Mrs. Clean
The things I give up as a working mother are small but significant. They magnify the larger problems and the loss of control I sometimes feel. The best symbol for this is my red tweed Knoll-inspired couch. We bought it at a stoop sale last April from two fastidious gay guys who I imagine involuntary twitch every time soy milk or syrup dribbles on to the cushions.
Nannyblogger is in her 60s. She once took care of me in my teens and I love her dearly, like a grandmother. But she doesn’t see the bottle leaking, or the crusted formula, or the white dots of baby powder that stain when left for an afternoon. When I ask her what happened, she gives me her best whatchatalkingaboutwillis face and says it didn’t happen when she was here. And I’ve come to believe her eyes are going and genuinely thinks it didn’t. So at 11pm a few days before my mother-in-law whose eyes are perfectly fine arrives, I’m scrubbing the couch with a professional grade couch cleaner even though it’s too late to the the job right and vacuum the foamy soap out.