow stickier than ever.
I opted to take my aggression out on the stove which I have not cleaned in two years of living in this house. Why clean it now? Because my mother is coming in 2 days. My mother who always has a sparkling stove and who lives 3,000 miles away where she cannot regularly check mine. Chances are that she will not, in her week of visiting, actually open my oven. However we all know that the only way to be sure is to clean it. That’s the rule.
So the oven is clean, the floor is mopped (for all the good it did me), and the outdoor plants have been watered. That’s the extent of it. Everything else is grimy, smeary, crusty, and stinky.
Yesterday my daughter wanted to check her reflection as she recently ran through a screen door and landed on some bricks yielding an incredible fat lip that she has been diligently monitoring. I followed her to the mirror and happened to notice that one of my fingernails, which I had just hurriedly trimmed, had landed in a highly visible spot in my hair. Fortunately I was able to remove it before we set off for Target.
So it seems that I have landed myself in, “The Grimy Years”. I get that now. The area under my son’s clip-on highchair must be scrubbed by hand 3 times a day- 4 if we have a snack. Oh yes, I could leave it but then he would track it all over my house. Two nights ago I asked my 3 year old daughter to try to keep her mulberry jam off the white carpet. She did. But I forgot to mention that if you need to sneeze when you are chewing up beets be sure to contain the result. Oh white carpet, why were you ever invented?
My toilet is sweating. A lot. The floor is uneven so all the sweat forms a river and the river leads to the low spot right in front of the bathroom sink. When my daughter travels across the bathroom to get her potty seat (7 times a day?) she must walk right through it. Sometimes she slips. I wipe it up several times a day while glaring at the toilet and demanding, “Really? Do you have to be a jerk?”
Grimy. Humid. Gross. Motherhood.