Screams Of Consciousness, Act 3: "Cleaning"

The video soccer game never does reach half time. This is because Dena asks me to vacuum the floor. This is a reasonable request, since we are leaving for home the next morning. Dena hands me the vacuum and begins to pack a suitcase with P in tow. Over the next few minutes I overhear P excitedly asking questions about her neck pillow for airline travel, and the prospects of getting one for her birthday. But mostly I am riveted with surprise to the complete enthusiasm that E, K and T suddenly have for vacuuming. K in particular quickly masters how to turn it on and off and to manipulate the locking mechanism, and proceeds to cover most of the carpet multiple times while the others clear things from her path. Then she turns her attention to the tile floor of the bathroom and sweeps it clean.

Not all hands are working toward cleanliness. My adult brain has left several items within reach. One of these is my electric razor. By this time Dena's left the room and, while I assist K in vacuuming, P is explaining to T and others how to take the cap off and empty the hairs from it. Which would be fine if there was a garbage can nearby. Instead, her pant legs and the bed absorb most of the shavings.

I hustle the can over to her for damage control. And as I look up, I see that Ty has entered the room. Or more specifically, that Ty is currently gripping a pair of birds affixed to a decorative lamp - the kind that look to me as if they could easily snap off. And so I discover another constraint of my uncling philosophy: no breaking or soiling stuff. In rapid succession, I move razor, lamp, and video equipment, and most of my toiletries to higher shelves.

I feel like I'm trying to save people on the Titanic. Only the icebergs didn't jump up and down on the deck, like T and E have decided to do with the bed. Each bounce carries at least three risks that I can think of right off - misbouncing into a wall, snapping the box spring of the bed, or launching up into the whirling fan blades above. I'm pretty sure that I'm the only one contemplating these risks, as I dive toward the switch that turns off the fan.