Title: Does It Really Ever Get Old?
Author: CrescentKnight7
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Note: A personal narrative I had to write for English 1301 about a memory that took place at home.
Cleaning… I absolutely detest it. It's a wonder really, seeing as how the females of my family have a habit of being "controlling" when it comes to keeping the house "nice and tidy". It's just as well, I'd much rather they worry about keeping things in order, than have to waste my time doing it. Besides, one peek at my room with its "lived in", "comfortable", and – my personal favorite – "death to spotless" motif can more than vouch for my "cleaning skills". I'm not the kind of person that will have a severe mental break down just because someone didn't use a coaster. If anything, I'm more than likely the culprit.
Mother knows best. At least she tries to seem like she does. Whenever my mother decides to pay a visit to my unruly quarters, she always finds a way to "put in her two cents". One way or another, whether the subjects are related or not she always manages to steer the conversation in a way that innocently enough "suggests" or "encourages" me to clean my room. I know she means well with her "it'll give you something to do" or her famous "but you do such a nice job when you finally decide to clean" speeches. Really, I'd do it, if I had the will power to uphold such a commitment more than once in a blue moon.
I'm starting to think the phrase "it gets old" might actually be true. Why? Well, let's just say I've been enlightened recently. How? Why, by form of a dream, which turned out not be a dream at all, but a memory. It was, by far, the most vivid, life-like dream I've had to date.
The fresh smell of baby perfume permeated the morning air. Soft "cooing" sounds and gurgled laughter could be heard from the living room as the women of the house set about preparing the morning meal. The oddly comforting noises ceased after a few moments and a woman walked through the kitchen doorway. She could be no older than twenty-nine years old, a bright and easy-going smile playing on her lips as she set about helping her mother and sisters with the morning chores. A loud cry of merriment filled the kitchen as a child in a baby walker rolled onto the tiled kitchen floor.
The woman turned, almost dropping the carton of milk in her hand as she watched her daughter half walk, half push her way across the floor with the aid of her baby walker. The baby girl laughed, clapping her hands together excitedly as she made her slow trek towards the glass back door. Following her child, the mother smiled watching as the little girl reached the door and planted her palms on the smoothed, cool glass surface. Wide dark brown orbs stared out curiously, another clap echoing in the small kitchen as a stray cat dashed across the backyard.
A few moments passed and the mother watched in silent amusement as the little girl shifted uncomfortably in the walker. She made to assist her daughter only to have her own mother call out for her help. Double checking that the backdoor was locked, the woman went to help her mother, reassured that her younger sisters would watch over the baby girl in her stead.
Settling down the last cup of milk, the twenty-nine year old mother headed back to her child, smiling as she heard rambunctious laughter coming from where she'd last left her little girl. The sight that met her was something of a strange feat. It seemed, the baby had somehow managed to take her diaper off and was now in the process of cleaning the backdoor with it. All the mother could do was laugh, recalling similar events in which diaper - whether dirty or not - had been taken off and used in such a manner all about the house. It had been developing into so much of a problem that chairs had been placed in doorways to prevent the baby from getting into other rooms of the house. It proved to be of no use, however, as said chairs were later found pushed out of the way. The only alerting sounds to these mischievous baby-actions were the joyous squeals, baby footsteps, and the constant squeal of baby walker wheels as the little girl dashed across the hardwood floor corridors of the house.
It's quite odd to find myself deep within a memory one moment, and back in reality the next. These somewhat rare flashbacks are what keep my life entertaining because no matter how hard I try I can't always keep a grip on the "good things" life has to offer. It is because I have these memories to remind me of things I used to, or still do, that I allow myself to believe that even if things can get old in the physical sense - the emotional aspect of it all always bring unrivaled warmth to my heart.