There’s something about spring weather when you can throw open the window sashes and let the fresh air waft in that makes me want to clean. Well that and last week’s game of “find the Am Ex” that revealed dust bunnies the size of house cats.
With Chaz traveling this week, cleaning helps calm my nervous energy. Plus, I love the idea of him arriving home from a late flight, walking into a shiny, lemony-smelling house and rushing back to the departing cab yelling “stop” because he’s got the wrong house.
I spend three hours and only get two of the boys’ rooms clean. I move furniture. Clean inside drawers. Wash the floor underneath the bed. Organize book shelves. Separate broken toys from working ones. Man, my boys will be surprised! Maybe they’ll chase the bus driver and yell “stop” because they think she’s got the wrong house.
Anyone who knows me knows I’m not a cleaner. I’m not really even a picker-upper. I do it because it’s my job and on occasion I like to see the floor. I may need to reconsider. Looking around, I have to admit there is something wonderfully freeing about a clean, sparkly room.
F.’s room looks like a F4 tornado hit it and I close the door.