Today, I witnessed a miracle. Nothing life shattering like water turning into wine or the Kardashian sisters joining the Peace Corps. No, this was a small miracle, one of those life affirming moments of hope that turn a good day into a great day. What was this miracle, you may ask. My daughter cleaned the bathroom.
Before you think that I've lost my mind in putting the words miracle and cleaning a bathroom in the same sentence, I have to clue you in to the fact that cleaning isn't exactly on my daughter's list of priorities. (Can't imagine where she gets that from.) Her bedroom is usually a pile of clothes and books interrupted by small swatches of carpeting and her bathroom often resembles your average forest preserve outhouse. When she was a teenager, this lack of personal hygiene could be dismissed as typical adolescent behavior. Now that she's an adult, it's a whole lot tougher to shake my head and look the other way. I've reminded, nagged and pleaded until I'm tired of hearing my own voice. In response to this verbal barrage, she usually squirts some cleaner in the toilet, swipes a rag over the counter and calls it a day. That kind of behavior would lead any parent housing her adult child to start looking for names of a good locksmith.
That's why today was so special. Just when I had come to believe that she would never step up to the plate and do the job as it should be done, I was treated to the unsolicited sight of my firstborn on her hands and knees scrubbing the outside (as well as the inside) of the toilet, wiping down the walls and scrubbing the floor. She worked tirelessly for twenty minutes, used the right cleaners and didn't complain once.
It may not have been an actual miracle but it sure felt like one.
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