It has become well known, my favourite day of the week is Vera day, the day my dusty, dirty, untidy rooms get swept, mopped, wiped, squeegeed and shined…ahhhh Vera day.

Having a cleaning lady is a luxury I simply can’t live without. Climbing into Vera-bed when our sheets are tucked tightly under the mattress, pillows fluffed, the comforter feels ten times bigger than it was before she arrived, our shoes look more acceptable neatly lined up across the all-weather carpet, my plants are less dead than 24 hours earlier, heaven.

Vera day however comes at a price…a big one.

I run around the house frantically on Vera-day morning worrying about what she’ll think of us if she sees how we actually live before entering the dirty front door. Toothpaste stained sinks, kitchen chair cushions filled with peanut butter and jam sandwich crumbs, mirrors so covered in finger prints our reflections make us unrecognizable. I am a lunatic clamouring to fit one more multi-tasked item onto the tippy-top of the laundry basket before crashing into a cob-webbed wall and collapsing on top of a parade of toys, littering the cracker-crumbed hallway.

I’m usually a bear with the children who not only do nothing to help in my quest to appear as though we live a civilized, non-neanderthal existence but they add to my anguish by depositing even more junk, a hilarious trap they plant from room to room to see how long it takes for mommy to lose her marbles.

Today, it started with Ellie who “surprise!” got dressed on her own. Arghhh. I know what this means.

She has ransacked her bedroom looking for the perfect outfit and today she was in a dress. A dress means she probably rooted through drawers looking for and trying on tights, remembering it is hot outside and I would likely nix the tights, she would splay them throughout the bedroom. The hanger for the dress she was wearing along with several others were more than likely housed in a plastic pyramid on the floor, in front of her dresser, underwear, the ones she ultimately chose to wear and the many, many she thoroughly examined the pattern and design prior to making her selection would be in a heap somewhere under a bed. I’ve done this before, but never on Vera day.

“Ellie?” I say calmly. “Where did that dress come from?”

Long pause. She senses a trick.

“Ummm, I think it came from Grandma.”

“I’m not asking who bought you the dress, where did it come from in your room and did you put everything else away?”

No time to wait for her answer, I race down the hall, unlocking the front door and righting an upside down plant on the way.

Splat.

“What was that?” I call from the bedroom.

Ellie: “It was my juice. It fell on the floor but it’s okay, it hit my feet and it was refreshing.”

Me: How much did you spill? (why am I asking a four year old liquid measure at such a harrowing time?)

Ellie: About fifteen drops.

What did I expect?

After breakfast, she sensed my concern over her dress and re-appeared, this time wearing a winter outfit.

“Ta-Da!”

She is now sporting a long sleeved, thick, micro-suede shirt with dark, corduroy overalls and it’s 50 degrees Celsius outside.

Back we go, sprinting down the hall to beat the broom and she slows to grab her neck.

“Oh yes Ellie, how’s the neck injury today?”

“Well, it’s a little better but we can’t play charades today. If I pick an owl to act out, I won’t be able to turn my head all the way around.”

I’m pretty sure I’ve done it twice this morning.