Spic n' Span

Fresh as a daisy

It was 8:30 on a beautiful summer evening, and Charlie was asleep.  My husband was working late and I was by myself in a quiet house.  What to do, what to do? I decided I’d steal a moment away for myself and...clean.  Sounds ridiculous, right? Well not to the makers of a variety of products which are lavender scented.  They’ve done the focus groups, they’ve talked to the cleaning women who relax as they clean.  It seems odd.  Never in my life did I enjoy cleaning, but now I do when my son is sleeping.  I realized that cleaning uninterrupted is actually a luxury (as is eating, going to the washroom, shaving my legs, etc.).  Well, when there is nothing else on the agenda and it is quiet, cleaning is quite nice actually.  

I had a girlfriend as a teenager, whose mother would ritualize cleaning in the evenings. She would smoke, drink a corona, dim the lights and put on Joni Mitchell.  As Little Green would play softly in the background, she’d fold her whitest whites, which she’d dump out on the large harvest table in her all-white kitchen.  She'd peacefully fold the laundry blowing smoke rings making little piles based on clothing type and owner.  I believe vanilla candles were also lit in the background.   Sometimes I feel like I’m channeling this lady as I clean.

There is a difference between tidying and truly cleaning - like - Molly Maid grade cleaning.  So often, all I manage to do is a surface clean, where I grab the nearest damp cloth or Kleenex (or wipe) and clean the obvious, visible spills as they appear to me.   My cleaning, or should I say, tidying, involves: straightening pile of magazines, recycling junk mail, straightening shoes by the door, and swiffering (now a verb!) obvious dust - like ray-of-light-through-the-window dust.  After he eats, I’ll wipe down the tray of his highchair.   Later, laying on the floor doing puzzles I notice parts of the highchair that should have never seen food directly, but that now have pizza sauce and other miscellaneous things spackled and caked on - that need wiping badly.  How long has THAT been there?  My regular cleaning is not thorough spring cleaning type cleaning - who does that but before guests come, I mean, really?! You’re supposed to wash the walls?! But now, with little ants around sink, I know down deep inside why we have these household pests.  I can’t keep up.  Why does having a baby mean that everything has crumbs on it?  And I only have 1 kid! I mean, no pets and a husband who sadly works 12 hour days.  Its just me in this house basically - this means that I’m the pig and I’m raising a piglet!   I’m the worst with stuff just piling up.  My buffet for example (or sideboard/ credenza - what do you call those things anyway?) is covered in bills (paid and due mixed together), a dying plant, mix-matched tupperware, an empty Kleenex box, Charlie’s crocs, an extension cord and some random art supplies.  I’m a candidate for Clean Sweep for sure! Does that show still exist?  Hopefully I’m not a candidate for Hoarders! No, I’m not THAT bad.  

I do have one pet peeve and that is the stinky dishcloth.  Of that I am extremely vigilant, replacing it daily with a freshly bleached cloth.  But the other chores? Well, they slide.  Of all the chores on the list, emptying the dishwasher is my least favourite.  I have no clue why. I’m a soak and scrub later type.  What I lack is some true elbow grease.  And for this reason, shake and bake is my mortal enemy.  Particulates that don’t come off unless you put your back into it.  However, scrubbing a pan is quite good for getting out internal aggressions - like punching a punching bag. 

I know that I occasionally get into hyper cleaning moods where I put on Bjork or some aggressive rock and roll (The Dum Dum Girls is a favourite) and really scrub the bath ring around the tub or get down on my hands and knees and wrangle the dust bunnies that live underneath every piece of furniture in my house.  I fill up the kitchen sink with hot, I mean boiling, sudsy water and scrub every surface.  As I clean I literally feel my hair fall out and my biceps bulge as I turn into a flat-chested bald man with a hoop earring. Self-satisfied, arms crossed, nodding with a big grin on my smug face.  “Yes, that’s Mrs. Clean to you.”

My house rarely looks spiffy and sparkly except for when my mother-in-law has been over.  My spices drawer is alphabetized, my linen closet looks ready for a Martha Stewart magazine centerfold spread and when I put away the folded laundry she’s done I have a series of revelations!  So THIS is how you’re supposed to fold a bath towel, fitted sheet, pair of panties, FILL IN THE BLANK!  It was like I was visited by the laundry fairy.

