Spring cleaner

Margaret seems to have developed a love for all things Windex. She loves to "clean"* windows and really, any smooth surface with the blue juice.

Our front porch has numerous multi-paned windows. When she gets in the spritzing mood, the front porch becomes a vertible gas chamber of Windex fumes with mounds of used paper towels littering the floor like land mines.

Yesterday, she decided our dresser was in need of some cleaning. She gathered her requisite Windex and paper towels and without our knowledge or approval dug in.

Bill and I were having a lazy day watching the idiot box. After a while I walked into our room to find this:There she stood in a laundry basket of clean laundry with all of our pictures and whatnot scattered on the bed, just beaming at her own ingenuity.

I was taken aback. I mean, she was cleaning ... but at the expense of a pile of clean laundry. I decided that because her intentions were good and my day-long migraine was still pounding like a tribe of cannibals slow-cooking a tender virgin, to praise her self-motivated cleaning spree and let her carry on.

Several hours (really, it took her all afternoon) later, all of the items were back on the dresser (not really in the same place, but, jeez, she's only 5. Give her a break already!) sparkling under a Windex glaze.

Now if we can get her to clean out the fridge ...

* I say "clean," because while her intentions are good, her glass-cleaning skills are still those of a novice. But considering the fact that my glass-cleaning skills are as dusty as the storm windows, I ain't complaining.