Back When I Only Wiped Down One Kid…

My “trainer” is condescending. And forever changing her hairstyle. And wondering if- perhaps- I’m putting too much pressure on my toes. Or my heels. Ease up, heifer! (She seems to say.) Today she suggested that when working out, I try to use both legs. Equally. Which is a remarkably helpful tip, as I kept falling down. Using only the left leg for squats will do that.

My favorite tip ever, though? “When walking down the street, swing your arms wildly, like a pendulum.” Thanks, Wii Fit! Now I’m an Orca AND a danger to others!

I might start taking my ten minute (a week) cardio elsewhere.

Other household items of importance. Let’s start with the kitchen. I’ve recently upped my focus on that room- the one that, despite each of us having an office (even Nora! Okay, hers is a broom closet), ends up with every bill, envelope, pen, baby toy, diaper and potted plant on its countertops. Occasionally dishes. You’d think I would have really stepped up my game when- oh, I had a child, or maybe even when she began to crawl. But no.

This past weekend I realized that I was tired of having stuff pile up at the end of the week, resulting in an hour long search for the paper towels to scrape bananas from the ceiling fan. I decided to make the room spotless after every meal. Which would have been a great habit to develop when it was just two of us living here, with the occasional cat and their occasional hairball issue.

But no. I decided to overhaul my cleaning habits the moment I never had more to clean in my life. Seriously. Nora’s always been a little bit of a Pollock disciple in terms of food distribution. But lately? Now that she knows where the spoon goes and thinks that perhaps someone could speed up the portioning of carrots and croissants? She’s taken feeding into her own chubby little fists. She’ll grab a handful of perfectly diced fruits and veggies, mash them against her forehead and then flick specks at Ender. Who always hopes that she’s eating a deli meat. Sometimes she gets excited and tries to alert me of impending awesomeness. With amazing follow-through. (She could be stellar on the free-throw line. I mean it.) This results in food ending up in the darnedest places! Like IN the cabinet. Or under the Jumparoo. Sometimes down the back of the diaper. (That’s only when she’s being a show-off.)

I kinda want to invent a food catcher, but so far the only idea I have is to wrap the entire highchair (and baby) in a big ol’ thing of netting. Which I can’t imagine will go over well. But- then again- someone invented the built in pasta strainer and that’s downright absurd. (“Tired of spilling scalding noodles all over your loved ones? Have trouble walking to the sink?”)

So. Yes. Cleaning after every meal. Not just loading the dishwasher, but wiping everything down, sanitizing the high chair, la la la. It’s been a bit of a challenge to get everything sparkly before Nora and I leave for work, but I’ve been sticking with it. And here’s what I discovered. That could be a full time job. Here’s what else I discovered- I get really mad at P.J. if he tries to sit in the clean kitchen. Let alone use a glass.

I’ve been trying to de-clutter the general area with the hope that eventually, if nothing is actually IN the kitchen, I can just hose the place down. And isn’t it funny, the things you look at every day but never really notice are there? As I was washing dishes yesterday, I happened to glance on the backsplash of the sink. We keep a sponge there, some hand soap, a Brillo pad…and three pan scrapers. I so rarely even use one- what kind of catastrophic lasagna pan am I anticipating? Or- have you ever seen three people simultaneously wash the dishes? It’s that kind of excess that makes me hate my kitchen.

Also, the flooring. And the counters. The cabinets could use a little spiffying up, too.

And I’ll leave you with a little special insight into my nightly habits. (“The other guards won’t show you this part…”) Okay. I talk in my sleep. And thrash. Sometimes walk around a bit. But I think P.J.’s favorite nighttime activity of mine is…the continuation of the dream.

I had been having a pretty special dream in which P.J. was yelling at me that I never let him cuddle. (Let’s just take a sec and enjoy that one.) I remember- in dreamland- rolling my eyes and saying “Well, go ahead!” And he kept informing me that I wasn’t doing it right. Or he couldn’t reach me. (According to Wii Fit, anyone should be able to reach me from any room in the house.) So I woke up. Kinda. And saw that my actual husband was sleeping with his actual arms wide open. So, Alert But Not Really Awake Me smacked him.

“What?!”

“You can do it now,” I crossly informed him.

“Huh?”

“Go ahead.”

I waited for him to cuddle me. He went back to sleep. Dream Me was uber-ticked now. So I poked him again. But…I was falling back to sleep myself, and sorta crossed reality with a dream about a computer. Or something. Because the next thing Peej knew, I was shoving him and tapping the center of the bed, demanding that he “click” the sheets.

“WHAT!?”

“Click it!”

“I don’t know wha-“

“CLICK IT!”

And God bless Peej, he leaned over and went ‘CLICK’ to the middle of the bed. Then rolled over and went back to sleep. I recall drifting back off, wondering why I had ever married such a jerk.

Sorry, P.J., I’ll make it up to you.

You can use a glass or a plate with dinner.

Maybe a pan scraper.