A special mop has come into my life. Such happiness. A mop able to bolt me out of bed, race me toward kitchen floor for one more scrubbing. Fan turned to high to erase all evidence before giant feet, medium sized feet, little feet and a pair of paws arrive for one more day of mess making. Granted, this mop has special powers. It comes with built in bucket elongated the length of the handle, a tank of mixture (oxiclean,bleach and water). No need to fill a sink for dipping mop into. I have a mop camelback of sorts, with a squirt function just above the mop pad which, by the way is velcro like, and removable!
I hate a sticky floor, and for some reason I have never been able to keep it straight for any length of time. My reasons are many. Good reasons such as our kids are hungry 75 times a day rather than the mythical 3. Lets see. There’s the tap shoes that can be used only on the tile, and don’t you realize that floor tapping is so much more fun while using the hula hoop that accidently crashes into the dogs dish! Just when I’m asking a certain Little Miss to clean it up, the doorbell rings and her long lost neighbor who she hasn’t seen for 3 whole days is bouncing up and down screaming right along her in celebration of finally seeing each other again. How can I ever stop such sheer happiness, and so I lean down to scoop up dog food while below in the yard they are bounding, racing, jabbering just because they’re together. In the middle of that task I think to myself, I’d better mop, too. Heading to the pantry where I keep the mop, I remember a niece in bootcamp I haven’t written to in a week or two, and I know if I don’t stop everything I’m doing right now and get it done, it won’t happen for months. Sitting down at kitchen table, I tell her about swim team for one cousin. The fish he caught on vacation. The lawn mowing business he works at. I tell her about another cousin of hers working at Olive Garden, singing Gershwin with me last night, just for the fun. Tell her of the adventures of Little Miss. Forts built, the cooking, the reading skills she’s acquiring. I tell her tales of work life at Boeing for Uncle. The walks I take with clients. Address on envelope, stamp intact, I better take this to box or it will never be sent.
Oh no, it’s time to feed the kids again.
And so it goes, until the whole day through is consumed with ways of ruining my floor. Happy sticky floors. By time the mess makers of all sizes are tucked into bed I can hardly take a step. But try, I do, to sweep and mop, for starting tomorrow out really nice, with feet bare stepping across unscathed soft surface. And as I stirr early morning, house mostly quiet but for husbands noising sleep-breathing, a ticking clock beside my bed, I just can’t help myself. Makes not a bit of sense at all. The floors have not been touched since I mopped them last. Still, I think one more sweep and mop will do no harm toward the cause. Stealthy sneaking out of cotton sheets, through bedroom door, down the stairs to kitchen floor, I sweep and mop, frizzled hair a-flying, fast I work. The last edge swiped up, the fan now on, I hear feet on the floor. It will be dry by the time toes arrive. Yeah!!! I did it.