Little Girl with a Toy House Cleaning Kit
Photographic Print
Walter Sanders
It's Monday morning, and I can barely lift my arm as I open dust-free blinds. Two inches of early spring snow carpets my lawn. The crystal clean landscape pleases me, though I wince at the pain in my shoulder. I check the blinds to see if I have missed any spots; spring-cleaning madness still lurks in my critical eye.
It all started when I decided to paint the stairwell. Fingerprint smeared peach paint had turned a sickly gray where the kids brace themselves on their flight down the stairs. Black marks marred the baseboards from the toes of winter boots.
A half-gallon of Dutch Boy Peach Blush stirred up like new. After just one hour, the wall was clean. But then the white baseboards looked even dirtier by contrast. Iron Stone White came to the rescue at that point. As the baseboards were freshened up, it only made the doors to the bedrooms upstairs look more dingy than they already were. So, I touched up those as well, along with the front door, the windowsills in the living room, and the rest of the baseboards. I kept moving the brush, painting the archway to the dining room.
What drove me to clean and spiff up everything even though my body begged me to stop long before I did? Perhaps it was the change in season that urged me to push all the clutter out of the nest after a long winter during which we huddled together to stay warm and dry. Maybe the soot and dust from cozy winter fires that had seeped into every crack and crevice inspired me, kept me going.
No matter the cause, yesterday's tasks now were complete. I could rest. My house looked great. The baseboards looked good. The little edges gleamed clean and fresh with new paint.
But, oops, what's that? Dusty blinds? Oh, no!
I look up in mid-theatrical sigh, invoking a higher power to spare me more cleaning.
Are those cobwebs dancing on the ceiling?
Not for long.
After covering my broom with an old t-shirt, I sweep away a winter's worth of spider labor. It is dusty behind the picture frames. The windows need a spritz of ammonia.
I sigh again. No rest for the weary or obsessed.
Dominos. Once I start, I cannot stop. Each place I clean leaves the area next to it looking noticeably dirtier. With every swipe of the cloth and stroke of the brush, my cleaning muscles flex. I am a bit out of cleaning shape. But that won't stop me.
The rest of the family also catches the cleaning bug. My husband dismantles the TV and stereo, vacuums the dust lurking among the tangle of wires and cords. He organizes the shelves then puts everything back together.
The kids sort through their clothes and toys. Soon, they fill an enormous box of hand-me-downs for the cousins. Clear spaces, unimaginable before, open up as the clutter disappears. But, the madness does not stop.
We head out to the garage. The sleds go up into storage. Our cross-country skis go back into their nylon bags and are hung on pegs, out of the way. We fill a garbage bag with an old soccer ball, a rusty metal shelf, and broken badminton rackets. My husband straightens his workbench while the kids throw snowballs in the front yard for the last time this season.
Now we are ready for the warm weather, that is, after I finish the kitchen . . . and well, I probably should paint the bathroom while I'm at it.
BIO: CAROLINE WOLFE is a pen name under which author, Marcia Roth Tucci, writes about love, marriage, motherhood and self-discovery. The pen name represents her authentic voice, free from association of her married and paternal names, and links to her maternal heritage. Caroline Wolfe is the voice of a woman, any woman, and the essays explore moments of truth in the life of the author and women around her.
The author can be reached at: carolinewolfe@yahoo.com