Apparently women are too tired and fed up to vote. No really, that’s what they are saying. We are so sad about how badly things are going that we have shrugged our shoulders and given up on tomorrow’s election. Our expected apathy has GOP and Tea Party goers giddy and relaxed. If we don’t show, if we don’t rally like we did in the Presidential election, they have this election in the bag.
Now here is where I am going to talk about how a vomiting little boy has inspired this post.
The night before Halloween, my seven year old stumbled out of his room in a cold sweat, climbed into my lap on the couch and proceeded to upchuck his entire ravioli dinner all over my t-shirt. And it didn’t end there. He spent the rest of the night heaving into a bowl while curled next to me on my towel draped bed. The following morning, Halloween morning, he managed to power down some ice chips. But then his ashen face faded from gray to blazing pink. He had spiked a 103 degree fever. And trick or treating would begin in less than 6 hours.
So what happened? My son dug deep. He had faith that his parents had the answers. He believed with all his might that if he pushed himself to hydrate and took that nasty ibuprofen Mommy had hovering in front of him he would somehow get better.
Clearly, a surge of adrenaline and his crazed little boy drive to run door to door for candy in his X-ray Skeleton costume had lit a fire within. By the time the sun had set, he was fever free, jumping gleefully around the house and ready to give it all he had.
Predictably, after an incredible night of house to house antics, my son collapsed into bed at 9pm. His fever had returned but, with a plastic pumpkin overflowing with Skittle and Smarties and his costume crumpled in the bedroom corner, he was victorious.
We need a little of what my son had yesterday.
According to all kinds of polls rating how depressed and apathetic women are regarding this election, we are supposed to be staying home tomorrow. No election trick or treating for us. No sir. We will accept our pathetic, fevered, rather ill situation. We give up.
Studies are showing that when men get angry, they go do something. But when women get angry, they get super sad. And turn inward. And do… nothing.
Nothing?!
One woman was quoted in the Huff Post as saying she doesn’t know where to turn now. There aren’t any real answers to our problems. And the financial issues are just… beyond us.
Um, ok. So let’s just stay home and do NOTHING.
Look, I get it. Do I have any flipping clue about how to fix our economy? Not so much. Am I feeling a little disillusioned by politics after seeing a democratic majority do so very little with what they had? Hell yeah. And does it make me ill to watch political commercial after commercial use the term “Obama liberal” like a four letter word? *shudder* YES.
So fine. Sometimes I just want to pretend our economy hasn’t gone to hell. Sometimes I want to completely ignore that more focus is being put on stopping our administration than working with it towards a constructive compromise. Sometimes I’d rather just tell cute stories about my kids, bake and be a mom.
Sometimes.
But it’s not time to do nothing. Not now. Because I can bake and read Harry Potter to my kids AND vote AND care about my country all at the same time. Because women are multi-taskers. And we are smart. And we make a difference.
And women will not just stay home and pout about the state of our union. We won’t say we don’t feel so good about what’s going on. We won’t just – oh fiddle sticks, this politics thing is a pain in the ass, I’m going to go clip coupons – give up.
Like my son had faith in hydration and Motrin, we need to have faith that our vote will count. And our vote can make change happen, I swear to you. It takes time but WE CAN AFFECT CHANGE.
Don’t believe me?
“Women make up 51 percent of the population and 54 percent of voters—closer to 60 percent if measuring Democratic voters alone.”
Want to know more about this? Take a dose of “reality check” and read here about Why Women are Fed Up.
We need to show them.
We need to show them that we are mad. We have HAD IT. And we aren’t going to stay home and fold socks and internalize our worries because we don’t want to cause any trouble.
We need to show them we have power and we can stand up for what we deserve.
Don’t make these polls right. Don’t ignore and be passive and not care.
Vote. VOTE DAMMIT.
DO SOMETHING.
And watch this. Get inspired. Get mad as hell. You don’t have to take it anymore.
The first time I even had any notion that there was such a thing as National Coming Out Day was my freshman year at college. One morning I woke up, slipped on my black Guess jeans, adjusted my scrunchy and stepped out onto campus only to find it gloriously covered with rainbow flags, rainbow ribbons, chalk drawings, announcements, fliers, banners, posters and all kinds of good vibes celebrating our campus’ gay community.
