Vacuming: A Confessional

This week I vacuumed for the first time in over a year.

My vacuum is covered in dust.  I am rather ashamed. Then I'm ashamed that I'm ashamed.  Ah, so conflicted.

The independent woman is supposed to free herself from the drudgery of household work.  Why, just because I have ovaries, should I be the one to vacuum?  I should not.  Why should I not pay other people to vacuum my house?  Some nice, entrepreneurial person who might otherwise be stuck in a cubicle or retail job eight hours of day after day after excruciating day?

Now, normally, I do not care.  But normally I do not have the dust on my cleaning products staring me in the face.  It was a bit of a shock to the system. 

I read in a parenting magazine on the plane this weekend that many children about the little angel's age will begin to imitate their mothers doing household chores.  Let's see, the little angel picks up any object in the house that is rectangular and has buttons, holds it up to her head and brightly says "Hi!" in that fake, I-don't-really-want-to-talk-now voice I am wont to use with the Parents as Teachers callers.  What else does she do?  Hmm...she sorts mail by throwing it all on the floor. I wonder where she got that?  She also throws clean clothes around in piles, then pretends to fold it, but then throws it back in the basket.

I sense a disturbing trend.

She does not pretend to mop or vaccum.  She does not pretend to do dishes, but then again, we still don't let her play with sharp objects.  That also rules out cooking.  She is good with the Crystal Light packets.

Hmmm.

The deeper we delve, the scarier it is.