Mud

Don't get me wrong, I love housework. I just don't have time to do it anymore. I remember being a single person in a brand new white-carpeted studio apartment. When I spilled a dainty drop of red wine on the velvety carpet, I had time to spend an hour Saturday morning with the spot remover and scissors restoring the pristine serenity of my surroundings.

Then I acquired a cat and she started my long slow decline. Bringing in mouse parts to hide under my bed. Spending a morning of glorious abandon redecorating my bathroom with the contents of my linen closet. Shredding.

Then I got a big fluffy dog and the apartment started getting a certain 'air' about it. She was half Siberian and half Shepherd -- the Siberian half liked to roll in the horse manure and the Shepherd half disliked baths to wash it off.

I'd say to her, "Why do you DO that? I liked you better with your original smell."

She'd say, "I don't know...I just have to, somehow."

Then we moved to a small farm in the suburbs and I got intimitely acquainted with mud. I never even wanted to meet mud, let alone go to bed with it. I used to wax the mud flaps in my off-road pickup truck. The first three years we were married we only went camping in dry weather.

There is evil in the world. And its name is mud.

Now that I can't have it anymore, I've become obsessed with cleanliness. I stalk around like a jealous god dictating commandments.

I say to my two-year-old, "Don't bring that bucket of dirt in here! Can't you see I just mopped the floor?"

Tears.

To my one-year-old, "No, you can't play in the sandbox; you'll bring in sand in your diaper."

Baby tears.

To my husband, "No, you can't change the oil yourself, you'll get oily rags all over. Go to a quick-lube."

"But it's cheaper!" he protests.

"We can afford it."

He says tauntingly, "The weather forecast says it's going to rain again tomorrow."

Tears.