While I Hum A Merry Tune

Sometimes at the end of the day, bathtime is the least appealing thing to be faced with. Yes, my girls are adorable all lathered up and splashing (and I'm thankful that we have warm water in which to splash, agreed), but...ugh. It's probably been a long day by that point and I'm ready for the handsome husband to take over while I do something else. Something quiet and alone. Every so often I'd rather be cleaning up the dinner mess, folding laundry, staring at the sunset, anything but another minute of chattering noise and attention.

This is selfish of me, yes.

But it is true.

One night last week, Justin read my open book of a face and said some magical words which I vow never to forget:

Why don't you vacuum while I take care of bathtime?

I looked at him with adoration and a slightly weepy countenance. Right now? I asked. You want me to...skip bathtime..so I can vacuum?

He nodded in encouragement, and I planted a kiss square on his lips. My hero.

A few months ago, I would have been as equally averse to both bathtime and vacuuming at the end of tiring day. But one of my best Christmas gifts changed all of that:

Now I am a card-carrying, sonnet-singing, machinery-praising Dyson owner, thanks to Justin's mom. It's so powerful. And light. And efficient. And gorgeous. I turn it on and transform into a graceful dancer; the Dyson follows my confident lead, and together -- a perfect team -- we clean house.

The magnificent purple ball (the engine, I believe) rolls over our old, worn-out carpet, seeking hidden dust and crumbs, sweeping away the evidence of toddlers. I push my lovely Dyson one handed, gracefully moving around furniture and marveling at the swirling nastiness encapsulated within its canister. I sigh. I smile. The fact that I'm doing this while bathtime is underway is just too perfect for words. It's just me and the vacuum. Dancing all over the house.

Plus, there's the added benefit of getting to peer into the canister and squeal with disgusted glee over the sheer volume of junk that gets trapped in our carpet. Justin has been angling for months to put in wood laminate flooring to alleviate the feeling of dust-infested carpet underfoot. But now? No sir. I want carpet. I need carpet. My Dyson and I MUST HAVE CARPET to dance upon. We need carpet to further the time we have to get to know one another, and we're only getting started. I only know that I love it.

Our old vacuum took all of my (limited, but feisty) muscle power to monster its way around the house. It was stunningly loud -- the girls would cower together on a bed, behind a closed door, until the terrifying creature was finished roaring. The Dyson, not so much. I can hold a conversation with a brave little girl who watches from the couch as the box of cereal she upturned in the living room is being swept away. I can hear myself composing love poems to the beautiful appliance. I can hear my adorable woodland creature friends chirping and ooh-ing and ahh-ing and coo-ing at the efficiency and speed with which my household chores are completed.

Fine. That last part was clearly stolen from a fairy tale.

My household chores are never completed with efficient speed, though my woodland friends are supportive of my efforts. Even a Dyson can't fix lazy.

But it's sure doing a good job convincing me of its loveliness in the meantime. Especially when that convincing begins at precisely the same hour as bathtime.