Wow. What a novel thing.
Because, as a straight woman, I never had to have a special DAY when people encouraged and applauded me for admitting who I loved.
(Can you imagine?
“Uh muh guh, I totally want to tell everyone that I have a crush on the most popular guy in school, fer sure. He’s sooooooo totally awesome to the max!”
… *crickets*… yeah yeah, get in line, you and the rest of the eighth grade girls.
…or maybe boys too?)
Because being heterosexual is the expected.
And being homosexual is not.
In fact, it was the first time I had ever thought carefully about the kind of courage it took to COME OUT. For one person to announce that they loved someone else. Out loud. For all the world to hear. And to be that afraid not because she was embarrassed, but because she was scared she might get her ass kicked. Or lose her family. Or lose a job. Or be persecuted or ousted from a community. Or even live in fear that she might be killed for who she loved. Because it happens. All the time.
So back to happy rainbows and people of all genders making out in the middle of the campus green while K.D. Lang crooned from speakers about constant craving.
Me, little miss ignorant *blink, blink* “well shucks now, I’m learning about diversity at college”, me miss “I’ve lived all over the world but didn’t know one damn thing about homophobia”… well, don’t roll your eyes now, but I kind of loved it.
Feeling all “you go girl!” (because that was the new, hip thing to say that back then), I grabbed a rainbow flag, tacked it to my back pack and stomped on ahead to class with a smile on my face. Hells yeah. We can make out with whomever we damn well please. Fly me some rainbows and celebrate the love. This holiday is ROCKS.
So there at college, on that fine fall morning all those years ago, I learned about love. And it was worth every frigging tuition dollar spent for that one very important lesson.
Happy National Coming Out Day to every amazing person finding the strength to say who they love and say it loud. You rock. You are totally awesome to the max. Fer sure.
You are so awesome I’ll even give you my scrunchy (because I’m pretty sure I still have it here somewhere).
Over the past few weeks, hate has revealed itself in our country once again. Thanks to prospective plans to build a new mosque near Ground Zero, a surprisingly large number of Americans have lashed out against this mosque and faith.
Regardless of how many years have passed since 9/11, the pain of such a shocking attack has yet to dissipate, as expected. That anger is absolutely understood and something most Americans are still working through.
However, for some, so much of that anger has justified itself as misdirected hate. With clear minds and steadfast allegiance, many have gathered their hate and directed it point blank at the Islamic faith.
Over this morning’s breakfast, I watched CNN report about a church in Gainsville, right in this sunny little state of mine not too far from here. In response to recent events, it seems their congregation has plans to burn copies of the Quran on the anniversary of 9/11.
My cereal spoon paused in mid-bite.
…..!!!
…What?!?!!!!!
It all feels so outlandish, so something out of some insane movie, some “The Day After” , “1984″, “Lord of the Flies” film that shows what happens to humans when we don’t keep ourselves in check. Something that should scare some sense into us but nothing that is actually happening. Because, wow, it would be pretty out of hand if our rational, sane, educated, equality-loving country ever got to the point where they would aim a missile at a mosque.
We’re at that point.
And during their news story this morning, CNN shared a quick clip from this recently created PSA to encourage awareness about the Islamic faith. It’s good. You should watch it here.
But I will tell you right now that it breaks my heart that we even have to have something like this. That a group of people paid to make a commercial to say “We are like you. We don’t want to hurt you. We are ok. No really, we are.”
I’m out of my mind about this.
(And here’s where I take a quick left turn and go on a little sidebar rant… Come along and listen, why don’t you.)
Apart from the outrageous, somehow accepted, hateful behavior being promoted and encouraged by various politicians, churches and everyday Americans, do you know who I blame this on?
I blame whoever the hell can’t get their act together to build the United States a place to mourn 9/11. I wonder how out of hand this ever would have gotten if Ground Zero was no longer just a hole – but an appropriate memorial where we could go, pay our respects and glean some small ounce of closure, peace or healing. But there is nothing there. Just an angry, raw construction site too massive to fill. An empty, unproductive space with memories so horrendous, no one knows what we could put in in its place to do all of it any justice.
