Cleaning

                I have a love-hate relationship with cleaning.  I love the sense of accomplishment and the feeling of organization, but I really, really hate doing the work.  No, that’s not quite right.  I really, really detest picking up; the actual cleaning part doesn’t bother me at all. 

                Some of my best childhood memories are of Saturday morning cleaning.  I remember the lemony smell of Pledge as I polished the legs of tables and chairs.  I loved watching the dust motes float through the sunshine, waiting for me to exhale and send them spinning off in new directions.

                My mom was the picking up police; you had hardly set something down before she was there demanding that it be put away.  Our house was always neat and tidy, something I took for granted as a child.  Now as an adult, I wish I had adopted that skill from my mom, instead I chose to rebel against her uberorganized world.  My house is never really picked up.  I’m the queen of moving my piles around, or finding places to stash things.  I can’t ever quite make up my mind about where things should go, so I am constantly moving items from one cupboard to another.  It drives my husband bonkers. 

                On Saturday morning, Foofer and I spent about 3 hours cleaning the house.  By the end of the ordeal, I could look around at the relatively spick and span atmosphere and feel good about our accomplishments.  I don’t think I will ever be the housekeeper that my mother is, but for a few moments in my bright, sunny, clean living room I could see the dust motes dancing through the air and try to reconnect with those childhood memories.