Spring Cleaning time- grab your survival gear

I really don’t follow all the “in’s and out’s” of groundhogs, so I’m not really sure if its officially Spring or still Winter, but in this house?  We’re Spring Cleaning.  Yep.  Groundhogs be damned, we’re breakin’ out the Swiffers over here.

Honestly, though, I’m a TAD OCD on the cleaning front, so “Spring Cleaning” is almost a weekly thing, but around this time of year, I can blame it on new grass, baby animals and the like.

Yay for excuses!

It can be kind of scary when cleaning certain areas of my home, though.  If you haven’t read it, I wrote a post a while back on how bad things can get over HERE, and I meant every word.  I’ll admit- I only have boys so my experience is a little bit skewed. I  can’t compare it to what it would be like raising girls, but they (boys) just SEEM dirtier.  I mean, even nursery rhymes have pointed out how much more disgusting they can be:

What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?

Frogs and snails
And puppy-dogs’ tails,
That’s what little boys are made of.
What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?

Sugar and spice
And everything nice,
That’s what little girls are made of.

See?  Mother Goose was a wise old bird..

Seriously, though, no matter what you have -boy or girl- and no matter what room you’re cleaning, you KNOW there are certain areas you skip due to time, patience, etc.  Those places that you’re pretty certain don’t have crumbs that will attract bugs and that aren’t a priority because, well, guests won’t generally check there. Sure, you tell yourself that you’ll get to them one day, but, well, they aren’t a priority, sooo… later.  You’ll get to them LATER.  After all, the kids rooms have mold growing and something moved in the fridge…

For me?  Today was my “later” and the place?  Behind the TV stand.  Normally, this wouldn’t even be a big deal.  I mean, how bad could it be, right?  Its a TV stand, for Heaven’s sake.  So, I stuck the hose attachment onto the vacuum and plunged the tip down into the crevice and…

*thump!*

*thump, thump, THUMP!*

I jumped and almost knocked over the vacuum.  What in the WORLD did I vacuum up?!  A cat?!?  After peering into the vacuum canister, though, I realized- my dust bunnies had morphed into dust jackalopes.

So, the things that I realized on this fine (possibly) Spring day?

  • Evolution.  Its not just for monkeys anymore.
  • When bunnies grow up, they become rabbits.  When DUST bunnies grow up, however, they become household legends.

 

Birthday Parties and You, Part II: The Aftermath

Well, it happened.

The party was thrown.  It was a huge success: the food was eaten; the cake given out; and the presents opened-

by me, of course.  The Mini-Master wanted tissue paper.  And gift bags.  He liked the gift bags.

And after it was all said and done, we were left with OUR party gifts: fatigue, bleary eyes, aches and pains, and…

a one year old.

As I had mentioned HERE, this was the first time we’d thrown a party this big before, and I’m kind of really glad we did it this time ’round.

Because now I can say without any question “Been there, done that, and NEVER gonna travel on that crazy road again.”

Balloons, bounce house, tons of food, tons of people, cake, presents he couldn’t really care less for-

and for what?  He acquired no car keys; no legal rights he so desired from reaching the ripe old age of 1; no position of influence in the eyes of America…

If anything, this celebration of his 365th day of life was bigger than most Sweet 16s or Dirty 30s.

And once the party was over and the people had left, we got the gift that keeps on giving.

Birthday Aftermath.

Your body aches, from not getting to relax; your brain, having finally turned off ‘autopilot’ realizes how much you put it through and starts to pound; your stomach protests the crud you inhaled; and then you survey your surroundings and you realize

you aren’t alone.

Somewhere among the tissue paper you hear beeps, whistles, and a voice that’s unfamiliar singing ‘patti cake’.  Your living room is no longer a “living room”, but a toy store- a country of toys, where all the citizens shout together in a chorus of toots, boops, beeps, ‘ah oo gas’, whistles, and robotic nursery rhymes, as if singing praises to their king.

And there, sitting in the middle of his new minions and birthday destruction, is the Mini-Master.  He’s surveying all that is set before him and you can’t help but stand there, wondering if you’ll receive his stamp of approval… but no.  The aftermath has finally hit him, too, and you see the beginning of the first of many meltdowns to come.

Finally, a few hours later, you’re allowed peace.  The Mini-Master is sleeping, the leftovers put away, and the gifts have been given their own wing of the house.  The quiet is cozy and gives you time to rethink the party.

“Maybe next year we can do a ROBOT theme!”

Silly, silly woman.  You’ll never learn.

(Our Mini-Master with “Creepy Cat”- our name for one of his gifts that not only meows and talks, but chases you.)