This morning I spent an hour and a half scrubbing the yuck off of the floors while Abby played at my side. When my boys get home, they will surely stomp big, muddy footprints before I get a chance to tackle them down and yank off their shoes. There are three of them. They come in from different directions, almost as if they’ve made a pact to make it impossible to keep the floors they didn’t even know I would be cleaning, clean. For this minute though, I’m proud of my shiny floors and clean baseboards. That feeling is soon replaced with, “Yup, being an adult sucks! No one should have the best part of their day be the five minutes their floors are clean.”
And that’s why it won’t be. It’s why I don’t try to keep my floors always sparkling clean but do look forward to the need to have to tackle my kids down, to hear the squeal of their laughter as I ferociously tickle them before I yank their shoes off. “THIS HOUSE WAS CLEAN!” I will yell sarcastically as they run off in three different directions, still tripping over laundry undone and toys left out.
We’ll run. We’ll giggle. We’ll run. Eventually we’ll tire out, I’ll be left on the ground, body aching as I reach for my phone to check my email. My boys will move to the computers, Ipads or to friends’ houses.
My kids won’t remember clean floors. Mostly because they’re so rare. I hope they won’t remember my love for my iphone or the times I really did get angry with them for ruining the work I’ve done. More than anything though, I hope they’ll remember that cold chill of fear as their mother pounced on them like a rabid monkey, not really sure if this was the moment she really snapped, or just another time where tackles and tickles are just the best part of growing up.
That little bit of uncertainty goes a long way.