When I was growing up, we always had carpet. I loved the plush, pillow-y feeling underfoot when I walked. And you have to know that those orderly, evenly spaced vacuum marks appealed to my anal-retentive ways. But over the years (and thanks to too many episodes of exploding dog butts), I have become terrified of carpet, and the many, many ways in which you can and must clean it. For that reason, we have wood flooring in our home. But I’m too lazy to sweep on a regular basis, so the dust bunnies collect until it starts to look like, well, carpet.
This evening, Monkey Boy wanted out of his baby gated community bad. Usually, I don’t let him crawl around on the floor because of the “bunny” population, but this kid gives good face: one look into his pleading baby eyes, and next thing I know, he’s on the other side of the fence, crawling around.
I let him crawl around in our hallway and watched him collect dust on his clothes before I finally picked him up. And the only reason I did that was because I was ashamed of myself for enjoying the newly cleaned floor. My husband, on the other hand, thought it would’ve been a great idea to let him keep going all the way into the family room. He even suggested getting him a special dusting outfit. Something like this:
Aren’t we great parents?