My secret is down the drain...

I have a secret (sort of). A secret that is going to be revealed for the sake of this post. I am going to tell you about a very important person in my life, with some hesitation for fear of being judged. Cecilia. I have known Cecilia for about 2 ½ years. I tried to keep her secret for a while, but eventually word started getting out and I decided to come clean (no pun intended); to embrace the fact that I have a housekeeper. I could blog a list of how I can justify it, but when it comes down to it, I just need the help. Cecilia comes each week to help me at my house. And for a few brief hours on Wednesday, my house is clean. In fact, I love when people come over Wednesday afternoon. I open the door wide and let them in. (which is actually slightly more polite than standing at the door, blocking their view of the living room)

I love Cecilia because she just gets done what needs to be done. Changing bedding. Mopping. Dishes. Cleaning the refrigerator. She pretty much jumps in and takes care of everything. Sometimes, on really bad days, I have dishes on the counters and in the sinks. She empties the smelly food and stale water, cleans the dishes and shines the counters. You see why I love her? There are a couple drawbacks, however. So minor though, I always overlook them.

First, I do not speak her language and she does not speak mine. There is a lot of pointing when we try to communicate, but mostly just smiles and nods. I keep telling myself I need to learn her language, but then reality sets in and I go on pointing.

Second, Cecilia has an odd habit of misplacing and rearranging things. I have found my sugar dish on my bookcase, photos from my piano repositioned – upstairs by my bed. Shoes stashed in storage bins… you know, stuff like that. After 2 ½ years, I have sort of learned how she thinks and can find most things she moves. It is a little maddening – try explaining to your son’s teacher that his homework was misplaced by the family housekeeper – doesn’t go over well. We have learned to adjust, every Wednesday morning, we all hide (ie: actually put it away) our important stuff so we can find it post-Cecilia. Novel idea, I know.

One week ago, we received a lovely gift via the ward carnival. Like many parents, we were surprised that one of our children won a real-live, have-to-take-care-of-it, gold fish. My dear friend, who was the mastermind in this plot, reassured me, as well as other apprehensive parents, that the fish was not healthy and would soon meet its maker. Whew. I found a sense of morbid comfort in this promise.

Each morning, I would awake to a happy, “swimming-all-over-the-stupid-bowl” fish. And each night, I would wonder if this was our last night with our unnamed pet. You see, I had told my children the fish would probably not last very long, so no one bothered to name the poor creature. Sure as sunshine, this little fellow was strong and healthy this morning before school.

Certain this finned friend wouldn’t live too long, I made a home for him in a vase I had on my counter. We changed the water daily, but it still was murky. He became part of the hub that only a family kitchen can have. There he sat, amidst all my dirty dishes, looking, to the untrained eye, like another bowl to be washed.

Tonight, while I was making dinner, I admired my clean kitchen. The non-sticky floor, the fingerprintless fridge, the glossy counters, oh – and my vase looks so clean! WHAT? My vase? Only a few hours earlier, our nameless fish had been happily swimming around. As my eyes drifted over to my sink, and then garbage disposal, I realized, only partially horrified, what had happened. As strong as our gilled friend was, he was no match for my Insinkerator. And then I had to imagine the scene because Cecilia, not speaking my language, couldn’t tell me. Did she look a little worried this afternoon when she left? In her haste to clean up, she must have dumped the water, fish included, into the sink. I imagine she noticed the fish about the time it became unstuck from the rubber drain guard and slipped into the whirring blades.

Oh boy, how do you explain this one to the kids?

I don’t know how soon I will be able to turn on our disposal without thinking of our sweet fish.