Wearing A French Maid Outfit To Clean My House

I must admit that by the time you finish reading this post, you will discover that I obviously have a bit more training to do with my family. Your tips will be devoured repeatedly until I can brag about their newly acquired superior skills. It is a well known fact that mothers perform many boring, mundane and repetitive tasks on a daily basis without complaining to their families and it is considered a “labor of love.”

You can stop the movie and turn off the DVD player with that “labor of love” talk because this is not a movie where George Clooney is waiting to be dessert. Did I just say that?

There is a point when “labor of love” turns into “maybe I should be wearing a French Maid Outfit” while rushing to wipe their snotty noses. Okay, they are too old to have snotty noses except when they get an occasional cold.

Let me set the mood and then you can answer my question which is…Should I buy a French Maid outfit?

Saturday I got out of bed pretty late and felt quite good, but by early afternoon I decided to take a nap. I never take naps for two reasons:

1. They waste precious time that could be spent doing things I want to do
2. Any nap less than 3 hours isn’t a good nap because I wake up very grumpy and can’t shake it off

Obviously, I do not have big chunks (I love that word it makes me think of cookies) of time to take naps that long nor do I want to do so.

Regardless of those facts, I decided to take a nap and no alarms were set to wake me up. The moment I closed my eyes or maybe two seconds before I closed my eyes, my body was floating in fluffy white clouds of cotton candy happiness.

The dryer buzzes.
The dog barks.
Children scream outside the windows while playing.
The phone rings multiple times according to the Caller ID.

I hear absolutely nothing. I sleep that way…gone 100% into dark nothingness.

No dreams.
No noise.
And there is no waking me without an atomic bomb.

I finally woke up, ate, turned on the television, closed my eyes and once again I was gone. Just like country music superstar Montgomery Gentry sings:

Gone like a freight-train, gone like yesterday
Gone like a soldier in the civil war, bang bang
Gone like a ’59 Cadillac
Like all the good things that ain’t never coming back
She’s gone (gone) gone (gone) gone (gone) gone
She’s gone

That was me…Gone!

By the time Sunday rolls around, my back is still hurting (yeah, I hurt it gathering up Dad’s clothes before the funeral because my sister and I want them) and I discover that once again I am climbing out of bed late (no visual images – it will scare you too badly)

No big deal. I need time for my back to heal. So I can sit, but standing and bending are the no-no’s. Now that should work to my advantage don’t you think?

• The nine loads of laundry that I washed are still unfolded.
• The house isn’t vacuumed or dusted.
• I did, however, manage to make Brunswick Stew, so I knew the family wouldn’t starve. Besides, “my family” consists of a 17 year old daughter who cooks marvelously and a husband who…yeah, well, he can’t cook, but he can make sandwiches.

The daughter and hubby feign nausea and aching back respectively, so the chores remain undone. Ironic that the daughter could play with friends for eight hours and hubby could do fun excursions here and there for six hours, but both are unable to do chores. My back hurts bad enough that I think, “Whatever, it is just a little dust and clothing.”

When I stand up to walk, I am bent like the hunchback of Notre Dame. Not a beautiful site. Daughter and hubby both see me walking here and there hunched down. It was around 4:00 p.m. on Sunday and THEN IT HAPPENS…

(Daughter is lounging on the couch) “Mom, will you get me some ice in my drink?”

(The thought in my mind was “She didn’t just ask me to go fetch her ice, did she? No way.”)

I turn around and ask, “You’ve got to be kidding?”

I get down on the ground, lay on my back and pull my knees up to my chest. I’m sure you know that Rolly Polly type bug position that stretches your spine. I look just beautiful doing it – Not.

(Hubby is in the kitchen) “Do you think you can make a peach cobbler?”

I stop rocking.

Something is definitely wrong with this picture.

“No, I am not making peach cobbler, but I will tell Alyssa how to make it.”

“I don’t feel like making it Mo-om,” she says barely before the breath left my mouth on the last word.

I laughed something between a maniacal mad scientist and the wicked green witch on The Wizard of Oz.

When my back gets better (it is just a pulled muscle) I am going to buy a French Maid outfit with black mesh pantyhose. Every time I cook and clean, I will don the skimpy little outfit with the mesh hose and six inch black heels. I’m sure they will get the message.

I am the Mother and Wife, not the Maid. There really is a huge difference between the two.

As an afterthought…

I wonder if there will be repercussions for wearing that maid uniform?

A broken ankle?

A pulled muscle?

No, no, no!

The sight will probably burn their eyes out of their heads or make them throw up.

Now I’m laughing like Cruella de Ville. Maybe I really should buy that little French Maid outfit.