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Tuesday, April 08, 2008

Ugh!

Tomorrow I'm hosting playgroup. Don't get me wrong, I think it's really important for me to host because first of all it's only fair and second my younger son (YS) definitely needs to work on being a gracious host and sharing his toys. It seems like the minute his brother is out of the room, he somehow adopts his persona and starts telling the cats, the dog, and I think perhaps one or two walls that the toys are his. Poor kid. However as an older sibling myself I can't help but give my older son (OS) a mental high five. Yes, I know it's wrong.

The downside of hosting, is that it required me to spend an insanely long period of time today "de-furring" my house. This is a playgroup/playdate ritual that substantial time vacuuming, mopping and wiping down counters and tables. I have given up my plans of scientifically proving this, but anecdotal evidence leaves me convinced that there is an inverse relationship between the amount of time spent cleaning and the amount of fur left in my living room: the more time I spend, I swear the more likely it is for a guest to be covered in fur. I know that doesn't seem right. It is far easier to explain the direct correlation between the amount of fur covering a guest and the skyrocketing of my heartrate.

The obvious answer would be just not to clean at all, but somehow the amount of fur is still excessive when I don't clean which is logical but defies my other previously cited experiences. I just can't figure it out. My ideal solution would be to post a sign on my door (and in my email signature) warning people that they may only wear navy blue or fleece in my house at their own risk. I could further recommend jeans (and denim jackets) as the safest clothing option. Of course, in a world of competitive stay-at-home parenting, admitting to giving in like that would be socially unacceptable.

So I spent much of the morning washing the base boards (no this isn't a regular chore) downstairs and removing a Blair Witch Project type handprint from one of my walls, and lying on my stomach sweeping out under the couches and entertainment center. When I finished, I stood up to admire my sparkling house, feeling great pride in my achievement. Then I looked down. Right on my belly was a giant dust bunny. Great. I had so little control over the dust, that it could feel safe sitting mockingly on my own body! I had failed to clean, and with the dust bunny sitting on my belly, I felt fat too. Those dust bunnies! It doesn't matter how clean I get my house; they can reduce my self esteem to nothing with one wrong hop.

A. Elliot's Lesson Learned: Whether or not you can stomach having dust around, it likes to belly up to you.

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posted by Alex Elliot @ 12:56 PM   4 comments
4 Comments:

  • At 4/09/2008 7:53 AM, Blogger Heather said…

    Can you come and do my house too? I don't mind if there's one on my belly when you're done.

     

  • At 4/10/2008 8:27 AM, Blogger Tracey said…

    I also hate that I'm cleaning before the demolition crew of children come over. I mean, really? Where is the sanity in that? They're going to DESTROY the house, and I'm cleaning BEFOREhand?

     

  • At 4/10/2008 9:25 AM, Blogger Suzanne said…

    Every night before we go to bed, Husband says to our giant white rabbit, "Good night, Tycho. Stay furry!" I think in doing this, he is encouraging Tycho not to shed everywhere, but his crafty plan never works. Add in the general New York City dust that infiltrates every apartment, and you get some frightening dust bunnies. One tried to shank me once. I swear.

     

  • At 4/10/2008 12:31 PM, Blogger Worker Mommy said…

    Damn, dust bunnies.

    My problem is the excessive amount of shedding my dog does. Fortunately, it's concentrated in one are of the house and not everywhere...but dangit if it doesn't haunt me.

     
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Name:Alex Elliot
Home:MA, United States
About Me:Professional Mom of two cats, a dog, an ant farm, and oh yeah...two boys: a 6 year old and a 3 year old. Also found in my house is my husband who is known on this blog as The Big Giraffe.
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For those of us who didn't get an instruction manual with our babies and for whom parenting hasn't always gone as planned. On a more serious note this blog is about supporting a woman's ability to make her own choices about parenting including the choice, for whatever reason, to bottle feed her babies formula.

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