A friend from my online mother’s group posted this task from The Organised Housewife. Time to clean the mailbox! My friends have a habit of posting this kind of shit, less to inspire me and more to goad me into an hysterical, foamy-mouthed rant for their own amusement.
So being the fact that it is Tuesday, being the fact that I have been up since 4:45am with the kids and I am bored beyond comprehension, and being the fact that I need something new to blog about I decided that we were going to do this.
Invariably, these things always take longer than expected when you have a three year old and a baby. My one year old decided that it was the perfect time to empty a category 5 turd into his nappy, the dogs kept escaping out the front door as I wandered about in disoriented frustration trying to find the necessary equipment and my three year old kept pestering me to find his gumboots. Then he kept pestering me to me to put them on for him despite being perfectly capable of doing it himself. I’m pretty sure he deliberately put them on the wrong feet just to annoy me so I left them as they were, just to annoy him back. This mailbox cleaning was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth.
I finally found the bucket and the sponge. The bucket has teeth marks from one of my dumb ass dogs, the handle is missing, it has several cracks and well, it’s dirty. Scary, toilet-from-Trainspotting dirty, not Easy Off Bam wipe-once-and-it-sparkles television commercial dirty. The photo really doesn’t do it justice.
And the sponge. Well…. I’m not entirely sure how it ended up this way but it has been torn into several large chunks and is covered in rainbow-coloured paint, which meant more time spent finding a suitable equivalent because I am clearly a disorganised housewife and I don’t have another sponge. I feel like maybe The Organised Housewife herself would disapprove and I feel a tiny little pang of shame.
Part of me wants to skip over the additional eight minutes I spent storming about in a huff looking for the milk crate that my kid needed to be able to reach the top of the mailbox, which was not in its usual place. The same part of me also wants to skip over the fact that I spent a good seven and a half minutes of that time cursing and cussing out my husband for misplacing the milk crate in his maddeningly usual way until I remembered that I left it around the side fence the other week when I used it to try and break into my own house because I forgot my keys and locked myself out. Ahem.
Moving on, milk crate located, I finally got the firstborn to clean the mail box. Surprisingly, it required hardly any direction at all.
Clean the pole. Clean the pole. The pole! Clean the pole! Use water. Water! Dip the rag in the bucket and use water. Now the top. Not the inside, the top. There’s mail in there. What are you doing? Not the top of the MILK CRATE. The top of the MAIL BOX. Here, like this. No. There! *curses under breath* Ok. That’s good. You’re done? Fine. Give it to me.
It reminded me why I normally just do this kind of thing myself. Or, in the case of cleaning the mail box, why I have never done it. Ever.
The end result was worth it though. Amazing.
EDITED TO ADD: For the less observant readers, note removal of significant cobweb activity.