Angry side bar done. Filling the hole clearly isn’t happening anytime soon, that’s clear. But a missile is currently being pointed at a small building where a mosque might be built. THAT is something that we can fix.
Missiles, leers, burning Qurans, bigotry, hateful protests. We are as a nation, as human beings, better than this.
So back to that church in Gainsville. My friend Maria wrote an important post about that church and its plans to burn the Quran in a few days. If you are wondering what you can do to promote peace right now, read her post. And join her initiative aptly named #loveburnsbrighter.
Update: So when I read this post 24 hours after I wrote it, I decided I should have titled this “My Bleeding Heart, Anti-hate, Tempter Tantrum”. Not that the points I make are any less valid (because I’m quite proud of my bleeding heart). But sometimes you just have to yell it out right?
*Cleansing breath* and hoping for positivity.
*****
This is one of those posts where I’m not sure if I want to hit the publish button. And I’m not even two sentences in. But I know. The words are up in my head daring to jump out onto this post.
I know I haven’t shared my opinions on anything specifically political recently. Why?
… searching for an answer…
Things are tough out there. Nothing is easy. Which isn’t what discourages me so much. It’s how horrible people have become as a result. And when I get so discouraged and so sad about it, I quiet down. Not so constructive, huh?
Yeah. I know.
But as of this moment right now, recently set off by someone’s comments in passing, I’ve kind of had it.
So I’m just going to say it.
Stop. Stop hating our President because he isn’t what you’re used to. I don’t care how mad you are a democrat was elected. I don’t care what you want to believe. He is American. He is Christian. His middle name is also Hussein. And he’s bi-racial. Stop stop stop letting that freak you out so frigging much.
Stop deciding a person of another faith is less American. Stop hating differences. Stop deciding where someone can worship. Stop pigeon holing, stop assuming, stop blaming 9/11 on anyone with a head covering. Stop deciding that people who speak another language are second class citizens.
Stop buying the horse pucky being shoveled out to you thanks to all those Glenn Becky entertainers posing as legitimate news resources. They make it ok to fear otherness. They tell you information that is not true. They tell you this and you think its the nightly news. Its not. It warped and misinterpreted and worked to sound exciting and controversial so that you turn on that show. And they get paid a lot of money for promoting news-looking information that is simply wrong. Don’t be so easily swayed. (That goes for liberal news pundits too. I’m well aware.)
Don’t settle into your comfortable homes and hope that people just like you move in next door and if they don’t well then Obama wins and what a horrible President he is. Stop it.
Stop forgetting to think for yourself. Challenge yourself with different. Make yourself learn more. Read and listen and open your mind and heart to lots and lots of resources. Question everything. Come to your own conclusions.
Stop blaming. Stop promoting hateful language and feeling smug because some new party says its ok and then do nothing – NOTHING – to make anything better at all. Be constructive.
Be yourself. Don’t fall in line with what the majority thinks just because its easier to agree than disagree. Celebrate new and interesting differences.
I don’t know best but neither do you. Stop yelling at people to get off your lawn and start working together. Stop allowing fear and misinformation to divide and conquer.
Its not his fault, or hers, or theirs. It’s ours. It’s time to take some responsibility.
….so.
I’m running out of momentum now. I’m not even sure this is worth posting after all. I got it out of my system. But I have to wonder if it even matters anyway. If those who feel irked by what I write will just turn their noses, call me wrong and go back to what they were doing all along anyway. If they even read it at all. And those that agree will just agree.
So I remain discouraged. Reading unbelievable news headlines, trying to find something constructive somewhere and hoping hoping hoping this hate begins to abate somehow.
I still haven’t decided if I want to click publish. But I suppose you’ll know if decide to bother.
I have some interesting and odd spots on my skin. Like some living astral phenomenon, one could spend a lot of time mole-gazing and making varied celestial dot to dot creations across my skin. A triangle… the Southern Cross… look Ma, the Big Dipper! I have moley skin. So did my mother. And she had melanoma at my age.
