Housekeeping

Amy’s blog post about hiring a housekeeper inspired me to do something about the squalor we live in. Specifically, it inspired me to clean our bathroom. Not that the filth inside was on the verge of forming a semi-autonomous nation; I can still clearly remember the last time I cleaned the bathroom,* so it hasn’t been that long. It was still pretty dirty though, and to the point where I wasn’t sure if hands would emerge any cleaner after being washed in the sink.

I put the boys down for their morning nap, dug out my favorite corrosive chemicals,** and started work wiping down everything in sight. I left the bathroom door open partly so I wouldn’t die when I accidentally spilled ammonia in my bleach water, but mostly so I could keep a halfway-competent eye on Abbie. The instant she does something in another room that’s dangerous enough to make her scream in agony, I’ll know about it.

Abbie does not usually choose to be in another room, though. Abbie wants to be at my side, exploring, and helping me work. Of course my idea of work is filling a bucket full of bleach water, while her idea of work is finding out water happens when she tips over a bucket full of bleach water,*** so our work ethics aren’t always compatible. I try to humor her as best I can and let her explore as long as she’s not on the verge of doing something destructive or dangerous.

Unfortunately our bathroom is tiny, and when daddy is cleaning, almost anything she could touch is destructive or dangerous. First she tried climbing in the bathtub filled with scalding hot bleach water, which, in her defense, closely resembles a bathtub filled with bathwater. After realizing that daddy wasn’t going to let her take a bath, she started chewing on soap bottles, trying to flip the caps open with her teeth. When she chews on bath soap bottles, that’s annoying, but not necessarily dangerous unless she downs a whole bottle, and neither of us is ignorant enough to let that happen. When she chews on cleaning soap bottles, like she did after I put all the bath soap bottles out of reach, that’s dangerous. The first time she popped the lid off the bottle of wipes, I kicked her out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.

I was almost finished, but hurried to the end. With her out of view, I had no idea what she was up to. The fact that I couldn’t hear her could only mean she was doing something naughty.

Finished, I opened the door, took one step into the kitchen, and immediately saw what Abbie had gotten into. She had climbed onto a dining chair, across the top of the dishwasher, onto the countertop, pulled a box of Fruit Rings off the top shelf, and was happily munching her way into a sugar buzz. She knows she’s not supposed to climb on things or grab food without permission; doing so makes daddy turn red. She knew just how to work her way out of trouble, though; upon seeing me, she immediately thrust out her hand and offered me a purple Fruit Ring. If it works to keep the dog happy and by her side, it should work with daddy.

Declining the Fruit Ring, I pulled her off the counter, put the box back on the shelf, and turned around before she could see me laughing. Then I set about wiping the nuclear-hued sugar dust off her hands. Fortunately we had a nice clean sink in which to wash her hands.

* It was definitely last cleaned sometime within the past month. We’re still in June, right?
** Bleach. Lots of bleach. And a few lemon-scented wipes.
*** Daddy turns red.