A Real-Life Art Lesson

Lately, with all the things I’m trying to tackle, it seems like much of my home-life is spinning out of control. Where once I used to love making gourmet dinners: Chicken Kiev, with succulent spinach pastries and fluffy wild rice; my current idea of culinary expertise includes Pillsbury crescent rolls, frozen veggie’s and whatever special the Schwann’s man had last week. Where I once used to go all out in decorating for the holidays, picking up Martha Stewart magazines for inspiration to deck my house in holiday cheer; now, I buy the silly gel window clings, hand the packages to my offspring and tell them to ‘have at it’. Cleaning… well, I never had a real love for cleaning, but at least I used to keep things straight and neat: Rings in the tub or toilet? Unheard of, my mother would kill me. (Note the key terminology in this last bit… USED TO.)

Cleaning, had fallen far short on my repertoire of things to do… a few steps down from decorating, far down the list from tossing a frozen pizza into the oven, it was all but at the bottom of the barrel of chores. I loathe cleaning. To me it’s a waste of time, as soon as I pick up my little angels immediately help things back to their proper ‘homey’ place of chaotic untidiness. Dusting? Vacuuming? Well who can do that when the floor is littered with shoes, clothing and toys? My failure as a housewife/live at home maid/ servant (I mean homemaker, the PC term for these jobs is homemaker) had reached a state where the cat’s were having to weave in and out amongst the cluttered minefield to get anywhere in the house, and my husband (who loathes messes and disorganization) was making berserker charges through the house to get from one place to another: Eye’s closed, teeth gritted, plunges across the field—or rooms as the case may be.

It was bad, real bad, and one day, as my husband barged through the room, pushing aside toys and shoes as he tried to reach the coat rack, I surfaced from my other realm of fantasy and horror (I’ve been writing: murder, mayhem, suspense, fantasy) and realized that if I wasn’t careful, my family would soon disown me. It was time to suck it up and get tough.

Drill sergeant mommy came out. After school, children would not pass go, nor would they collect 200 dollars (or in this case get their afternoon snack) unless coats were in the trunk, shoes in the basket, backpacks on the hook. I made a pact with myself to clean the dishes as they got dirty, rather than as I needed them, the craft room… well… uh-hum. Laundry would NOT pile up, cat fur would be vacuumed on a regular basis, I would dust before my children had the ability to etch their names in the layers. AND I would buy those daily wash sprays and tabs for tub and toilet. This was battle! One I was determined to win.

…I remember now why I never liked those 1000 flushes, daily toilet bowl cleaner tabs—or at least not the blue ones. I didn’t grow up with them, my mother never used them (or if she did, she was smart enough to buy the ones that ran clear). I remember once going to a friend’s house that had them and the results were… interesting to say the least, a virtual art lesson in your own bathroom. But, as odd as I found the multiple day experiment, the price was worth it if I didn’t have to get down on hand and knee and scrub said toilet bowl every couple weeks (who am I kidding, every month, yeah, I’m that lazy).

So, despite my reservations on the color, it was with pride that I plopped the tablets into all three of our toilets and merrily went on my business. Toilet’s down, next the shower!

My husband returned home, immediately noting the crystalline blue waters of our porcelain thrown. I beamed under his obvious pleasure. I was acing this homemaker exam.

Next my youngest child, she found the coloring… interesting to say the least. My oldest found it fascinating, and made an afternoon of flushing the toilet over and over again to see if the blue would stay or be washed away. After about the sixteenth flush I had to ban him from the bathroom, except for bathroom emergencies.

Then my middle child, my budding artist, went into the half bath. A minute passed, then another… no flush. She burst out of the room, her face beaming with excitement, blue eyes sparkling, feet skipping, honey locks bouncing and said...

“Mom, hey mom! Come look! Blue and Yellow make GREEN!!!”