Well, thankfully, my 2-year-old grew into a 55-year-old woman last week and has completely taken over our home and put me on a cleaning schedule. Say what you want about our parenting -- maybe I'm a little too lax with her at times, or maybe Mark and I tend to lean a little more toward 'follower' rather than 'leader' in our parenting roles, sometimes. But, generally speaking, I was content with a messy living room, finished paintings spread across the living room floor, and a kitchen clean enough to make food in.
My darling Ellie, however, was not. We got home from day care on Friday, and she started in, "Mama. You need to make some more space for me. This place is a mess."
The mommy-guilt hit me like a truck. "You're right, Elle. I'll pick up today."
"Okay, and I will help you," she offered.
"Alright."
"Also, there is no bucket for my dishes, and we need to wash them after we're done eating," she said.
"You know, that's a good idea." I mean, letting them sit in the sink until the following morning or afternoon... or until Mark comes home from work the following evening... probably not the best habit to get into.
I set up a bucket for her, an orange one I had left over from our craft corner. "Get me a chair, please," she insisted.
I pulled a chair over from the dining room table. She climbed up on it and started washing her snack dishes, setting up a system similar to the one they have at day care, where each child is responsible for cleaning up after themselves, and there is a designated space for clean and dirty dishes.
I followed suit, put away dishwasher dishes, and loaded the dishwasher with the dishes that were sitting in the sink from the previous night. I grabbed some cleaner dishes from that day and handed them to her to wash. I bleached my sink and wiped the counters while she did that.
She set up her empty bucket to use after dinner and hopped off the chair, in search of a mop and broom. I asked her to please pick up the paintings off the living-room floor first.
"Mommy. I'm much too busy for that right now."
I wasn't going to argue. Clearly, she had her own schedule she was trying to adhere to. I stifled a laugh and picked up the living room, started folding laundry. Ellie grabbed the mop and broom. I helped her sweep. Then, she mopped every square inch of the apartment, using her vinegar solution I made up for her. The living room smelled like a pickle cannery.
I watched our home transform from terrifying to livable, all at the direction of a 2-year-old.
It was actually kind of phenomenal. And, I mean, if she's happy, I can be happy with it like this. Sure, we're forever working on an endless heap of laundry folding, and finished paintings are spread over almost every surface of our living- and dining-room, but you know what? I kind of like it that way. As long as I can sit on my couch, cook in my kitchen, eat at my table, and paint at my craft corner, I'm pretty gosh darn happy, and so is she apparently!
Mark came home, and we had some pasta for dinner. Ellie explained the new kitchen system to him. After dinner, he sat in the recliner with his bowl of pasta, kicked his feet up, and took his last few bites of macaroni. Elle got up from the table, put her bowl in the orange bucket, stomped over to the recliner with her hands on her hips and said, "Daddy. Are you done with that bowl?"
"Um, yeah. Why?"
"Well, you know where it goes. Right in that bucket. Come on. Let's go."
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