I’m thinking I may rent my mom out as one of those robo‑vacuums. Drop her off at a house, pick her up an hour or two later — along with a hefty fee, obviously. Floors gleaming. Counters shining. Maybe even a complimentary kitchen reorganization (which, let’s face it, is going to happen anyway). Though I’ll need to add a disclaimer: When in cleaning mode, do not attempt to interrupt. It will only make her stronger.
She’s always liked straightening up. The results anyway. Our house growing up was always neat — not fussy, not perfect — but the kind of house that, no matter when you stopped by, felt like a hug when you walked in. Lived‑in, but tidy. Lovely. Ready.
She always had enough on hand to offer a cool drink while you visited in the garden. A meal if you wanted to stay. A bed if you needed one.
But lately, her need to clean has increased. A drive (hyperdrive, some days) to bring order to things, in a world that increasingly needs it.
“I can’t help it,” she said to me not that long ago. “It’s a compulsion.” And we both burst out laughing.
Because it was funny. And also because it was true.
And then she reached over and flicked a crumb off the table between us. And then leaned over and picked it up off the floor.
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