A Lick and a Promise

Recent days have been more hectic than usual.  I find myself going in more directions than humanly possible.  Between wrapping up my Wednesday children's program, rehearsing with our kids' choir, shopping and cooking for my church's mother-daughter brunch, not to mention all the daily duties that round out my roles as wife and mother, we finally get a long-awaited phone call:

The county caseworker is ready to start our homestudy for Foster Parenting.  She'll be here Monday morning.

(Which is actually today as you read this post).

Imagine my panic, knowing my plate is already overly full.  There's little time left to clean my castle.   My kitchen floor is in a sorry state, let alone the inside of my fridge.  My dog started to shed her winter coat just this week.  We're talking major fur balls.  I don't know whether this caseworker is relaxed or tightly wound...she might think dust bunnies aren't good pets for foster children.  I shudder to think of her inspecting my basement.  What if she looks in the fridge?

So I've been kicking myself for not keeping my house at a constant state of clean (like I did for a decade before our miracle daughter was born).  As I've been skimming my brain over the corners and crannies of this house, trying to prioritize where I'll apply my efforts if any cleaning time presents itself, a favorite phrase came to mind: 

"A lick and a promise"

That's what I'll do!  I'll give my house a lick and a promise!   I'll hit the bathroom sink with a little vinegar and a quick swipe of a paper towel - with a promise to return one day for a full cleaning.  I'll check the throne for visible yuck.  My vacuum will be focused on edges and corners of the hard wood floors.  That way I won't miss any crucial doggy hair bunnies.  I'll be sure to dust at least the coffee table.  My kiddo thinks it's fun to zoom around with a Swiffer duster, so I'll set her loose on the rest.

A lick and a promise...my Dutch mother used to say this.  I can't conceive why.  She never licked anything.  Instead, she doused it heavily with Lysol.  My childhood home was spotlessly cleaned from top to bottom every single week.  I'm not exaggerating.  We four children used to say we were mom's slaves.  Every Saturday, I repeat, every single week, we had to do every cleaning job on my mom's two-page list. We even had to move large pieces of furniture to vacuum behind them, and you'd better use all the vacuum tools, too!   I do stuff like that on a biannual basis now that I'm calling the shots.

Maybe my mother's dysfunctional cleaning frenzies are the source of my grown-up lazy inclinations.  I'm obviously suffering from housecleaning burn-out.

I was scouring bathrooms by third grade.  Only, for a reason beyond my understanding, my mom didn't let me use a toilet brush.  I had to sprinkle Comet cleanser onto a small sponge and stick my hand in the toilet water to scrub the bowl out.  My hand!  My poor, innocent, still-growing hand!  Needless to say, these hands haven't seen the inside of a toilet bowl since I escaped to Bible college.

My Kiddo is now in the third grade, and I wouldn't even consider foisting bathroom cleaning duties on her.  I do dream of a day where she'll hang up her bath towel without being nagged.  But she doesn't need to wipe porcelain clean of unwanted hair!  Someday, yes, I'll teach her how to clean it (with a toilet brush).  For now she should enjoy her childhood and be spared the trauma of nasty yellow drips.

Maybe this wasn't such a fitting topic for a cooking blog.  Anyone care to come over here for dinner now?


For more cleaning inspiration, visit Mop it up Mondays at Under Grace and Over Coffee.