Once I was done reading her post, I lifted my shirt up and stared down at the brown blips connecting the Big Dipper. Her mole looked a whole lot like so many of mine. In fact, I think I had her mole about five times over just where I had lifted up my shirt.
I don’t think five minutes had passed before I was on the phone with the closest Dermatologist I could find. They could see me next Monday. Perfect. I’ll be there.
Today is Monday and, after being looked over with a very fancy brand of flashlight in the doctor’s office this afternoon, the verdict is in. I too have a small innocent looking mole camped out on my tum that needs to go. Just like Julie, it shows signs of mild dysplasia which means it may harbor potentially pre-cancerous cells. After next Monday, the Big Dipper won’t be quite so big after all.
So how do I feel about all of this? Actually, I feel pretty good. I am glad I made that call and had my mole-gazing done by a professional. I am thrilled that there is nothing too serious going on. And I am relieved I caught this one sly spot before it it turned on me and potentially changed my life down the road.
And I am kind of inspired by the power of blogging connections and the change writers can affect just through words. Julie’s post slapped some sense into me. Duh. Go get checked. I live in Florida – land of excessive and uber damaging sunlight – and I have a history of skin cancer in my family. What, did I need sky writers to get me there?
Nope. Just a writer, another blogger, telling her story.
I hope I inspire some of you to go get checked. And if you would like to learn more about taking responsibility for your health, check out the American Cancer Society’s new campaign called Choose You.
So back to mole gazing but with a decidedly more watchful eye.
Because sometimes everything just plods along and there doesn’t have to be any kind of grand interpretation of it all. Because days pass and that’s fine and there isn’t a significant moral to any sort of story. Because for the first time in awhile, I don’t feel like there is something very sad suspended just below, waiting to break the surface tension and disrupt my very carefully tended sense of steady.
All is well. All is peaceful. The tomato ripened and needed to be picked.
And like cigars, sometimes a tomato is just a tomato.
So. I sliced it up and put in my lunch salad. Without any over-wrought writer’s fanfare.
There are lots more blooms on the verge of budding however.
My tomato plant broke. With the best intentions, I heaved my now fairly enormous plant (still boasting only one thriving tomato but many new budding flowers) out to the backyard during a soft rainfall. And during the transition, it swayed suddenly and broke itself.
I should have known. These plants need to cared for with cloth ties and trusses and all this extra stuff. They need support.
I should have known.
I know it’s only a tomato plant. I know I give a damn far too much. I know there far worse tragedies in the world. Still. The way it suddenly snapped in the wind, snapping because it was just too heavy for itself, kind of broke my heart. And certainly stood for where my mind has been recently.
Be warned readers of mine. If I don’t write for awhile it may be because I am busy with real life. Or. It may be because I’m having a tough go of it. Yes, again.
So there I was with the wind picking up and the rain pouring down and not enough support for this now precariously crooked and bent plant. I said many bad words. And my three year old heard it all. Wonderful.
I hauled it back under cover and leaned it up against the screen on the porch. Hands on my hips, I stared at it. Hands on his hips, my three year old stared at it too and asked what’s wrong.
“It’s just mommy’s silly plant. It’s no big deal. Mommy is being silly about getting so upset over a silly little plant.”
“….Silly mommy.” He affirmed. And went back to his broom riding. (Back to cackling and riding my 6 year old’s baseball bat around the porch. Maybe I had mumbled something like “Auntie Em” having seen the storm coming…)
Still, as soon as Morningside Dad arrived home, I took off like a shot to find this plant some much needed support. I found it at the local Walmart, jammed it into the back of my car, and returned home to my wounded plant. With some gentle nudging and stringing and positioning, the tomato plant has what it has needed all along. A little support. Which I should have KNOWN it would need. And I should have prepared for ahead of time. And maybe not dragged it out in the middle of a storm and assumed it was strong enough and would be just fine.
The top portion may not make it after all. And that’s ok. Watching one portion die and get snipped off hardly means the whole thing is done for. Really. If cared for correctly, all will be well and there is no need for the usual dramatics. Sure, it might change shape a bit, it might take longer to fruit, it might not flower for awhile. But it will come back with a little support and some careful nurturing.