The last thing I’ll say about cleaning is the idea of getting your kids on board to team clean!  Its this myth that I’ve heard mentioned over and over.  Its cool that Charlie loves to clean by his own volition, but as soon as you force it, by buying a little broom swiffer- trying to make cleaning fun during a pre-ordained "time for cleaning"!  Its just not going to happen.  I've heard it said,  “If your little one likes cleaning, you’ll have a helper and not have to get after them to always clean up after themselves”.  It reminds me of the little ditty we sing at playgroup at the day’s end:

Clean up, clean up everybody everywhere

Clean up, clean up everybody do your share!

Not in this lifetime.

Quit Toying With My Emotions

Its not just the prerogative of grandparents anymore

One of my son’s favourite pastimes is to read a catalogue for Mastermind Toys.  He will  go to the book shelf (yes, it has book shelf status in our house) and make a point to look for it, and then he’ll sit and study every single toy in there.  He finds a lot of joy in it, exclaiming loudly, “Wow!” and “Yeah!” when he points out his very favourite toys (mostly those toys with wheels).  I recently had the brainwave of bringing him into a toy and hobby store at Mapleview mall where I experienced 21 month old fury at being penned into a stroller and forced to “look and don’t touch”. That’s not an option for my son.  Screaming doesn’t quite capture the extreme vocalized disdain he had for me when I kept trying to soothe him with redirection and reassurance, “look at this one! no I’m sorry honey we can’t play with these toys.”  I felt like a complete ass and promptly beelined for the exit.  You see, Charlie understands the difference between print ads for toys (2D) as in, not real, can’t touch and 3D (real, physical objects that EXIST) as in, can and should be able to touch.  He did not however, understand why I would bring him to such a wonderland of commercialism and then restrain him from touching anything.  He pouted for a good hour after that and his puffy, tear-stained cheeks made me feel like a moron for the next 24.   But I’m not writing here to confess my toy store + nearly 2 year old conundrum, I’m writing about my own problem for buying things that I feel Charlie should have, nay needs to have.  

Prior to motherhood, I was known to indulge in the best wines and foodie goodies, trendy clothes and jewelry, spa treatments, highlights.  I would say I enjoyed shopping for myself.  Now I channel my love of cute things into buying toys and clothes for Charlie.   You see, buying a toy for your kid is pretty satisfying, some might call it addicting.  The joy you feel when you pick out just the right thing and he plays with it happily afterward, suddenly inseparable from it.   It makes you feel really warm and tingly in a materialistic sort of way.  But the really funny thing about toys and kids is that, they may want something in the store, and so you cave and give in and satisfy their whim and then well, it sits untouched collecting dust in your house.  What I’ve discovered, especially in social situations like play group where there is a body of toys to SHARE is that what kids really want is the toy that the other kid is playing with.  It is the best toy.  And then when they get that toy, the other toy being used is the one they want.  I guess I’ve entered sharing 101.  The grass is always greener mentality starts young!  I’ll try not to do a Foucaultian analysis on children sharing 1 coveted toy but I want to talk about something else.  Found material makes excellent toys.  

On our recent trip to Vancouver, the plastic beverage cup the flight attendant handed Charlie was way better than the 25 kg of primary colored, plastic distraction I paid to haul on board with me to occupy Charlie.  Twigs are also very cool, dead bugs, trash at the park that Charlie must pick up and put in the garbage (so sanitary), things he’s not supposed to play with make excellent toys too (the cordless phone, tv remote, mom’s tampons).  And lately, he’s been on a domestic jag, favouring the swiffer broom, mini dust pan and hand broom, dust buster, etc.  He even inspects the waste baskets around the house and brings them to me to put in the big kitchen garbage if they’re getting full (e.g. if they have 1 thing in them).  Did I mention he is 21 months old?  I’m quite ok with having him circle the house pushing a swiffer broom - it saves me loads on Molly Maid!   

My final remark on the subject of toys relates to second handiness (a skill every spoiling mom should possess).  Once Upon A Child, Value Village, Garage Sales, Mom-to-Mom sales, Church sales, Kijiji, Craigslist, Momstown, etc.  USE these.  There is no point at paying full price for something your son is going to submerge in the toilet, throw down the stairs, use as a stepping stool, put down his diaper or peel the decals off of. 

