The Dust Bunnies Are Rallying For War

Have you ever had a dream so wonderful that when you wake up you feel bereft and close to tears, upset because you were forced from your fantasy and back into reality? I had one of those dreams Saturday night. I wasn't dreaming of my beautiful boy (although when I do, I wake up with the same feelings), I didn't dream of winning the lottery and then having to hand over the winnings to my mother and mother-in-law to spend while they roll around naked in my dollar bills. (Yes, I've had that dream and it was entirely unpleasant.) I wasn't dreaming of Clive Owen, George Clooney and my husband fighting over me. (It could happen!!)

No, this particular dream was filled with feather dusters, cleaning chemicals and obedient children. And then I woke. To my reality. A reality filled with dust bunnies, poorly folded laundry and yellow spots sprinkled like candy on icecream around the porcelain throne. Not to mention water marks on the mirrors, greasy dishes and lovely hand prints at the four foot mark on most of my walls.

I really love being a mother. What I wish I had known before giving birth was how the word 'mom' was an acroynm for 'maid'.

Yesterday I decided to take back my freedom. It was war and I am tired of losing every damn battle. (Yes, I am delusional, but shhh, don't tell my adoption case worker.) I decided that at ages ten and nine, my darlings Fric and Frac, realized that the sweet deal they had going was coming to an end. No more gourmet cooked meals (I use Kraft dinner with the white cheddar...), no more candy just for being cute (that might still happen, as I have a propensity for filching it from them) and most importantly, no more maid service.

It was time for my rugrats to learn how to clean.

Quit laughing at me. I told you I was delusional.

So I spent the better part of my day yesterday teaching my daughter and my son how to dust, clean toilets, fold towels and mix the proper ratio of Mr. Clean to water. I even taught them how to use the washing machine.

Don't get me wrong. It's not as though my children are completely useless. They do have chores. They half-ass their way through the dishes on a nightly basis, they clean their rooms the same way I clean my house (shove things in the closet and under the bed and pray to God my mother doesn't notice), they stack wood and take out the garbage. They whine and snivel their way through shoveling half the walk and some of the deck and they fold socks into creatively mismatched pairs.

But it is time for more. Because I am tired. I am lazy. And I am the MOMMY. What I say goes.

So I slapped on my educational mother cap, and began the teaching process. This meant a lot of tongue biting (I'm still tasting blood) and a lot of repetition. I grew more grey hairs and I swear I have two more lines on my face. But when we finished (Thank God for small freaking miracles) the kids had a sense of satisfaction and pride.

I managed to keep from killing them, making them feel bad and I even managed to make it fun. That would be because of the music I blared through out the day to muffle the sounds of my cursing and moaning. Thanks Creed and Pink. You cover a multitude of sins when blaring full blast on the stereo.

When the kids went to bed, I looked around. I tried not to see the grime smeared all around, the streaky mirrors, and the dust bunnies that escaped with their lives. I tried to ignore the fact that my wash machine now rattles in an odd way it never did before. And as I re-washed (sigh) my wine glass, I knew that I had done okay.

Because I still had my sanity, I hadn't hurt anyones feelings and there is always next weekend to do this all over again.

After all, practice makes perfect right?

After a few glasses of my mommy juice things looked better. Cleaner. I went to bed feeling good. Because while I may not have the cleanest house or the motivation to get off my ass to do it myself, I will always have Clive.

What more could I ask for?