My housekeeper didn’t show up today, which wouldn’t be worth mentioning except that I spent most of the morning straightening the house so that she could clean. Also, she’s not been doing a particularly stellar job of late, so I spent a lot of time getting myself psyched up to talk to her about, say, CLEANING THE SHOWER or MOPPING THE KITCHEN FLOOR, neither of which have been done in, well, A WHILE.

Eeeew.

When the boys came home from school, they wanted to know why the kitchen chairs were on the table (answer: so J. could mop UNDER the table without gluing the chairs to the wet hardwood) and where the rugs from the bathrooms were (answer: in the laundry, so that J. could actually SCRUB THE FLOOR).

I should probably write about class issues here, shouldn’t I? About why it is so hard for me to ask the woman I pay to clean my house to actually CLEAN MY HOUSE. But frankly, I’m still unnerved by the idea of having to point out in great detail what I want cleaned (the floor behind the toilet! eeeewww) when it is clear that I’m not going to do it myself.

Instead, I’ll tell you this:

Charlie: One day, after I went potty, I washed my hands and you had left the sponge on the counter.

Me: Uh huh.

Charlie: So I wiped out the sink! And finished wiping off the counter!

Me: That was nice.

Charlie. YES. And there was something icky on the floor, so I wiped up THAT, too.

Me: Wow! That really WAS nice.

Charlie: Yes. I think God would like that.

Me: Well, I like it.

Charlie: Yes, but GOD likes it, too. When I wipe up the bathroom.

I wonder if I could convince him that God wants him to mop the kitchen floor, too . . .