April 19, 2018 by Amy

Clean me

My first order of business, once both my child and husband were safely out of the state over spring break (she to Florida with grandparents, he to California on a business trip), was to clean the house. By cleaning right away, my home would stay tidy for an entire week. I’m not sure what it says about me that this is my idea of a great week, but let’s go with it. I tore into cleaning with enthusiasm normally reserved for an all-inclusive resort with a beach. I worked for most of a day, saving the guinea pig cage for last. Cleaning a guinea pig cage is disgusting, and I wanted to be able to immediately shower after. I’m a planner like that. I was tired but pleased when I went out to the mudroom, stuck the pig in her travel carrier, and got to work. Halfway through, I happened to glance at a narrow ledge on the cabinet that borders her cage. This ledge was always dusty due to its proximity to a piggy cage, but this time there was an added touch.

Everything in the world fell to silence. Birds stopped chirping. Clocks stopped ticking. Then the top of my head opened up and snakes came out. Red laser beams shot from my eyes. Angry bees poured out of my ears. My rage had the intensity of a thousand suns. Clean me? Clean me? I’m not entirely sure, but I believe the words “No f*cking way” came out of my mouth and the guinea pig stuck her paws in her ears.

Once the white hot anger subsided to a point where I could string coherent words together in my brain again, I struggled to understand what I was most angry about: that instead of cleaning it up he/she felt the need to point out it was dusty, that I was being instructed by an absent family member to clean, or that I was cleaning the damn guinea pig cage again despite my very clear decree when said guinea pig was brought home that I was not responsible for it and now I had to endure insult in addition to injury. Oh boy, I was mad, and damn straight I was going to share the rage. Sunny California? Beaches in Florida? Welcome back to the frozen hell of Missouri, my darlings.

My hands shook so hard I could barely send a text to our family chat, which, ironically, is named Happy Family. Given my rage level, my message was surprisingly family-friendly, so perhaps the Happy Family label at the top of my screen served as a PG warning. Toning down the R-rated language was more difficult than you can imagine, since every other word in my head was punctuated by an expletive. I sent the photo above, and wrote:

The next time someone writes “clean me” in the dust instead of cleaning it up, heads are going to roll. I type this as I take time to clean the pig cage AGAIN. I am not happy. I am not laughing. I am not joking.

I continued cleaning while waiting for a response. Might as well use the new surge of energy that a healthy dose of rage engenders to get something done. Anger is a surprising motivator. The first reply came within minutes, from the father of my child.

I didn’t do it.

Yes, a grown man shoved his 12-year-old daughter in front of the freight train to save himself.

I’m sure he could tell this was a no-win situation, and that there would be hell to pay for someone. He wasn’t going to take the fall if he didn’t have to. No, better to let the child fend for herself. What doesn’t kill her makes her stronger, right? Besides, her mother couldn’t really kill her when she was several states away, and by the time everyone returned home, the offended would be past the homicidal phase. Right? I’m sure he reasoned this out in his head, and decided that it would be best to clear his name from the beginning. Every man for himself.

Phone calls and video calls between me and the culprit were not going well, given that the anger stewpot was sweetened with a bit of tween flippancy. M was forced to mediate from afar, using a variety of communication methods including calling, texting, and praying to God to please spare his only child from the wrath of her mother. Finally, he gave up playing middleman and forced us onto a conference call. California, Florida and Missouri all got on the line and we enjoyed a long family discussion about respect and responsibilities and how to think ahead about what might not be considered funny before doing something. Proper contrition was offered and Mommy was able enjoy the rest of the week in a dust- and message-free, clean house. After I tucked the snakes back into my head and settled the bees, of course.