Staring Down The Barrel of A...Baby Potty

Every time I see its pristine, gleaming bowl I feel like a bad parent

Its human nature to compare ourselves to others, and when a mommy: to compare our little ones to other little ones.  We do this all the time, however we love the trope, “everyone is different, everyone has their own internal clocks and timelines”.  We say this over and over again; almost a mantra, hoping that our child will be developmentally sound and reach all their milestones in good time (and not slow-bus time), but also to sound like we don’t care about such trivial matters and that we love our little one in whatever shape he or she decides to take.  Sorry, but its true.  I admit that I am slightly worried about my son’s verbalization.  Its not his fault.  We talk for him all the time and I do a pretty great job of decoding his sounds and so he gets everything he wants.  That’s communication 101 - give me what I want! He’s probably fully aware of this and thinks, “why go to all the trouble of forming the whole word when “Jew” gets me Juice and “popo” gets me my toy police car in record time?”  That’s not laziness on his part, its ingenuity.  

The reason that I realized that I compare way too often is when I started going to OEYC (Ontario Early Years Centers) drop-in hours around the corner from us.  I go for an hour or two in the mornings with Charlie for him to play with other kids, and for me to socialize with other moms.  This sounds like a great idea and its free - different toys and songs and stories everyday, a revolving door of new friends - what could be negative (other than communicable diseases) about this set-up?  Well, I’ll tell you what.  I have found that I do nothing, but compare developmental milestone calendars with other moms, and not all on my own doing either, its like we gravitate to each other and its a predictable and easy conversation starter.  It goes something like this: 

“How old is your little one?” 

“Oh, Charlie? (repeating or calling his name over and over during the course of the play date is a popular shameless, proud namer maneuver) He’s 21 months.”  

“Oh mine is 20 months.  Potty-trained yet?” the other mom is looking at my obviously diapered son and just baiting me into defensiveness.  I almost always take the bait.

Now I ask you, how is one supposed to, in a socially-acceptable manner I mean, respond to this?  Its not a harmless question, its a question that is basically sizing up a variety of personality traits of me as a mother: am I dedicated, in-tune with my son’s digestive patterns, am I environmentally conscious?  I have a sort of meta-cognitive awareness going on as I take part in these mostly mommy encounters.  How am I perceived? What are my strengths here? How am I doing as a parent?  Its kind of crazy actually.  I wish I could say what I’m thinking in these situations.  Something like, “well we’re a family of defecation fetishists so I think having him discard his feces into a toilet would be stripping him of the joys of sitting in his own crap.”  But that wouldn’t get me on any parenting committees and probably WOULD get me a visit from Children’s Aid, and so I keep my mouth shut (for once).

When Charlie was first born I went to these centers to get the F out of my house and to try to connect with actual human beings that were functioning as parents and not needing life support and anti-depressants by the bucketful.  Okay, that’s a bit melodramatic, but I was hurting.  So I went and I was told by the early years educators that I was normal and that it was good I was coming out, reaching out, and that it would get better.  I was comforted to meet other new zombies, I mean moms, who were just as disheveled, overwhelmed and exhausted as I was.  It sounds mean, but when I met one mom who hadn’t showered in three days, had twins and no help (no moms, sisters, non-working girlfriends, or mother-in-laws) well, it made me grateful for my one child, my great familial support network and my knowledge of the PTA sink bath (you can guess what the acronym stands for).  And see, even then, in my brand new days as a parent, I was comparing.  I didn’t smell, she did.  I had one kid, she had two.  I had a doting mother-in-law around the corner, she didn’t.  Did that make me a better person? No, my relief at my own situation and pity for hers probably made me a worse person, but it did put me in tune with that fact that, despite my terror at the whole game-changing arrival of Charlie, actually, I was lucky.  

Now that I have myself more together and have adjusted to being a parent, I guess I feel I need to compare my child.  Now I don’t do it in a mean way.  I don’t find (that much) joy when Charlie’s fine motor skills outshine a playmate, nor do I curse Charlie if his ball throwing form pales in comparison to another’s.  I don’t ever look down at Charlie and think, “well, what a shame, he’s just not going to be pianist” or “his artistic composition with the finger paints tells me he’ll probably be an athlete” but I do look (split-screen in my mind’s eye) at the two 21 month old toddlers trying to climb up the mini slide, one wearing a diaper and one not and feel like a bit of a potty-training slacker. Or I hear one saying, “Oh mom, not Gouda again!” in an exasperated tone, as his mother unpacks his snack and then to my son who happily munches a cheese slice and says “tee” (which in all fairness to him sound a lot like the “ch” sound that the word he’s trying to say starts with.)  And there I go again, wondering when it will happen for Charlie.  When he’ll be enunciating his vast vocabulary like the brainiac he is.