The Work of a Thousand Scrubbing Bubbles

"Do we have to do this in the new house, too?" he asked as we fell into bed.  
"I'm afraid so," I admit.  
"I was afraid you were going to say that."

This weekend was spent cleaning the house.  Not the run a vacuum over the floors, wipe down the bathrooms, and pick up the clutter kind of cleaning.  The deep take a toothbrush to every surface of the kitchen, find holes that haven't been discovered, clog the vacuum with dust behind the washer and dryer because a bachelor has lived here for ten years kind of cleaning.  Then, when we thought we'd had enough, there were wedding plans needing attention.

Our saving graces: my parents.

Last week, my mom asked, "When are we cleaning?" I didn't even hesitate to pretend she was kidding.  I jumped at the chance to have her.  Between her and my grandma, they can complete every household chore before most people can even consider getting started.  The only rule is stay out of their way.  As a little girl, I remember watching them scour from room to room refusing to stop until the job is completed to perfection.  Now, it's passed on to another generation.

Mom and I tackled the kitchen.  I don't have quite the focus she does, so my cleaning was a little ADD-style.  I began cleaning three or four different spots, and, soon enough, here she was behind me to finish up.  It's a look to know which cleaning product to pass.  The toss and catch with the rag with no words to know it's time to rinse.  The dance from one side to another with a passing kiss on the cheek.  There is no wasted breath on the task at hand; we just do.   The talking is solely reserved for importing things: advice on buying/selling a new house, wedding plans, funny anecdotes and memories made.

My stepdad "volunteers" as handyman for the day.  Unlike my future husband, Doug can complete most household tasks; however, that doesn't mean he *wants* to (as he often clarifies).  He brought over all the tools necessary to be an electrician and a carpenter.  In a matter of minutes, he had a list for Home Depot to fix the kitchen light and put the quarter round down.  From then on, he's in his zone until you hear a "Hey, Nan...," to which my mom responds with tool in hand.

Then, there's Casey.  Watching this well-oiled machine work together as they have done for over twenty years.  I'm still not sure he knows what to think of us.  Not to worry, we've already made a nook in this machine where he fits perfectly.

Before we started, I begged Casey to hire this out.  For every household project from painting to electrical work to flooring, his answers is "there's a guy for that."  And he means it.  Most of them are in our wedding party.  However, when it came to this, he decided he wanted to take on the challenge.  Knowing what the place looked like when I moved in, I was more than skeptical.  (I'm pretty sure I'm just finally getting the bathtub clean seven months later.)  He's reassuring words were, "I can do the work of a thousand scrubbing bubbles."  I begrudgingly agreed, but not without the proper amounts of pouting faces and whining voices.  I dreaded the task lying ahead of us and was sure Casey had no idea what exactly we were taking on.

Instead, we got five uninterrupted hours with my parents.  We made things glisten.  We conversed about the nonsensical.  We removed layers of grime.  We wore ourselves out.  We've earned it.

In the end, we transformed the town home into something shiny and new, surprising even our realtor.  I only wish we had before and after pictures.