Mom's Little Helper

Some Sundays I would wake up to Frank Sinatra flowing from the giant wood-paneled speaker,

swirling down the narrow hallway,

sweeping through the crack under the door,

coaxing my eyes open and tugging at the corners of my mouth.

I would change into clothes I never wore outside and meet my mom in the kitchen where I’d find her in her old Levi’s, scrubbing the floor.

She alternated between singing and humming depending on how deep she was in her own thoughts.

I reached into the bucket and grabbed the other brush. The Pine Sol tickled my nose.

Mom watched me out of her peripherals, and I always knew when because her rhythm would change.

“A little more elbow grease!”

I scrubbed harder. She was always going on about elbow grease.

Once we scrubbed to the perimeter, nobody was allowed in the kitchen until the floors were dry. Not even if we had clean socks on.

Mom would switch out Volume 1 of Frank’s Greatest Hits for Volume 2 and I would marvel at how unnoticeable dust was until it was in one soot-colored line across the white rag. The lemon Pledge spray tickled my nose.

I was allowed to choose between vacuuming and scrubbing the bathroom. The way I saw it, I either got to watch Scrubbing Bubbles magically expand from liquid to foam, or I had to lug a me-sized machine around the entire house.

Besides, my mom would always marvel at how sparkly I’d make the porcelain surfaces.

I still puff up at a good praise, and Sinatra still makes me smile.