I Used to Hate Cleaning the Bathroom

The list for the weekend included baking, writing, bill-paying, getting out to work in the yard if the rain quits, and cleaning the bathroom.

I used to hate cleaning the bathroom, but my mom would tell you no one does that job better than I do.  (Freud would probably have something to say about that.)

This morning it occurred to me that I don’t hate it anymore.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not like I jumped out of bed excited about the prospect of grabbing the white vinegar, paper towels and scrubby, but there are worse chores.

It takes me about 25 minutes to do it right.  That’s 25 minutes without interruption or phone or email.  I play music loud or enjoy the silence, depending on my mood.  Once the tools are gathered, I start scrubbing.

Those 25 minutes lead to a quick sense of accomplishment.  How many chores result in that kind of success rate?

 

I have a system for getting it done.  With years of practice, my mind is free to wander as I clean.  I can sing along to the music, or solve a nagging problem.

By the time I’m done, I’m breathing a little harder.  (The excessive scrubbing is clearly an attempt at scrubbing other “stuff” out of my life.)

Niggling thoughts of situations people, compel me to grab an old toothbrush and attack the lime deposits at the base of the faucet.  The situation hasn’t changed in that 25 minutes, but I have managed to make a little corner of the world nicer.

While working through the plot line of a novel, I’ve virtually written a page and a half, and look down to see that the tub is free of soap scum.

The end result shines, smells better and looks pretty.  It makes me feel like I can have a positive impact, even if it only lasts until next week.

 

Added bonus:  No one is going to tell me how to do it better, or that I’m doing it wrong.

 

Many moons ago, my grandmother had gone to the doctor to try to figure out why she’d been so blue.  (This was back before the word depression was applied to every conceivable ailment.)   I picture the doctor tapping her knee with that little rubber-headed hammer to check her reflexes.  Next he would listen to her heart and then check her pulse.  He probably looked down her throat and peeked into her ears.  After confirming that her physical self was fine, he prescribed something for her mental health.

His prescription:  Go home and scrub your kitchen floor.

 

 

*This post is dedicated to my aunt.

She was a well-read, articulate, quietly funny, compassionate INTJ.  We used to get together on priceless afternoons when chores were done, kids were occupied, and our lists allowed for a couple hours of coffee and conversation.

I would simply send her a text, and she could sense whether this would be a “Let’s catch up” chat, or an “Oh, No! I messed up!” chat.

We talked of crochet patterns, raising kids, teaching (she was a teacher and a principal), family dynamics, marriage and relationships, writing, genealogy, and most recently, the marvel of purchasing books “for only 99 cents on BookBub!”

I remember one particular afternoon when we talked about the years she and my uncle had been married.  She spoke of magic mixed with frustration.  She honestly shared difficulties, but she would be quick to say that difficulties were always framed by the sweetness of knowing someone for so many years.  She understood yin and yang before it was cool.  She told me that until she met my uncle, she’d never known what it was like to have a cheerleader.  He supported her, stood by her, encouraged her and believed in her.  Together they encouraged and believed in their family and friends.  He was her cheerleader until the very end.

Many years ago, she introduced me to the heavenly combination of peanut butter and honey.  (Did you know that peanut butter and honey sandwiches are even better when followed by butterscotch pudding?)  Sporting pigtails, shorts and Popsicle-stained cheeks, summers felt safe and endless with their three daughters, in their backyard.

She also taught me that a family could never be too big, and that there was always enough love to go around.

Thank you, Aunt Pat, for being my cheerleader.