Mad Mom

When I was young, my mom would go on cleaning rampages.  When she cleaned, she'd get mad.  Real mad.  It was kind of a code between us kids - "Mad Mom" - and we knew she was cleaning.

Her and I joke about it now, so I don't think she'll worry about you judging her since I've shared this.  She innocently says, "Well, with five kids, your dad on the road, and a house in a perpetual state of commotion, getting mad was the only motivation I had to get deep cleaning done!" I think it's funny. 

I also made silent 8-year-old vows to myself that I would never "Mad Mom" clean.

 

So today, after I had finished typing 115 pages of a deposition (that I'm only half-way done with, btw) and put Saul down for a nap, imagine my sheer delight when I looked around and saw ... disgusting floors, a sink full of dirty dishes, toys, shoes, etc all over the place! 

Not.

Maybe it's one of those days, but my inner four-year-old had a temper tantrum screaming "I DON'T WANNAAA!!!" for a few moments. 

I can only clean when Todd's not around because I feel bad, and Saul has to be asleep, too, because ...  I mean can ANYBODY sweep with a curious toddler running through your dirt piles?  Didn't think so. 

So I'm sweeping.  I'm sweeping a pile of dog hair that's roughly the size of my head.  I look over at Colston.  Just laying there.  Watching me.  

I started channeling "Mad Mom" in my head.  "Yeah.  It must be nice, PUPPY.  You make the mess; I clean it up! You just lay there while I sweep.  That's AWESOME." 

Approximately two minutes later ... it hits me - I AM CHANNELING MAD MOM! 

And I laugh.  And I go pet my dog.  Poor guy doesn't know that he was a victim of several strings of mental expletives.  Sweet boy.  

So I'm over it.  I finished cleaning the house with a genuine smile on my face.  I guess I'd rather live in a happy, messy house than a rigid, clean one, right?  

Yup.