Earlier this year I was presented with a unique opportunity to move out on my own, without paying rent (don’t ask).
“Great,” I thought, “what an amazing opportunity to gain some independence.”
Growing up an only child, I know I was rather spoiled. A lot of things were done for me, I mean, before moving out I hadn’t even done my own laundry.
I know, I know. It sounds bad, but I had never needed to. It was just me and mom, neither of us had enough laundry to justify doing separate loads, so she would do them together.
It was great at the time, but I quickly realized that one day I was going to need to know how to do these things for myself.
And that day came approximately 6 months ago.
I have it pretty easy where I am at. Rent free, I have my own space, and my co-habitants happen to be my step brother and sister.
But that does not mean that it didn’t take some time to… adjust to reality.
Like the reality of laundry, and dishes, and house cleaning in general.
No longer did fresh and folded clothes magically appear at the end of my bed. I didn’t have long to figure out that if I wanted clean clothes, I’d have to learn the ways of the washing machine. So I called my mom – we sat and created a ‘key’ for what clothes get washed in what temperature, etc.
Now the dishes. The one thing I absolutely hate about my new place is that it lacks a dishwasher. Now thankfully I am fully capable of doing dishes, I am not 100% dysfunctional. But the amount of times I have had to dig a spoon out of the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink and wash it before I could eat, because I ran out of utensils, is about 50 times too many.
And cleaning. I like to think that I keep my house in a…livable state. The bed’s not spread, and I still have that sink full of dishes, but I could still have people over without them being totally disgusted.
But just recently when I went away for a weekend vacation with my boyfriend, my mother was watching my cats for the duration. When I came home, the place was sparkling. You could literally eat off the hardwood floors.
“How,” I said. Standing there gawking, cringing as I imagined her in Cinderella’s rags scrubbing the floors with a toothbrush.
“Oh I just used dish soap,” she says. Dish soap, seriously? I never would have thought of that.
So the next time I tackled cleaning the floors, I remembered her little trick. I grabbed the dish soap off the kitchen counter, and proceeded to drizzle the soap directly onto the floor and ran a wet mop through it.
… Bubbles were everywhere. The more water I added and mopping I did only seemed to create more bubbles!
How could this possibly be what she meant?! Once again, I phoned my mother for help.
She couldn’t stop laughing when I told her what I had done.
“Honey, you were suppose to fill a sink with soapy water and use that to wash the floor.”
Oh. Well that made a lot more sense.
Moral of the story folks, be kind to your mom.