You get what you ask for right? It certainly was asking. I just need to pay it some attention before it, you know, snaps.
Once again I am taking my cues from a tomato plant.
And once again this analogy is about as subtle as a jackhammer.
But who cares. Maybe subtle isn’t what I need. Maybe stating the obvious loudly enough will slap me upside the head and remind me to take better care of myself and ask for what I need.
I’m green at all this sometimes you know.
Yep, another tomato joke. Thought you’d appreciate that.
When I woke up yesterday morning with no particular plan for my family, I sat down with my cereal at the computer and happened to read this article. The headline read:
“Oil Spill: DEP says it will hit Florida’s beaches mid-week”
I immediately felt ill. Ever since hearing the news about this spill, I have felt desperately ill. It has seeped into my conscious and I can’t seem to shake it. Last week, when I read the Governor’s reaction upon seeing the spill from the air, my stomach lurched once again.
“Until you actually see it, I don’t know how you can comprehend and appreciate the sheer magnitude of that thing.”
And it’s still spilling out. It’s not capped. Just erupting into the Gulf ceaselessly and oozing its way across the Gulf’s expanse. And now, it will hit our shores this week.
So without thinking twice, I announced to my family that a trip to the beach was in order. We better go enjoy it. We better spend a whole day appreciating what a fantastic slice of the natural world we have 45 minutes away from our front door.
And of course I packed my camera.
I want to share with you what we have here – what one small section of beach in Florida looks like.
This beach is in Tarpon Springs, a small town north of Tampa. This beach is in a park actually and we pay nothing to be there. The water is shifting, rolling glass – clear, blue and breathtaking. The wildlife rivals any aquarium. Locals fish on the beaches edge and pull up striped, gulping species that I certainly can’t name. And it is nothing new to find dolphins swimming around the periphery hoping to snag a fish escaping a line. I got so close to a dolphin once I could have reached out and pet it. There are stingrays and birds and starfish and sand dollars and hermit crabs and horseshoe crabs and regular crabs. There are these small sand colored fish that nibble at your toes in the surf. There are beautiful tiny white shells lining the shore. And powder fine sand, like nothing I’ve seen, that you sink your feet into and then swear you’ll give up your job and your life in suburbia so that you never ever have to leave.
It’s heaven.
And it’s all up and down this entire coast. A resource like nothing else. A resource we take for granted.
So what can I do? As if some super sentimental post about my favorite beach will do anything at all. The oil is coming and we are all sitting aside, waiting and watching. Powerless.
Obama calls this “a massive and potentially unprecedented environmental disaster”.
I don’t even know what to say to that.
I hate oil. I hate that we need it for our cars. I hate that we haven’t worked harder to harness other fuel resources. I hate that this kind of crap gets tied up in politics and partisanship and money and power and who has whose back. Our coasts and livelihoods and amazing wildlife care nothing about all that. But they will certainly pay dearly for it.
So why don’t we leave this post on a humorous note, shall we?? Because I think we could all use a good laugh right about now. And whose better at inspiring a giggle or two than our good buddy Sarah Palin? Here’s what she had to say to Biden about drilling during the Vice Presidential debate over a year ago (via The Huffington Post):
“You even called drilling — safe, environmentally-friendly drilling offshore — as raping the outer continental shelf. There — with new technology, with tiny footprints even on land, it is safe to drill and we need to do more of that.”
Again. Like I haven’t been working for the past two years. But does it really count?
Over the past few weeks, I have been reunited with my old resume again. The years-old file was pulled up, dusted off and, with some effort and focus, it is now finally updated. But all this focus on my experience and value as an employee has got me thinking about my own perceptions of work and blogging and how it’s counted after all.
Before I was a blogger or a parent, I worked “for real”. I had a decent salary, I wore suits to work, I had an assistant and people I supervised and years of experience in a career I liked well enough for the time being.
Fancy, huh?
But then I had my first son and, after some heart stopping birth trauma, I dropped that nice salary to stay home and watch my son breathe and feed and make sure he actually exisisted after everything we went through.
