Yesterday, I grabbed two kitchen sponges, filled a metal bowl with vinegar and water, and scrubbed the entire downstairs with my hands.
Moments prior, I had reached for my still-new steam mop and realized the water tank was broken. So I broke out my backup plan. Put on my knee pads. Got to work.
My friends and family know this is one of my quirks. They call me “hardcore” and a “neat freak.” I don’t consider myself either of those things (my husband would only be too happy to show you my perpetually messy side of the closet), but I am a self-professed germaphobe.
The strange truth is that I enjoy cleaning my floors this way.
My mind simultaneously wanders and focuses on the task at hand. I engage muscles all over my body as I crawl around. I get to see up close and personal any speck of dirt or food splotch. And 800 square feet and 40 minutes later, I have kitchen and living room floors even my toddler can eat off of (and oh, he definitely does).
Above all, it’s a way for me to directly connect with the home my husband and I have worked so hard to have.
It’s a literal grounding experience that reminds me of the importance of appreciating one’s home, no matter how humble. A grounding experience to remind myself that everything I’ve wanted in a home, I already have.