Memories of Soap Scum
They say when someone dies, they don't truly die, for they live on forever in our hearts and minds. Religion paints a rosy picture of a gated heaven opening up for a life in eternity. I want to believe that, but I kind of think it's all baloney. But I tell you one thing, our loved ones really do live on forever in the tiny quirks that made them who they were. For my mom, it was soap scum.
My mother loved to clean. She would be so excited to come to my apartment and make it spic and span. Oh, I was never proud of this, yea, I was an adult and my mother was still coming over and helping me clean my house... but seriously, who can resist? It was like having your best friend come over who liked to do maid service on the side for free.
But the one thing she always nagged me about during these cleaning trips was the soap scum in my bathtub. She would come to my apartment equipped with comet and a pair of gloves and head right to the bathroom. Then she'd get on her hands and knees next to my tub, grab my hand, and make me 'feel' the soap scum along the sides of the tub.
"Jenny, that's soap scum, you can't see it, but you can feel it, and it's gross." She would be absolutely appalled at me that I didn't (first)-- notice the scum, (and second)-- clean the scum. So she would proceed to scrub my tub and then she would take my hand again and have me physically 'feel' the difference. I always nodded and gave an appreciative grunt for her service, but after she left I could have still cared less about soap scum. But then two things happened in my life. For (one)-- she died. And for (two)-- I had a baby.
The baby finally caused me to care about the amount of soap scum in my tub. It started the first time I ever placed my daughter's precious little body into that same bathtub my own mother obsessed about. Like most mothers, I didn't want any impurities touching my daughter's skin. I finally noticed the soap scum, and I finally scrubbed the soap scum. I cleaned it because my own mother wasn't around anymore. She died eight weeks before my daughter was born. I, like my mother before me, became obsessed about the soap scum.
The point of all this is that tonight I got on my hands and knees in my apartment and scrubbed the soap scum off the tub and walls. My hands became pickled. The bleach stung my eyes. And the whole time I could hear my mother and almost feel her hand on my own. "Jenny, that is soap scum, you need to scrub it off."
I clean the soap scum for my daughter. I clean the soap scum for my mother. I clean the soap scum and I remember. Soap scum, now that's eternity.
My mother loved to clean. She would be so excited to come to my apartment and make it spic and span. Oh, I was never proud of this, yea, I was an adult and my mother was still coming over and helping me clean my house... but seriously, who can resist? It was like having your best friend come over who liked to do maid service on the side for free.
But the one thing she always nagged me about during these cleaning trips was the soap scum in my bathtub. She would come to my apartment equipped with comet and a pair of gloves and head right to the bathroom. Then she'd get on her hands and knees next to my tub, grab my hand, and make me 'feel' the soap scum along the sides of the tub.
"Jenny, that's soap scum, you can't see it, but you can feel it, and it's gross." She would be absolutely appalled at me that I didn't (first)-- notice the scum, (and second)-- clean the scum. So she would proceed to scrub my tub and then she would take my hand again and have me physically 'feel' the difference. I always nodded and gave an appreciative grunt for her service, but after she left I could have still cared less about soap scum. But then two things happened in my life. For (one)-- she died. And for (two)-- I had a baby.
The baby finally caused me to care about the amount of soap scum in my tub. It started the first time I ever placed my daughter's precious little body into that same bathtub my own mother obsessed about. Like most mothers, I didn't want any impurities touching my daughter's skin. I finally noticed the soap scum, and I finally scrubbed the soap scum. I cleaned it because my own mother wasn't around anymore. She died eight weeks before my daughter was born. I, like my mother before me, became obsessed about the soap scum.
The point of all this is that tonight I got on my hands and knees in my apartment and scrubbed the soap scum off the tub and walls. My hands became pickled. The bleach stung my eyes. And the whole time I could hear my mother and almost feel her hand on my own. "Jenny, that is soap scum, you need to scrub it off."I clean the soap scum for my daughter. I clean the soap scum for my mother. I clean the soap scum and I remember. Soap scum, now that's eternity.
posted by Jennifer at
10:38 PM
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