I have got to be the only woman for whom clean floors and happy children are mutually exclusive propositions. Driven to
the brink of insanity today by the sheer volume of toys and toy bits on the living room floor, and by the crunching of various food stuffs underfoot, I got out the vacuum and hoped for the best. Luckily, Young C was still under the weather and taking a good afternoon nap at the same time as his baby sister. That’s how I managed to pick up 75% of the debris before said sister awoke. I knew my time was closing in then, so I plunked her in the playpen and made a mad sweep of the rest of the floor. She played happily until I started the vacuum, aka baby psyche torture device, at which time the crying began. I kept going, determined to at least finish a cursory course around the room, until the crying became so loud and heart-wrenching that no amount of ground-in Cheerio could keep me away. Now, rattled baby and messy floors and furniture pushed all akimbo, I needed a solution.
