Scrubbing

The sink stinks. I wish the dishes washed themselves instead of further filthing up the sink. I pick out each plate, cup, fork, knife, saucer, spoon, my lips curled, nostrils flared. I rinse them in the hottest water I can, scrub, rinse, dry. Repeat. Again and again and again until all the dishes are clean. At the bottom sits a muck of old oatmeal, shriveled noodles, and an oily brown syrup that looks like mud. Old molasses? I don’t know. The smell is terrible.

Both kids caught colds so sleep’s been scarce, and we’ve been too enervated to have the energy for housework beyond the most basics of providing food and replacing the largest clumps of toys that clutter our floors inviting falls and stubbed toes.

I pick out the drain plugs glopped with chunks of several days’ plate scraping, bang them in the garbage, then replace them to rinse more slurry into them. My face hurts now from scowling so long. Nothing but the thick layer of brown left.

Most weeks look like this, really. A sprint from Monday morning, sweating by Wednesday, panting by Friday, Saturday’s mix of elation and exhaustion at having made the run, punctuated by a family outing, finally beginning to recover by Sunday afternoon as Monday’s shadow looms and it’s time to start playing some desperate catch up - clear some debris from the route for this week’s upcoming race.

Hot water from the sweating tap rinses the remaining gloop down the drain. My face feels wet, my hands sticky from sink scum. An itch on my nose, I rub it with my shoulder, more of a bash than a scratch but it sort of works. Scrubbing now, pressing with the abrasive side of the sponge to clear away what I can. Scrubbing my hands now, one with the other, rinse them, turn the tap off with my elbow, dry my hands, pick the large bottle of salt. I pour lines of white crystal across the brown and yellow stained porcelain. I scrub again with the sponge, pushing the palm of my hand down hard, grinding away as much of the week’s residue as I can.

I cleaned the kitchen as a kid. “You’re on the phone, you can clean,” was one of my mother’s refrains. I got good at washing dishes, keeping the counter spotless, scrubbing out the sink. I would hang up and she would ask who I talked with, what we talked about, what the context was for that conversation, soaking up details from my and my friends’ teenaged lives like a plant that hadn’t been watered in a long time.

Another rinse. Still stained. I’m sweating now. I pour baking soda all over the bottom of the sink. The stuff stands in little heaps like white ant-hills. “Hey kiddo can I show you something?” “Okay!” My daughter runs over - she runs as much as she walks, everything is a burst of energy. I pull up a chair. She climbs up, leans over the edge of the sink. I open the fridge, get the lemon juice. “I learned this when all that cheese melted in our oven, remember that, when the smoke detector kept going off?” “Yes.” “Baking soda and lemon juice. The lemon’s a strong acid, it can eat up stuff. I want to get the stains off the sink. But watch what happens when I pour it in!” She backs up suddenly to the edge of the chair, “just in case,” she says. “You don’t need to worry, it’s safe sweetie.” “Just in case.” I drip drops of lemon lightly across the hills of baking soda, not wanting to wash them away. I cover the sink bottom slowly, the soda fizzes loudly, the air fills with lemon smell. “See? It fizzes. Like vinegar and baking soda does.” “Neat.” She climbs down. I follow her to the living room. We play and read and draw and dance and sing. “It smells good in here,” she says, “like a lemon!”

An hour later her dolls are having a conversation that she orchestrates. I step back to the sink, start scrubbing. I really push, working my fingers into the abrasive pad, my forearms feel creaky like when I rock climb. The brown stains are scraped away, the sink a frothy yellow-white underneath. After all the stains are scrubbed gone I rinse the sink again, fill the electric kettle, call to my wife, “I worked really hard at this.” “I can tell! It’s so clean!” I plug the drains, pour a kettleful of boiling water in one side of the sink, pouring slowly around the sides to cover every surface. I imagine germs squirming and fleeing in front of the hot rush. I refill the kettle, boil it, repeat for the other side of the sink. The sink steams, clean. I dry my hands and sigh. The clock says four. “Hey honey we should talk about what we’re going to make for dinner.”