If it’s a mess that involves poop, furballs, snot, vomit, urine, mildew, or mud—essentially anything that smells foul or resembles a soup-like consistency—guess who gets stuck with the cleanup? (Spoiler alert: no one shouts, “Hey honey! There’s a pool of spoiled garbage in the trash can!”)
As I was reaching for my laptop in the early hours before sunrise, I inadvertently stepped barefoot into a puddle of dog diarrhea on my dining room floor. Apparently, my Golden Retriever, whose droppings rival a dinner plate in size, must have munched on something that didn’t sit well. The irony is palpable. My partner had walked through the same area just thirty minutes earlier, yet somehow neither his eyes, nose, nor feet noticed a thing. Hmm.
I’ve become the default cleaner for all the most revolting messes in this household, and honestly, it’s infuriating—or should I say, it’s dog mess, or kid mess, or whatever else decides to make a mess in here, because, let’s face it, messes happen. “Why am I the only one who ever has to tackle anything disgusting?!” I grumble as I scrub, spray, and scour.
Perhaps I’ve brought this upon myself with my obsessive need for cleanliness, which seems too daunting for anyone else here. I don’t want the remnants haphazardly scooped from the carpet with a flimsy paper towel. I want the solids removed, the liquids blotted, and the entire area treated with an industrial-strength cleaner until my carpet is just… carpet again. AND NOBODY BETTER USE MY GOOD TOWELS FOR THIS!
But let’s be real. I’m the only one who steps up to blot in the first place.
I know, I know. They won’t learn if I don’t let them handle it. It’s just that I’ve become so efficient over the years; the thought of what happens when they “clean up” sends chills down my spine. Once, when one of my kids was in preschool, he had an accident on the bathroom floor and tried to hide it by cleaning it up himself. The result? A complete disaster: smears hardened into a spackle-like substance on the tile, settled into the grout, streaks on the toilet paper holder, and let’s not forget the child, who ended up covered in his own mess.
I tried to convince myself it was chocolate frosting. But my imagination can’t stretch that far.
Had I been informed of the situation from the start, I could have resolved it in moments. Instead, a (much) less experienced person attempted to tackle the task, leading to a situation that was exponentially worse than the original. This is the scenario that flashes through my mind every time I face a particularly stomach-churning mess.
No, I don’t relish the thought of cleaning up a pile of vomit mixed with pasta. But I also don’t want to be reminded of a sour-smelling stain every time I walk by, knowing it lurks deep within the carpet fibers. I’m fairly certain that’s exactly what would happen if I left it to anyone else—i.e., a half-hearted attempt that leaves me with more work.
It’s a dilemma. If I leave the mess for someone else, I end up with a subpar cleanup. If I swoop in to finish the job, I’m still stuck cleaning and feeling resentful. It seems that in a crisis, you call in an expert, but that doesn’t mean the expert is thrilled about it.
At least I’ve learned not to use the good towels.
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In summary, being the designated cleaner of all things messy is no small task. While I may be efficient at it, the frustration of doing the dirty work alone can be overwhelming. It’s a cycle of cleaning and resentment that seems unbreakable, but at least I know to protect my good towels.