Lesson from the hardwood trenches

I spent four hours yesterday cleaning our floors.

(letting that statement sink in...)

It's not that I've completely ignored them and had black mold growing in the cracks. I just hadn't gotten on my hands and knees and really scrubbed them for awhile.

So I got on my hands and knees and scrubbed. I'll sum it up with this: ugh.

I have never liked housework. I'm sure my mom would be very happy to confirm this. (I believe my childhood bedroom used to be officially labeled "The room the tornado went through.")

After I quit my job to be home with Madeline, I saw my house as Enemy Number One, the obstacle preventing me from enjoying hours upon blissful hours with my baby.

But my attitude has shifted over the last year. I've actually come to *gasp* enjoy cleaning.

Wow, that was drastic. Let me rephrase that: I've come to enjoy the benefits of cleaning.

Now the efforts of my days are enjoyed by and affect the people I love the most. Not an organization, no matter how much I believe in the mission. Not a boss, even though one in particular is dear to my heart.

Once I finished and rocked back from my very sore knees, I had more stinkin' pride in my shiny, clean hardwoods than any press conference or newspaper article. Because my little family gets to relax, play and enjoy each other in a clean home.

This really isn't a revolutionary idea because it all goes back to the poster in my seventh-grade health classroom: "I am convinced that life is 10 percent what happens to us and 90 percent how we react to it."

So true, health classroom poster. So true.

P.S. This new-found pride can't be taken too seriously. When I stepped on one of Madeline's Cheerios this morning, I nearly cried. I have GOT to keep my priorities straight because clean floors last for about 30 seconds.