A Love Affair with the Vacuum
By Rachel Schuehle
@rachelschuehle
“I think I’m in love,” I tell my husband, as we watch our shiny new robo vacuum take its inaugural lap around the room. The kids start a game of twenty questions, attempting to understand what the heck this new noisy machine is doing. They put their feet in wide stances to create imaginary bridges the vacuum must navigate, giggling as it passes below and occasionally tickles a little piggy toe or two.
An indulgent purchase? Sure. Life-changing? Also yes. Not only does our house fall victim to the everyday messes of life, but our kids seem to find solace in it. They munch on snacks like squirrels, nibbling food into tiny bits, half landing in their mouths and half flying to the ground like confetti shooting out of a popper. The amount of crumbs left by our three children would put Hansel and Gretel to shame. To make matters worse, our two dogs are completely useless, despite their swarming tendencies during meals.
And so it was decided. It was time. To hire help in the form of a robot.
We aren’t really the “name-your-appliances” type, but it felt right to make our part-time cleaner an official member of our family by giving it a name. We call it, “Mr. Kaplan,”—a tribute to a female television show character known for her … cleaning, of sorts (ie: body disposal). Humor that luckily goes over our kids’ heads.
The first few days of enlisting Mr. Kaplan’s help went smoothly. I’d happily lift the chairs and flip them upside down onto the table, allowing clear passage underneath. Then I would gather up the toys undoubtedly littering the main floor; tossing without care the socks, books, and birthday party souvenirs up or down the staircase, depending on an item’s rightful home. Once the runway was clear, I fired up the RoboVac with a single push of the button with my big toe. Easy as (frozen) pie!
I find multitasking in general to be wildly satisfying, but having my floors vacuumed while I tackled my work inbox provided a cathartic experience down to my soul.
But similar to every relationship, the honeymoon period came and went, and we hit a few (literal) bumps and snags.
The first annoyance came when she got stuck under the chair I was inhabiting, moving at a glacial speed one inch at a time seeking freedom, but to no avail. I’d lift her through the rungs of my chair, plop her straight in front of a pile of visible dirt and continue working, only to find her repeating the same path. Kaplan, get a clue! Go over to the highchair—that’s where you’ll find the mother lode. But even then, I leaned into forgive and forget. There was less dog hair on the floor, which is what mattered most.
Any reluctance I felt toward Mr. Kaplan’s work ethic generally subsided when I’d empty the little collection tray from her underbelly. “We live in this filth?!” I muttered to myself, in both disgust of our general health and well-being, and pride in our cleaner’s efforts and a job well done.
Soon came the second annoyance, which quickly developed into a reoccurring game called, “Guess what Mr. Kaplan ate last night.” See, the RoboVac must have a preprogrammed setting we weren’t aware of—one we would have been privy to if we had actually read the manual from cover to cover. If the RoboVac hasn’t been run during the day, the program instructs it to run at night. Makes sense, the humans are resting, it’s a perfect time to tidy up.
But the prep work slowly became less of a priority, less ingrained into our daily routine.
“The dining chairs are heavy, she can just work around them.”
“Too many toys to pick up tonight, it’ll be fine.”
“Are these art projects worth keeping? They can stay there for now, I guess.”
The tediousness of micromanaging a clear path became exhausting, and internally my narrative toward our helper switched from Oh, let me help you succeed, to It’s a mess in here, good luck.
The next morning I found her trapped, wedged halfway under the couch clearly thinking she’d fit, as if she started the journey only to realize it was useless and gave up. Shut down. I totally empathized. Have you tried on jeans yet post pandemic? Same, girl, same.
The following morning she gobbled up a plastic snake our oldest son had left lying around after using it like a slingshot. Then she ate a stretchy piece of elastic attached to the kids’ pop-up tent. At midnight on one particular night, I came down to a ruckus only to find her bumping and grinding on the curtain rods I had set aside on the floor. “Ma’am, keep it classy. Go back to bed,” I mumbled as I set her on the charging station and fumbled through the dark back upstairs.
On nights I can’t sleep, I often retire to the couch to scroll social media or brain dump story ideas on my phone. However, since bringing Mr. Kaplan home, I am never truly alone anymore. That blue aura and sound of soft twirling of wiry arms that once put my mind at ease now leaves me on edge. Where is she? Powered down or slithering across the floor?
One night, as I sat on the couch cloaked in darkness, my brain buzzed with words and phrases to write down. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her aimed straight toward me. Sure, there are most likely headless goldfish crackers and leftover teething biscuits beneath the very spot I was sitting, but that night Kaplan’s vibe had me rattled. Before my own story ended in a horrific RoboVac murder, I jumped up, grabbed her and exclaimed, “Ok, enough! Take a break!”
***
The next morning, I awake to a semi-clean floor and groggily welcome the children to Cafe Rachel for breakfast. They nibble on poptarts and slurp their gogurt (#health), while I take in their blonde curls and emerging giggles. They are engrossed in each other's company with such ease, regardless of whatever mess and grime surround them.
Our four-year-old loves to “help,” whether it be (over)filling the dog bowl with kibble or grabbing a clean diaper for the baby. His prized chore, however, is using the broom and dustpan. Despite it being a risk for a high sticking penalty, I often allow it so he can learn to see messes and feel comfortable taking action to clean them up.
I ponder—where is the balance between the two? Would the world completely fall apart if a dirty dish stayed in the sink while we indulged in a family movie night? So what if the clothes swapped for swimsuits remained heaped on the floor for a few minutes, in exchange for a view of kids jumping on the sprinkler soaked trampoline?
I’m learning it’s not sustainable to babysit a Robovac 24/7, or to maintain a perfectly clean home 365 days a year. Every now and then—like Mr. Kaplan—it’s okay to rest, to collect moments and memories and leave the gathering of dust and dirt for later.
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Guest essay written by Rachel Schuehle. Rachel resides in Minnesota with her family. Her three boys keep her busy and her house messy. Any snippets of free time she finds, she enjoys amateur gardening, easy puzzles, and listening to live music with her hubby. You can find more of her work on her website or on Instagram.