It's happened every Tuesday night for years. And it will continue to happen every Tuesday night so long as we both shall live. I turn the music up loud, get my game face on, gather my supplies, get in the zone, wink at myself in the mirror, roll up my sleeves, and send the kids upstairs because papa has an important job to do. At our house, Tuesday Night = Floor Night.
Somewhere along the course of our many years of marriage I became in charge of mopping the floors. I do my chore every Tuesday like clockwork. With a dog and three rug rats, one week is about as long as the floor can go before it feels like you're walking on a compost heap.
It's not like I'm an expert mopper, but I get the job done. Although I'm confident enough in my work to follow the Ten-Second-Rule when I accidentally drop a Lemonhead, I certainly wouldn't advocate eating Thanksgiving dinner off the floor.
I'm proud to say that in my house, I wear the mopping crown. I am the mopping Master of Disaster. I have a Ph. D in mopping. I am the mopping CEO. All hail the Commander in Chief of mopping.