I sat on the stairs in my pajamas this morning, talking to Ryan through clenched teeth. It had been a nice enough morning, the kids woke up and played nicely after eating the cake balls I brought them back from the wedding we attended last night. A friend called and we chatted for about thirty minutes. I enjoyed two cups of coffee. But things took a turn when I finished my shower and found only one wet towel in the entire upstairs. I was about to dry off with a pillowcase when I found the towel I use to stretch my feet every morning on the advice of my friend the podiatrist.
"It's mama rampage day." I said to him as he stood in the kitchen emptying the dishwasher. "Kids are no longer allowed in our bathroom. It's disgusting and I'm taking it back. We're going to spend the afternoon cleaning."
"OK," he said slowly, pausing with a stack of plates in his hand. He knows better than to argue when I flip from Roseanne Barr to Martha Stewart in the home cleanliness expectations department, usually on cycle day seven or so.
I went back upstairs to finishing getting ready and then halfway through getting my church clothes on I could no longer suppress the urge to Comet bleach spray the bajeezus out of the master bathroom. It was as if the filth was going to jump off the surfaces and latch onto me.
And also, the kids had brushed their teeth in there with our nanny, Miss N, the night before and it looked like a blue toothpaste-speckled crime scene--not from last night, but because that is what it looks like all the time. Mortifying.
Wearing my leggings and shoes, but no dress yet, I sprayed counter within an inch of its life then scrubbed all those freaking blue toothpaste spots with a sponge until I felt I could brush my teeth without contracting hepatitis. Wes came in and asked me why I was cleaning then retreated back down the stairs when my head started spinning around and fire came out of my ears.
I zeroed in on the toilet next, which would have given some holding cells a run for their money in the pure filth department. After I hosed it down with bleach I reached for the toilet brush but found only the plunger. I finally found it in the other bathroom where I now remember finding Wes using it to wash his back several nights ago during bathtime. Such a resourceful child.
After the toilet I sprayed the floor around the toilet and the baseboards and took out all the trash. And then put my dress on. And an extra layer of deodorant.
And then we went to church and out for lunch and then back home where I did six loads of laundry and pulled a large box of recycling and a whole bag of trash from the master bedroom. I changed the sheets and put away some boxes and vacuumed everything twice. And then put all the Snoopy toothbrushes in the other bathroom because NO! EVERYBODY OUT! THIS IS THE ADULT SPACE!
After we put the last kid to bed, I went in to my cozy, clean, orderly adult space and collapsed on the clean, neatly made bed. It was glorious. But then.
Cough cough COUGHCOUGHCOUGH wheeeeeeze cough cough gag.
This went on for thirty minutes despite sips of water, sleeping sitting up in my arms, and a dose of cough syrup.
And that is how I spent the first night of having my spotless adult bathroom lying on its floor, wrapped in a quilt, singing Old MacDonald had a farm with coughing child in my arms, breathing in the humid air from the shower. Oh I am so thankful I cleaned that floor.