Mike took MJ on an outing to the west side this morning. I stayed east and had coffee with a girlfriend. When I got home, I found I’d beaten my family back. I didn’t know how long I had, but I did know that such time alone chez moi was a rare gift, and I should take complete advantage of it. So I did what any sane woman in my situation would do: I mopped.

But first I watered the front and back gardens, potted an aloe clipping, did some weeding, straightened up the dining room, vacuumed the entire house (including the ceiling of our bedroom; fuck YOU, spiders!) and scrubbed the stained spots on the kitchen floor on my hands and knees.

Aaaaw, you should have relaxed, you’ll say. Well guess what? Vacuuming while your toddler cowers in her closet, screaming, is not relaxing. Mopping while she runs around the house in clay-covered Crocs, her prodigiously-shedding dog capsizing furniture behind her, is not relaxing. Crawling under the table to scrub marker off of the floor while simultaneously staying alert for the sounds of bodily harm coming from the room she is playing in is also incredibly un-relaxing.

But cleaning the entire house while no one is there to interfere, endanger themselves, shed hair, spread mud, ask for a bowl of frozen blueberries, or require your help with pooping? And then sitting on the couch and admiring the perfection of your thoroughly cleaned home — especially that pristine kitchen floor! — for a few moments in total silence?

We’re talking Club Med vacation. At least a quick one.