And I don’t regret it. Almost seven years later surviving on one salary and a miracle, I am proud of every second I’ve spent watching both of my boys live and play and grow into the people they are today.
But during that time, I started blogging. Little ol’ me started writing and writing and writing. I found a furious affection for it and just kept writing. And then readers started reading. Two years passed and here I am with an enormous archive of posts, a boatload of loyal readers, experiencesbeyond anything I could have dreamed of and such curious titles as “Mommy Blogger” , “Freelancer” and “Influencer”.
Still. While I updated my resume, I wasn’t initially sure what I had to show for myself recently. Even after all of this hard work and all of these posts. It didn’t seem to count as “real” work. Why? Well, no one is paying me to do it. No one is standing over my head with deadlines expecting me to pump all of this out. I don’t have a fancy office or an assistant or co-workers to go have drinks with after work. No salary and benefits seems to give all this Morningside Mom stuff so much less value in my mind.
Which is wrong.
And when I fill out my information under “employment” on forms or meet new people or talk to family members about what I am doing, I’m still a stay at home mom – oh, and who happens to blog *blush*, which is no big deal.
Not ok. At least in my own mind, it deserves more serious consideration and, well, pride.
Why is that so hard to find?
There has been a lot of recent discussion about parent blogs, some of it not so positive. As if we are some sort of catty, free stuff grabbing, bon bon eating, children ignoring, blog writing annoyances. As if we’re not here taking our work seriously while still parenting our children well. As if we’re not actually professionals – fancy salaries or not.
But doesn’t it say something about a person to love their work and focus so carefully on it and maintain a purposeful writing schedule and attend expensive conferences and hold themselves accountable when they have nobody breathing down their necks and are paid absolutely nothing to do it?
And I have to wonder if the fact that we aren’t paid to be “influencers” does us some damage. Because not only are we at risk of not taking more pride in our own work, but we are more easily written off by media, companies and the interwebs at large. We’re just misinformed, chattering outlanders: not journalists, not paid professionals. And if you don’t like what we write, who cares, no one takes bloggers seriously anyway. Clearly, not being held accountable or associated with a particular company or not being given a monetary value can absolutely translate as no value at all.
Screw that.
After all these years of working and writing and caring so much about what I do certainly gives me and my writing value. And as I plugged things into my resume and reviewed posts in my archives, I realized that I have a ton of experience. A ton. While raising my boys, I’ve managed to get an extraordinary amount done on my own accord. And I’ve done it well.
I know being home alone without any one patting me on the back has withered my confidence to some degree. But resume writing always results in important soul searching and I’ve come to realize that all of this – right here, where I have so diligently and loyally posted my thoughts and reviews for over two years - deserves pride and it deserves recognition.
So there.
Ok. So fine. I feel a little better about myself. And that’s very nice, isn’t it? But what will it really mean down the line? Will I find employment doing something I already do and love doing? Or will I find myself starting from scratch because maybe my value as an employee doesn’t really translate just because I have a blog where I write.
Isn’t that nice, dear. Now. What have you REALLY done, hmmm? Perceptions of bloggers are what they are, no matter how much value I give my own work.
I’ll keep you posted as I always do. Until then, I have some ramblings running around in my head about my usual topics: my kids, some punditry, fabulous upcoming giveaways, missing my mom, Florida living, random ponderings and so much more.
It’s what I do and – take it or leave it - it’s what I do well. Let’s just hope that folks who might actually pay me in real, actual dollar bills think so too.
I’m a big fan of the ladies over at Aiming Low. So I am ripping a page out of their book today (imitation being the highest form of flattery, of course) and will attempt to explain just exactly how low I can aim. Specifically? When cleaning. I make a total shamockery of the whole concept of house cleaning. And here’s how I do it.
Wait, let me back up and tell you why.
While some of my childhood friends had things matched and just so and put away in their places, I did not. I could care less about order. Many memories of my mother include exasperated pleas to do something about my bedroom. But my kind of cleaning usually resulted in finding old stuff and playing with it in the very corner I started in until she came back in and saw me off in la-la land still surrounded by the shambles of my bedroom. Call me rebellious or just a particularly lazy kind of lazy or perhaps distracted by my own unique style of creativity (oh, I like that one), I kind of only barely did anything to make heads or tails of my own living space.
