Muddy shoes on white tile is an appropriate post name right now. Today, it's 60 degrees, but all the melting snow has succeeded in making a mud hole out of our yard...front, back and side. At my urging, the kids take their shoes off at the door; I wipe Taz's feet on the way in from potty breaks. But somehow, the mud still creeps in, and I manage to mop every day without it looking like I did. Yuck! How is the mud getting in? Aliens? It's a mystery.
I remember when Mom was going to put this flooring in. I told her that my first apartment had white tile in the kitchen, bathroom and foyer. I told her I never stopped mopping and it still never looked good long. She laughed and said it was just her living at home, attributing the dirt in my apartment to two (at the time) rowdy toddlers.
A year later, she was cursing her decision and said the floor would be the death of her yet. "All I ever get done is mopping this infernal floor! The minute I mop, the cats get it messy!" was her outcry. "I should have listened to you!" While there was the slightest bit of satisfaction at me being right for a change, what comes around goes around. So here I am today, carrying on her legacy, mopping, sweeping, Swiffering and cursing my fate. That is until I finally get sick of it and put in a newer, lower maintenance floor. If I ever get done mopping long enough to work that in to my schedule.
I'm still happy to be off work, sleeping in and getting things caught up. I may scrapbook today. Let the floor look dingy for another few hours. I need to do something that lasts longer than just long enough for me to walk away. A picture is worth a thousand words they say; perhaps I'll take a picture of my floor freshly mopped and scrapbook about that. That's one way to immortalize my efforts that doesn't require me holding out a sign saying, "Will work for Swiffer refills." And less frustrating.