the day the cleaning died

When I was a young girl I enjoyed cleaning. Especially the bathroom. My mom must have thought she had died and gone to heaven. I just loved the way you could make everything look new and shiny.
And then, one tragic day, my love of cleaning died. Actually it was killed by my dad. When I was growing up he was the manager of a feed mill. Feed mills are dusty, dirty places and his office was no exception. He and his co-worker would tromp in after spending hours fixing an auger or unloading a rail car and the dust and dirt would trail in after them. I spent a lot of time there over the summer and one day I took it into my head to clean the place up. I even convinced my dad to pay me for my effort. And let me tell you I earned that money. I scrubbed and swept and organized and swept again and it had never looked better. I was so proud of my work. But the next day, I came back in to discover that it looked like I had done nothing at all. My dad had managed to undo everything that I had done in less than 24 hours time. And that is the day that my inner cleaner died.
I no longer find joy in a shiny bathroom faucet because I know that someone will "accidentally" spit toothpaste onto it that same day. Organization holds no thrill because my little ones refuse to get on board. Why make the bed? I'm just going to get back into it. I never even went through the nesting phase during pregnancy. Sam kept waiting for it and it just didn't happen. My love of cleaning is dead. Thanks a lot Dad.

photo from:  themodelife.com