After all of the work I did yesterday, I am confident enough to say that this house has never been so spotless before. Not even if Mr. Clean had done it himself and left shiny sparkling stars on every flat surface that gleamed in the sun.
The urge to delouse the place was overwhelming. I couldn't stand the thought of dead flea larvae hanging out in our carpet. So I started with the floors. Then I just turned into a crazy maniac with a vacuum cleaner.
I am not exaggerating when I say I covered every surface. I saw places in this house yesterday that had probably been neglected for years. I dusted every square foot of baseboards throughout the entire house. I even got on my hands and knees and sucked out the dust in the heating vents and ran an attachment through each nook in our wine rack.
Meanwhile, I had rotated through 347 loads of laundry including every washable plush material in the house. Every sheet. Every pillowcase. Every blanket and throw rug. Every bath towel, hand towel and kitchen towel. Even Toby's unwashable bedding got a 30 minute spin in the dryer to kill anything that even thought about surviving the flea bombs. I even ran all of his rubbery toys through a cycle in the dishwasher.
By the time Jerry got home, I had all of the furniture pulled away from the walls in the living room and was sucking up the dust on the inner windowsills behind the couch.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"
"Stop. ... Kelly, stop. ... STOP!"
"I can't stop or I won't be able to finish," I said, yelling over the hum of the vacuum as I continued with the baseboards. "Seriously. If I stop I'll realize how much I'm ready to collapse."
Knowing there was no way he could talk any sense into me, he just joined in, trying to take over the brunt of the physical moving. Like lifting the couch. To which I repaid him by accidentally ramming the edge of vacuum cleaner into his big toe on his left foot and nearly severing it in half.
When we finished, nearly six hours after I had started, I felt normal again. I wasn't grossed out by the mere thought of putting my bare foot on our floors. After taking a shower, I collapsed on the couch with a PB&J.
"I know this might not make any sense at all, but when I'm in labor saying something like, 'I can't do this anymore,' I want you to remind me of this day."
"Not the physical aspect of it, because I'm sure that's nothing compared to labor, but the determination aspect of it," I said. "Even though I was exhausted and I hurt all over, I was determined to finish. I had a goal. ... Just remind me of that."
"Deal. But I'll probably also mention something about how my toe still hurts."
"Then you'd better hope I don't rip your face off before the next contraction hits."