Then I became a grown up. And when dishes got left someplace or the rug pilled exotic animal hair balls, I heard my mother’s voice grumble from under my breath: “Who do you expect is going to clean this up?” Me. Damn. Do I have to? I guess.
So, yeah, I clean now. But only because I have to. And usually only when I invite someone over. Or I get mad. When I’m mad, I love to clean. So consider my home a happy place when it’s dirty (which is often, so yay for us). But maybe worry if it’s too clean. Really. Or else just expect company to ring our doorbell in the next 5 – 10 minutes because that’s about how clean it will remain with my boys at large, trailing dirt from shoes, dismantled toys and sandwich crusts.
But if I hate to clean so much, how do I do it exactly? You should not be surprised to hear that when I do clean, it isn’t the most thorough job ever. Shocked and appalled, I’m sure, but you need to understand that buffing the underside of the frig’s crisper drawers just doesn’t turn me on. It just doesn’t, I’m sorry.
Ok, time to discuss cleaning itself. I’ve procrastinated enough. I usually start with the dishes. Because there is NO way a home can be considered even remotely clean if there are dishes in the sink. So that means unloading the dishwasher, cramming everything haphazardly into whatever cabinet that fits it and slamming the doors shut to keep it all from falling out. Then cramming the dishwasher with whatever could possibly fit in there too. As long as the spinning water thingie on top clears, we’re good.
Then I wipe down the kitchen. No I don’t pick up the toaster and look for crumbs. No I don’t scrub every milk circle off the table. No I don’t scrub the scum off the stove burners. I have, but you have to be some big-wig kind of company for me to go that far.
Then I sweep. Where you can see. (Do NOT move my couches or you will be asked to leave my house.)
Vacuum? …Maybe. It depends. I take a step back and eyeball my carpets. Like a ripe melon, you just know when the accumulated grime is impossible to ignore.
If there is a splat of something on the floor, do I grab the mop and wet the whole place down? I’ve done it before. A few times ago, I did it. But usually? I grab an anti-bacterial wipe and spot treat. Perfection.
(Note: Those antibacterial wipes are fab. No sponges or extra spraying steps. Wipe everything down and you know bad germies are gone(ish). Yes, I know they’re wasteful. But one goes a long way, let me tell you. Or at least they do for me…)
Oh. Clutter. Yeah, there is always a place for that. Usually in the guest room. All things unwanted and undealt with go to die in my guest room. And then when you are looking for tax forms or insurance cards, you always know where they are. More or less.
(No, I file stuff. I have special piles. I know where everything is. Not to worry. …Don’t look at me like that.)
Toys? Oh I have a favorite spot for toys. If they don’t fit into the established toy baskets or if they are falling apart, they usually go in a bag to charity. Seriously. If they are cluttering everything up and aren’t being used, buh-bye. Easy.
Laundry might be my favorite. Well, at least the part where you can throw heaps of it into the washer and shut the top. Voila, gone! It’s just the part about taking it back out again and sorting and folding it. Lame. So my kids get their school clothes out of the “probably” clean hamper. Wrinkled? My husband’s remedy is to sprinkle them with water and throw them into the dryer for a couple minutes. And yes, this is a wasteful use of electricity. Duly noted.
So them’s my tricks for clean living here at Chez Morningside. Feel free to steal a couple. Or take this post as permission to let yourself slide now and again. Because any parent of young children who takes the time to perform multiple exercises in futility clean regularly should expect it undone within the hour.
Granted, if you get mad about that, maybe you’ll want to clean again.
The night before Halloween, my seven year old stumbled out of his room in a cold sweat, climbed into my lap on the couch and proceeded to upchuck his entire ravioli dinner all over my t-shirt. And it didn’t end there. He spent the rest of the night heaving into a bowl while curled next to me on my towel draped bed. The following morning, Halloween morning, he managed to power down some ice chips. But then his ashen face faded from gray to blazing pink. He had spiked a 103 degree fever. And trick or treating would begin in less than 6 hours.
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