Thursday, November 10, 2011

Clean Sweep Andy!

Look out single ladies of the year 2040- if Andy is still available, let me tell you, he will be quite the catch. I'm predicting it now- my sweet little boy is going to be one phenomenal husband.

There are many reasons I'm sure this statement is true. First of all, Andy is very loving. He gives the kind of hugs that drive the Kohl's cashiers wild. Second of all, Andy is destined to be a high earner. Even though his main career interest right now seems to reside in plumbing as opposed to doctoring or lawyering, I hear being a union member can be very lucrative (Christmas present idea: his very own brand new toilet plunger. The brand new part is important here.). Thirdly, Andy is very handsome. He will be even more handsome after I stop haphazardly cutting his hair myself and he grows in the rest of his teeth.

But the main reason Andy will be an excellent husband is because of his interest in cleaning. It is fair to admit at this point that, yes, Andy creates way more mess than he actually assists in cleaning. However, when Andy is in a mood to clean, there's no stopping him. He is a whirlwind of activity, and if you don't move aside, you will get hit in the face with the broom handle as he toddles by.

Andy enjoys wiping. I hand him a washcloth, and he'll stoop to the floor and wipe the tile back and forth. I can hear his tiny voice in my head murmuring, "Ah, pretend grape juice. This is never going to come out." When I open the pantry, Andy dives for not only the broom, but the Swiffer sweeper and the dust pan. Juggling all three of them, Andy will pace back and forth through the dining room and kitchen as if contemplating where to start. Then he'll drop the broom and the dust pan and- holding the Swiffer correctly, with the Swiffer pad part flush to the floor- he'll start mopping back and forth, forth and back. He'll cover a lot of ground this way, and then finish up with the broom. Sometimes he'll stop to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand as the invisible beads of sweat begin to accumulate.

Lately, Andy has transitioned from hindering to helping when I unload the dishwasher. Before late, he would just get in the way, climbing on top of the dishwasher door and attempting to pull himself up onto the top rack, which I've tried to explain to him is dangerous because that top shelf could break, and then I'd have to buy a new one. Now, he'll hand me dishes one by one as I put them away, smiling beatifically whenever I praise him with an over-the-top "Thank you!" His smile responds, "No problem, Ma. You work hard. This is the least I can do. Shall I mix you a martini after we're done here?"

Andy still needs a little help when folding laundry, but he clearly enjoys sorting through the clean clothes and organizing them by what he's interested in putting on his head and what he's not.

An admittedly less clean moment.
Last night, as I relaxed on the couch after dinner, Andy approached me holding the dustbuster. He pointed at the on switch, making his usual urgent noises. "Eh. Eh. EH." I turned on the dustbuster as he'd requested, handed it back to him, and Andy got on his hands and knees and began vacuuming in earnest. Like a man who'd been dustbusting for years, his motions were neat and even, his technique flawless. This is too adorable, I thought to myself, smiling at my perfect, chore-loving son.

Then, things took a turn. Andy stood up, a little wobbly under the weight of the ten pound dustbuster, and waddled over to where his pack and play was set up next to the wall for napping (he never naps there). The pack and play hasn't been moved in almost a year, and the carpet beneath it certainly hasn't been vacuumed. Who has the time and energy to be moving things- even portable things- when they vacuum? I certainly don't. May I remind you that I have a full time job, for crying out loud?

Andy bent down with the dustbuster and, peering under his pack and play, began to vacuum beneath it. He pushed the dustbuster as far back as it would go in an effort to suck up all the dust and dirt. As he did this, he turned to look at me, and I swear the look in his eyes was accusatory. It seemed to say, "You know, this really is YOUR job. I'm only doing it because it has to be done. Do you have any idea how dang dusty it is under here? Ridiculous. If I want something done right... I guess I have to do it myself."

My emotions had immediately flipped from adoring my hard-working son to resenting him and his spiteful actions. Another moment passed, and as Andy scooted over to the other end of the pack and play to continue his carpet cleaning, my emotions flipped once again. This isn't a matter of hurt pride, I told myself, attempting to lower my blood pressure. This is a matter of a job well done. For my job well done, for raising a boy who will do the housework, even if he sometimes performs his chores with a small amount of bitterness.

Andy finished his vacuuming, handed the dustbuster back to me with an "Eh. EH!" and I powered it off. He climbed into my lap, cuddled up against me, and I kissed the top of his head. Into his hair, I whispered, "Andy, I love you. And tomorrow, we're doing the windows."

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