Me and My Three Boys

Or:

How I Learned to Live with Dirt.

I come from a clean house. When I say clean house, I mean white-glove clean. My dad, we'll call him the Cleananator, didn't believe dirt belonged in a house. Don't get me wrong, we went out in the great outdoors, played in mud-fest soccer tournaments, slid into home plate and got down underneath the Jeeps to fix a broken this or that. But we cleaned up before we stepped in the house. The Cleananator was a "take your shoes off and wipe your feet on the mat outside the tent" kinda guy. He followed us around as we cleaned to tell us the "right" way to vacuum and the "correct" way to clean a window. Our house was spotless. So I learned how lovely it is to have an impeccably clean house and how to do my part to keep it that way.

I'm pretty sure the Cleananator is rolling over in his Folgers can right now. You should SEE my kitchen floor. Dirt. Everywhere. Brown dirt on white tiles, white dirt on black tiles (where the hell does WHITE DIRT COME FROM, outer space?!) There are smudges on my brand new (custom made!) cabinets. DUST on my brand new (custom made!) counter tops.

Now, don't get me wrong... I clean EVERY DAY! Down on the floor, hands-and-knees-style. Dirt is my enemy and I know how to win the battle. But the war, my friends, is being lost.

This house cannot stay clean for more than five minutes. On a good day. Thirty seconds on the bad days.

We have no grass to speak of in our back yard and a pathetic example for grass in the front yard. This means, a step outside (unless you confine yourself to the steps) is a step in dirt. And this isn't the friendly dirt that likes the brisk fall air and prefers to stay outside. This is infiltrating dirt that will do whatever it can to get a ride into the house, desecrating my beautiful floors, counters, tables, bathtub even! This dirt knows no bounds.

It doesn't help having two 80 pound-plus mutts who, by necessity, must go in the yard to use the restroom. Not to mention, one of these mutts has a fondness for what I like to call the "TAKE THIS, MOM! on the dirt back flop." This is a full fledged sprint around the yard, ending in a double (or sometimes triple) summersault into the dirt.

Not to mention, bless his heart, a Shupasaurus who doesn't realize that he walks around on two full-time dirt factories, known as work boots. No, Shupie, it doesn't matter if you "worked in the office today," I see your dirt tracks on my newly refinished hardwood floors. I didn't simply guess the exact path you took to the couch, I see it like a bread crumb trail to the princess's castle. There are only so many ways you can ask, "Hey, do you mind taking your shoes off before you come in? Even when I'm not here to see you do it?" (The dirt tells the tale, Shupie. I know all when it comes to walking on my floors with dirt boots, I mean work boots, on.)

As I type, I feel a fever coming on, just thinking about this dirt on my floor. I can't stand it. I could quit my job and spend my days cleaning. I could sequester the mutts to their outside shelter and make Shupasaurus live there with them. But that wouldn't earn me many points, from Shupasaurus or his mother. (Hi Mama Shupe!)

So, I guess, it's time to surrender the war. Suck it up and live with the dirt. Put away my white glove and come to terms that this house may not be spotless every second of every day.

At least until we have sod. Then, IT'S ON!